Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Love Operation by Melissa R. Collings, which releases on November 1st 2026.

Dr. Cordelia Wren has always been in control―of her surgical career, her emotions, and especially her memories. But when she joins a cutting-edge memory enhancement study at her hospital, she gains an unexpected ability: the power to vividly relive any moment from her past. It seems like the perfect opportunity to analyze her failed relationships and finally understand why every man she’s ever loved has walked away.

There’s just one problem. Actually, three:

1. She may have…borrowed…access to the highly restricted memory study.
2. She’s secretly dating the hospital’s new COO while competing for chief of surgery―a relationship that could destroy both their careers if discovered.
3. Her first love has just reappeared in her life, stirring up feelings she thought she’d buried.

As Cordelia dives deeper into her past, the lines between memory and reality begin to blur. The truth she uncovers forces her to question everything she thought she knew about love, ambition, and what it means to be “in control.”

With her career hanging in the balance and her heart pulled in two directions, Cordelia must decide: Should she trust the memories that have shaped her life, or finally let go of the past to embrace an uncertain future?

Perfect for fans of Emily Henry and Ali Hazelwood, The Love Operation is a witty, emotional story about the intersection of medicine, memory, and the messy reality of loving imperfectly.

EXCERPT

From Chapter 5 TIME TRAVEL FOR ONE, PLEASE

“I feel like Bruce Banner about to meet his alter ego,” I say, only halfway joking.

A chill races across my skin. I shake it off.

The hospital is a different place at night—emptier, stretched thin, like the walls have loosened their grip on reality. Footsteps echo too long. Shadows stretch too far. The air has a different hum. The after-hours atmosphere verges on creepy.

The lab is dim, lit by work lamps and the glow of the large screen opposite us, where my lesson, the procedure I am to memorize, will soon be displayed.

Delenn dots conductive gel to my scalp, and I inhale at the sudden shock of cool and wet that becomes tacky and mildly unsettling as she presses the electrodes over it. The attached wires brush against my skin like mutant spider legs.

“I hope you’re planning to step away once you apply the electricity, in case I turn into a monster or go berserk.”

A flicker of a smile tugs at Delenn’s lips, but her focus is laser sharp. She’s half with me, half with the machine. I watch the slight crease between her brows, the measured way she checks each electrode, her gaze darting over the setup like she’s triple-checking what she’s already triple-checked, and I think, This is why we’re friends. We ride the same wavelength—driven, ambitious, wired to keep pushing forward. I trust her completely.

Still, a thread of nerves gets tangled beneath my excitement, and doubt wants to scuttle around the forming knots. Electricity will soon be applied to my head, changing things in my brain. What if it changes too much? What if this doesn’t go as planned? Lately nothing has, and this almost feels like tempting fate.

At least I’m not thinking about Isaac. Not about the fact that I haven’t heard from him all day. Not about this morning. That moment.

At least there’s that.

My mind is eased by knowing I’m not the first to have this procedure done. Three other people have gone through it earlier today. The study is officially underway, and even after the first session, it’s promising. Delenn sent me ecstatic messages all day. She couldn’t wait for me to try it.

“So, why do you think the results varied from person to person?” I ask, wanting to hear again that they’re all okay, even though I’ve analyzed all the prestudy data. It’s not like these therapies are novel—it’s only the combination that’s new. I have no reason to be concerned, but I do want to be thorough and cautious, as much as I can be in this scenario.

“It’s not surprising,” she says. “Each person’s brain encodes and stores memory in different ways. There are structural differences—variability in hippocampal volume, synaptic density, neurochemical balances. But more than that, memory retrieval is deeply affected by emotional regulation, prior trauma, and even baseline sleep cycles. And then there’s the added complexity of neuroplasticity—people who’ve trained themselves to remember differently, or repress consistently, have literally rewired how their recall pathways function. The protocol for the study has stimulated heightened recall in everyone we’ve tested so far. Their memory is, as we hoped and hypothesized, better—much better. But the interpretation still happens through the lens of who they are. It’s not just data. It’s identity.”

This explanation takes a hammer to my lingering concerns, and I lean into the anticipation.

“You swallowed all the pills?” Delenn asks, tapping a pen against her clipboard, but it’s not really a question. She watched me do it.

“A half an hour ago,” I say.

She spins away. “Good. I’m going to turn on the diffuser.”

A switch flips, and instantly a thin vapor unfurls from the top of the machine, curling into the air like the first breath of an active volcano.

My heart rate increases. It’s like I’ve just taken a breath of fresh air, but it’s clear, beautiful air, away-from-technology, mountainous air. My mind feels clear and focused—no noise, just sharp clarity.

“I think the med cocktail’s kicking in,” I say, scanning the room as if I’ve just walked into it.

Her eyes go wide and bright. “Yeah? What are you feeling?”

I stretch my hands in front of me, fingers flexing like I could actually hold the sensation in my palms. “More.”

She nods, as if she already understands.

“It’s like . . . paths have opened in my mind that were closed before, that I never even knew existed. I feel like I can breathe better. Like my whole body is processing information faster. Everything’s sharper.”

Her smile grows wider. “Good. Good.”

Something in her eagerness makes me shift. I don’t like feeling like an experiment, but I remind myself—again—to trust this. I trust Delenn. And I want what this can give me—an edge.

“Let’s start the electrical stimulation then. You ready?”

As much as the wires will allow, I shift in the chair and give her a confident “Yes. Absolutely.”

Then, before she even applies the current, something in me opens. My thoughts go clear.

“This drug combination is incredible.”

“It is, isn’t it?” she says, her eyes gleaming as she moves to the machine that controls the current. “It’s only two milliamps,” she explains, gesturing to the control panel. “You should feel a mild tingle, maybe a little warmth. I’ll turn the screen on first.”

She’s in coordinator mode because I already know this. Honestly, I feel confident I could run this experiment without her. “Great. Let’s do it.” I’m ready now. No turning back. It’s time to fully surrender—to receive everything this can offer.

Delenn squares her shoulders like she’s stepping onto a stage. With a click of her remote, the screen lights up, displaying the surgical technique for Chiari malformation type 1, a brain abnormality where the lower part of the brain extends into the spinal canal, where it shouldn’t be.

It’s not a procedure I’d normally perform—it belongs to neurosurgery, not orthopedic spine—but that’s why it’s perfect for testing memory retention outside my typical wheelhouse.

Delenn exhales. “Here we go.” She turns the dial.

A slow warmth blooms across my scalp—like static building before a shock.

“Whoa,” I breathe, because it’s the only word that makes it past the sensation.

Delenn leans in, her pen poised, eyes locked on mine. “What are you feeling? Tell me everything.”

But for a moment, I can’t speak. Everything is too much.

My body tenses, muscles buzzing with unfamiliar energy. The room is suddenly too bright, even though I know the light hasn’t changed. A faint, high-pitched hum rings in my ears.

And then—blueberry pie.

The scent floods my senses, rich and warm, like a memory spilled from another room in my brain. I blink. “Did you put blueberries in the diffuser?”

Delenn frowns. “No. Why?”

I open my mouth to explain, but then—it’s gone. The overstimulation recedes like a wave pulling back from shore, leaving behind perfect stillness. Unshaken clarity.

I exhale, my pulse steadying. I want to bottle this state of mind, keep it forever. But instead, I try to describe it. “I feel . . . open,” I say. “Like everything I take in right now will become part of me. Like I’ve been operating at half capacity, and now my brain is hungry and wants more.”

She looks pleased. “Great. And physically?”

I scan my body. Different. “My senses are heightened. It’s like I can feel the hairs coming out of my skin.”

She skims my forearm with the tip of her pen, and I inhale sharply.

“Okay.” She grins, and I can practically feel the excitement radiating from her skin. “Let’s review the procedure. Read it aloud.”

I zero in on the screen. The words are crisp, immediate.

Most frequent approach: suboccipital craniotomy, usually combined with dural patch grafting and cervical laminectomy of C1 through C2 or C3.

Patient position: prone on chest rolls, head in Mayfield.

Flex neck to open interspace between occiput and posterior arch of C1.

Shoulders retracted inferiorly with tape.

Midline incision . . .

As I speak, it’s like the words aren’t just being read, they’re stamped onto my brain, locked in place. Not just reviewed, but etched.

When I finish, Delenn clicks her pen. “Do you feel like you need to read it again?”

I shake my head. “No. Turn it off.” My lips curl into a grin. “Test me.”

“Cord, that was too fast. There’s no way—”

“Test me.” I feel giddy, restless, completely unmoored by the implications of this. I just absorbed a complex surgical procedure in a fraction of the time it would have taken me without these wires attached to my head and this medication in my bloodstream.

Delenn hesitates, then shuts off the screen. She grabs the physical copy of the procedure, flipping it open. “Okay. Walk me through how you’d operate on someone with Chiari malformation.”

I open my mouth and begin thinking of the first words I saw on screen, but then—

My body locks up.

I . . . I can’t believe it. I can barely process it. My heartbeats tumble over one another as I feel suddenly weightless, unattached from the present. It’s as if I’ve slipped through a crack in reality.

The scene in front of me shifts, and it’s like I’m watching a movie of the past several minutes from the inside.

Delenn paces. Not now, but before, as she did moments ago. She rubs her temple. Drops her pen. Bends to pick it up.

I see myself reading the screen. Except I’m not just remembering what happened or even watching a memory—I’m in it.

THE LOVE OPERATION by Melissa R. Collings, Text copyright © 2026 by Melissa R. Collings, Published by Mindy’s Book Studio

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The Only Good Indians tells the tale of four Blackfeet friends who make the mistake of killing a young, pregnant elk. For a decade, the spirit of this elk bides its time, waiting to find a way back into the world to seek revenge on them. The result: A novel where each section tells the twisted tale of these men meeting their fate, a story that grows more horrific with the turning of each page.

Off the Reservation picks up in the same world five years later, and while supernatural elements are once again wreaking havoc on humans, it isn’t exactly a sequel.

Nate Yellow Tail—a secondary character, one of just two survivors of the massacre at the heart of The Only Good Indians—takes center stage in this new story. After Nate and his friend Sebby Spear Woman are in a car accident that nearly kills them both, Nate’s entire world feels off-kilter. However, his hospital nurse, Seine Plenty Wolf, convinces Nate that he has the power to restore balance. All he has to do is join her “holy mission.”

It may sound naive, but it’s the only chance he’s got. So, with some hesitation, Nate piles into an ‘80s-model Sundancer RV with Seine—and two other very interesting traveling companions—for a road trip to the Carlisle Indian Industrial School in Pennsylvania. The goal of Seine’s so-called holy mission? Find the remains of a boy who was kidnapped and murdered there over a century ago to bring him back home where he belongs. Perhaps by bringing one Blackfoot boy back home, Nate can bring another—his best friend Sebby—back from the brink of death too.

This is a horror novel, though. And one written by Stephen Graham Jones, no less. That means things absolutely will not go smoothly. You can’t mess around with the past without expecting it to snap right back. So when this crew tries to resurrect the remains of the Blackfoot boy, they dredge up much more than they expected.

Off the Reservation is an absolute rollercoaster ride! If you’ve read anything by Jones before, you know he has a really unique brand of horror. Things can get a bit weird. And then get even weirder. He’s a master at using small details to create the most unsettling feeling in the reader … and then just lets it stew. Yet he balances this out with a signature dry, pithy humor. You don’t necessarily expect to laugh out loud while reading a horror novel, but it’s guaranteed with this one.

Jones’s editor warns that “every detail matters” in this story and he’s not wrong. It is one of those novels where hints are dropped all along the way, going unnoticed until the pieces suddenly snap into place. There’s an entire section titled “Hindsight” and readers will feel that deeply when this journey comes to an end. All I’m saying is, get ready for a few jaw-dropping plot twists. Literally. My mouth hung wide open for a good minute at one point.

As always, Jones goes past the flashy horror elements to build rich characters and then sets them down within the framework of this country’s long history of colonisation, which is horrific in its own right. Mile after mile passes on this wild ride of a road trip and it becomes increasingly clear that each passenger in the RV is hiding something. Jones takes time with each of them, allowing the reader into their innermost thoughts and experiences, making them more than just a cast of characters—each one is a core component of his story.

So, if you’re looking for a new spooky season read with no shortage of action and gore, but also plenty of depth, you don’t want to miss Off the Reservation.

Off the Reservation is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore.

Will you be picking up Off the Reservation? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis

A ragtag group of activists sets out to repatriate the bones of a Blackfeet boy taken to the infamous Carlisle Indian Industrial School in author Stephen Graham Jones’s return to the Blackfeet reservation of his award-winning New York Times bestsellers The Only Good Indians and The Buffalo Hunter Hunter.

Five years have passed since the massacre on the Blackfeet reservation in Stephen Graham Jones’s breakout bestseller The Only Good Indians. Nathan Yellow Tail, one of the survivors of the revenge murders, finds himself in the hospital after a terrible accident that should’ve killed him and that nearly killed his best friend, Sebby, who is hanging on to life in a room a few doors down.

Nate’s life is out of balance, so when he is given the chance to reset his life, and maybe save Sebby in the process, Nate steps up, again. This time it’s into a camper van that is almost as run down as his broken body, filled with three older Blackfeet, to find the bones of the lone Blackfeet boy who died at the Carlisle Indian Industrial School—where many Indigenous children were abused—and repatriate this boy home. The problem is, when they get the bones, something terrible has escaped with them.

By turns terrifying and deeply moving, Off the Reservation is a haunting American Indian novel of survival, reckoning, and redemption, shining light on the dark corners of this country’s history while also showing the desperate choices people make when they’re put up against a wall.

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This is one of my favourite YA horror series – it just has everything with great characterisation, tight plotting and a wonderful balance of heart, humour and horrific moments. It has buckets of blood and genuinely feels scary but also has plenty of dark comedy and warmth. Wood toes the line expertly and that initial pitch of Scream meets Scooby Doo still holds up for me.

We open with quite a campy cold open of another case (which did feel very tongue-in-cheek Scooby-Doo-esque) and immediately you feel like you are home. The characterisation in this trilogy has always been stellar but Wood goes up another gear in this book. These are not the same people we met at the start of Let’s Split Up, for better or for worse. Their friendship is a brilliant bond, but it is also fracturing as they each try and live with the events of the previous two books. The ramifications are keenly felt here and I liked that Wood very much grapples with the concept of guilt as a central theme. They are dealing with the weight of lives lost and the personal consequences of certain actions, but ultimately what happened was not their fault. Survivor’s guilt is devastating and Wood explores this with nuance.

Because you have taken these characters into your heart, there is so much more to lose in this final chapter. The story Wood has crafted is tense and spine-chilling. I mean an abandoned theme park in the cold and darkness is eerie enough on its own, before you add in isolation and bodies starting to stack up. Every page is drenched in blood and you can really feel the evolution of the trilogy as the core four face possibly their darkest times yet.

The twists in this book are next-level. It dials up the stakes to eleven and somehow makes the atmosphere even more terrifying than the previous books. Nothing and no one is safe as this isolated scarefest starts to bring the nightmares to life for real.

A throughline in this trilogy that I have really enjoyed is an exploration of the true crime industry and how it exploits real-life suffering into neatly packaged and sensationalist tales. Since Let’s Split Up, it has been present through the media interest in these cases and in a meta way with the in-universe books about their previous stories. We go one step further here with the choice of location and the secrets buried within there. While I won’t reveal exactly what Wood is discussing, there is a really nuanced thread about the ongoing impact of trauma and the different ways people may confront it. Our core four have stared into the face of evil and lived to tell the tale but the scars it has left on each of them are still throbbing. How each of them has chosen to continue their life after the events of book two is fascinating, particularly as they come back together for this final adventure. By choosing to set this trilogy before the incredible rise of the Internet, Wood shows the groundwork for the true crime stories we are all familiar with now. There is plenty to delve into around the power of the press, the manipulation of narratives but primarily the way in which we confront real-life horrors.

One Last Scare is an excellent conclusion to a standout trilogy, packed full of thrillers and chills. I have thoroughly loved this series and am sad to bid goodbye to the Sanera Four. Wood is an exceptional talent and I cannot wait to see what he turns his hand to next.

Will you be picking up One Last Scare? Tell us in the comments below!

Synopsis

When Cam, Jonesy, Amber and Buffy are invited to experience a new theme park called Chillshore, the gang jump at the chance of some down-time together. They can kick back on this remote island, check out the rides, no chance of any gruesome murders or mystery-solving in sight. Right? Wrong.

Death has come to Chillshore, with creepy cabins in the woods, gruesome discoveries lurking beneath frozen water, decades-old secrets cracking open like black ice. None of their fellow guests can be trusted and no-one is safe.

As the body count rises, can the Sanera Four survive, or will this be their One Last Scare?

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Royal Witch by Philippa Gregory, which releases on October 20th 2026.

1420. Eleanor Cobham arrives at the court of Henry V. Pretty but not highborn, she hopes for nothing more than to marry well.

It is a golden age for England, its royal family’s dynasty stretching across Europe. But chaos waits in the shadows. Betrayals and shifts of power change the flourishing world Eleanor has stepped into.

Working in the household of a Countess who commands her own army, Eleanor begins to see for the first time what a woman is capable of…what men’s promises are truly worth.

As the safe, comfortable future she’d envisioned begins to shift, Eleanor changes with it. Now she must use her wits to survive – and to rise. Her newfound ambition will to carry her further than any woman before has dared. But if she is to rule England itself, she will need to turn to darker arts..

EXCERPT

WINDSOR CASTLE, WINTER

1421

Queen Catherine goes into her confinement in November with a cartload of treasures and trappings and holy relics, including Our Lord’s circumcised foreskin, encased in a silver jewel. My lady visits her every day, so I have to go into the darkened rooms with her – though, as an unmarried woman and a mere baron’s daughter, I must wait at the door while the better-born married women sit in the shadowy room, whispering hopes and muttering blessings. The queen is not to be disturbed by any displeasing sights or sounds; she is to doze in a perfect womb herself, at peace, in silence, in darkened stillness. All she is allowed to do is eat, and the castle kitchens send up every sort of dainty feast to tempt her.

For weeks, she idles in stuff y darkness, until one morning I am startled awake by the pealing of the chapel bells, and I realise she has finally had her baby. The boom of twenty-one cannon tells me it is a boy, and my first thought is that at last, my lady can leave the queen’s rooms and muster support for her campaign, and I canemerge from this women’s world and be seen.

The baby is christened almost at once, in the royal chapel, but neither the king, nor his brother Humphrey, nor any men come home from France for the ceremony. The baby takes the name of Henry, and his two godfathers are the king’s uncle, Bishop Beaufort, and the king’s brother, Duke John. The only godmother is my lady, Jacqueline – a great honour.

My lady carries the baby to the font, holds him tenderly, and rocks him when he cries at the splash of holy water and holy oil on his tiny bared breast. They put salt in his mouth and blow in his ears; the priest dabs his spit on eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. I am quite disgusted by the little creature, naked like a pale-skinned rabbit. I cannot believe that this little figure, pale as a wax doll, could ever be a king – surely he will never grow to greatness. He looks as if he will not last the year.

Duke John takes him into his arms, holding him awkwardly, bachelor that he is. His big dark face is tender as he looks at his nephew; even though this child is displacing him as first heir to the throne, he looks at him with love. The baby howls, flushing scarlet in the face, and the rocker takes him and pats his back until, mercifully, the noise stops and he goes to sleep. We take him to the confinement room, and his mother holds out her arms, calling him her little angel – his soul saved by baptism.

He should be suckled by a wet nurse, rocked by a team of rockers, and governed by a head nurse with two assistants; but with the king far away in France and the queen’s mother in Paris, nobody has the authority to take the baby from his mother and bind up her breasts to stop the milk. Secretly, they defy the male traditions of separating mother and baby. The wet nurse leaves the queen to suckle her son and sleep with him in her great bed, as contented as a fat yellow cat in a basket with a solitary precious kitten, and Jacqueline writes to the king that mother and baby are doing well, and all is as it should be.

WINDSOR CASTLE, SPRING

1422

The spring is as dull as the autumn. There are no young noblemen in England – they are all setting siege to the city of Meaux with the king, and if they were here, they would hardly look at me as the queen rises up from childbed, doubly beautiful in her pride and happiness – a queen of proven fertility: dancing with her ladies and riding out in the frosty water-meadows by the river, or hunting in the park as the days get longer and the birds start to sing in the early dawns.

Jacqueline has been bombarding the Holy Father the pope with long learned letters, citing her unlawful affinity with her false husband, John of Brabant. Her mother – his own godmother – wrongly advised them to marry, and Jacqueline says that she separated from him as soon as she realised it was a false marriage between too close kin. She has confessed and done penance for the sin. She writes like a lawyer, fierce and clever, one logical step rising to another in a staircase of argument that reaches to the dizzy height of her conclusion: that she is not married now and never was.

It is a convincing argument, and I am not surprised that the pope replies from his palace in Avignon and agrees with her. Even though she is a runaway, a disobedient wife who has taken up arms against her husband, the pope declares her marriage was invalid, and she is free to make war against her false husband and even free to marry another man.

This would be a complete triumph but for the bad luck that there is a false pope in Rome, and he is supported by Jacqueline’s enemy, her cousin, Philip of Burgundy. Of course, he says nothing in her favour.

‘But the true pope says you can marry again?’

‘I just got rid of one bad husband,’ she says. ‘Why would I marry another?’

‘You got rid of a bad husband who took your lands,’ I remind her. ‘Now you should choose a good one to win them back for you.’

She laughs at me. ‘Ah, Nell,’ she says with affection. ‘Will you never see that I can win by myself, without a man?’

‘Ah, Jacqueline.’ I dare to use her given name, since she is smiling at me. ‘Will you never see that every woman has to have a husband to fight for her?’

‘A woman can hold her own lands and her own noble title,’ Jacqueline points out. ‘A woman can raise her own army and lead it into battle. A woman need not depend on a man. I’m not the only woman in the world who prefers to make my own future. I will never again put myself into the service of a husband.’

‘Everyone has to serve someone,’ I point out. ‘I serve you.’

‘I pay you, and you can leave me,’ she says. ‘Anything else is slavery.’

‘Marriage is not slavery!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s my only escape from my home at Sterborough.’

‘Why escape one servitude to go into another?’ she demands.

I do not need Jacqueline’s careless words to make me doubt my plan to win a noble husband with nothing more than my smile. I am disappointed in court life. It is nothing like the Romances. No one is going to catch sight of me, singing in a rose garden like Nicolette in the poem. There is more to getting a husband than simply being pretty. Someone must speak for me.

I ask for permission to visit my father.

‘Are you missing your home?’ Jacqueline asks me kindly. ‘I miss Le Quesnoy so much that even now, I dream of it, and I wake and don’t know where I am.’

‘Not really,’ I confess, ‘but I should visit my father, if you can spare me.’

‘I can survive a few days without you,’ she says cheerfully and takes me to her room and gives me a new gown with a new thick cape. She orders the royal guard to keep me safe from the injured soldiers on the highway and speeds me on my way with her blessing.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from the audiobook of Wedlocked by Hillary Frank, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Zara is one half of a fitness-influencer power couple. She has the upscale Philadelphia home, the dream husband, and millions of followers on the country’s hottest fitness app. But behind the bright lights and bumping music, Zara desperately wants a baby—a desire her husband does not share. Despite the stress of her “ticking clock,” she says she’s fine. Happier than ever, actually.

When Zara rekindles a friendship with Oscar, an old flame, he starts questioning her all-too-cheery demeanor. Zara wants to blame Oscar’s jealousy, but his pointed observations force her to reckon with the cracks she’s been trying to ignore: her eerie and erratic health episodes, as well as the strange and mysterious incidents terrorizing her. The further her life spirals out of control, the closer she comes to the sinister truth.

Featuring haunting sound design and original music, Wedlocked is an immersive audio experience that explores the space between the lives we post, the lives we actually lead, and the forces behind a woman’s choice.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Wolf Season by Wesley King, which releases on October 20th 2026.

It’s been seven long years since Everett Johnson set foot in the wilds of Killdeer, Montana. But his father, the sheriff, is missing, and Everett is determined to find him…or bury him.

In the weeks before he vanished, Sheriff Dale Johnson was investigating the murder of Orsie Armel, a beautiful young girl found naked in the woods, shot with her own gun. Orsie came from a family of reclusive, powerful women whose prime acreage has long been the target of many people’s speculation – and ire. She also happened to be the cousin of Bernadine Armel, the only woman Everett ever loved. His return thrusts him headfirst into the minefields of estranged family and neglected friendships, and back into the arms of Bernadine, who is still as beautiful and mysterious as ever.

But as he delves deeper in the family’s past, he uncovers a sinister pattern of murders and hints of supernatural phenomena he can’t explain. In the end, Everett’s search for truth forces him to confront the past that has haunted him all these years—and the impossible secret beneath it all.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Knight of the God King by Lauren Blackwood, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Calliope’s wish has always been to become a knight, an elite healer and protector who uses music to summon magic. Yet despite her exceptional skill, she’s stuck lifting up her talentless cousin, whose family begrudgingly took Cali in as a child. But when an opportunity to become the royal knight of the immortal God King arrives, Cali finally gets a chance at a fairytale life – until her cousin blackmails her.

Forced to bring her cousin to court so she won’t share Cali’s shameful past, Cali immediately snubs Beric, the alluring, handsome squire tending to her. Now she must contend with his ire, even while feeling helplessly drawn to him. If that wasn’t enough, her duty means accompanying the king into The Dark, a demonic entity that only the king’s magic is powerful enough to battle – a fight he has been waging for centuries. She must also keep the king’s secret under pain of death: He’s not a god at all, and the only thing keeping him alive is the magic held by the royal knight. It seems serving the God King isn’t a fairytale at all, and when people start dying around her, she and Beric realize that they have no choice but to take their fate – and that of an entire kingdom – into their own hands.

In Lauren Blackwood’s thrilling fantasy, Knight of the God King, a knight’s power and her squire’s love are the only things that can help her defeat a man playing at being a god.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER 1

CALLIOPE

The holding room was brimming with bodies.

Nearly every knight from most every province was in attendance. Most were forced to stand, the full skirts of their elaborate dresses turning the room into an overheated, sweat-stench nightmare not even the mild English springtime rain outside the window could combat.

It wouldn’t have been unreasonable to expect a more comfortable waiting room, something more befitting the station of a knight, or at the very least more time to prepare. Instead, the audition was sudden, and we waited in song and sweat, finding out by word of mouth only a few hours before. And we all knew what that meant.

The Royal Knight of Deus Rex was dead.

Lady Violet had been well known to us all, through songs and the rare bit of gossip from the palace. But only those allowed at court had ever seen her, despite maintaining the role as the Royal Knight for the better part of three decades. It was a stable position, with a multitude of benefits, and one that rarely opened. And if I won the role, today would be the last time I’d have to lie to my aunt, making her believe I was running her errands instead of working on my craft.

I may not have been a working knight or blessed with noble parentage—I certainly had no business auditioning for a royal appointment—but if I succeeded, a permanent position would guarantee I could eventually find a noble husband without interference from my father’s ruined name or my aunt’s manipulations. He didn’t even have to be noble—a brave soldier would do, so long as he was a good person. There was something about a man with a sword that was unbearably romantic.

Either way, I’d finally have a life of my own, away from my aunt’s suffocating, restrictive household.

So I would remain through the stench of sweating bodies, the dirty looks from women just as travel worn as I, the cramped room with barely a place to sit . . . and the odds stacked against me.

Because what was on the other side of this audition was too tempting to ignore.

Freedom.

I tucked closer to the corner, gripping my audition number in my fist, so the close bustling bodies wouldn’t knock it from my grasp. The taller woman standing in front of me had a number a few slots after mine, so between her and the expensive vase resting precariously on a stone pillar nearby, I was certain I could keep out of sight until my cousin had her turn. Many of the knights were performing vocal exercises, their pretty voices paired with the multitude of conversations creating the atmosphere of a lively party. But I couldn’t risk opening my mouth, of having Anise recognize my voice.

Anise, who stood on the other side of the room, conversing cheerfully with her best friend. Anise, the actual knight. Whether she deserved the title was debatable. Her voice, however pretty, was not the most accurate, which made her magic even less so. But she had studied at the Knight Academy. She had proper status as a practicing knight. I only had the skill. Anise certainly wasn’t going to win on her own merits, and also happened to be petty, so if she spotted me she would do everything within her power to make sure I wouldn’t succeed either.

The pair of doors leading to the audition room slammed open, and a woman stormed out, muttering something about being insulted. A churn went through my belly at her exit. What exactly did this audition consist of?

“Eight,” the auditioner’s voice called, his no-nonsense tone making it clear that this was not going to be a simple audition. One of the knights walked as gracefully as she could manage through the throng to enter the room, the door shutting behind her.

I took a deep breath, settling further into the corner, if only to take a bit of weight from my feet. It would be a while yet. I was number forty-two—I’d made sure to enter the queue as far from Anise as possible, so she would be long gone by the time I was called.

I jolted and looked up at the sound of the door—barely thirty seconds from when the knight first entered, and she was leaving, tear-streaked cheeks shimmering. What on earth was he saying to these poor knights?

From where I sat, I could see his black hair in the doorway, but I didn’t dare try to see his face. “My ladies,” he said, his voice colder now, if even possible. “If you can’t perform the basics of sound vibration and intonation, please save us all some time and vacate the waiting room.” He paused but didn’t wait for anyone to leave as he continued with, “Number nine,” and entered the room again.

One poor knight slipped out of the room shortly after, looking dejected. The wise ones, whether they lacked the skill or not, didn’t move. One had to be truly foolish to not at least try for the opportunity to join the royal court. Better to try and fail than to give up.

But the auditioner did have a point. Creating vibrations in the air was the very first skill a knight perfected—it was literally the means to summon magic. Snapping or flicking one’s fingers, creating puffs of air with one’s mouth, those were all practiced before hitting different tones came into the picture. And certainly before instruments and tools were brought into play. In fact, unless one practiced their pitches or, ideally, were born with perfect pitch, there was no point in bothering with singing. The sound frequency combination for closing a wound, say, was completely different than the one used to create a shield. The art of knight magic was subtle and specific—many were born with it, few perfected it. It was the difference between blowing out a simple candle and, well . . . serving Deus Rex.

Thankfully, with the number of hours I’d spent helping my cousin learn the skills required to become an expert knight, I’d managed to perfect them right under my aunt and uncle’s noses. Anise knew I could perform magic, but because we’d never shared the same ambition—she, an advantageous marriage, and I, a way to support myself so I could finally leave my aunt’s home—she didn’t really care. But she was three years older and, at twenty-one years of age, hadn’t even gotten close to marriage yet. This position may be her only chance.

I had to avoid her at all costs.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The 10:12 by Anna Maloney, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Claire Fitzroy was on the way home to London when her train from Manchester was hijacked by a group of armed men. In one terrifying moment she faced the starkest of choices: to passively stand back or act and fight back—knowing that with either choice, she could die.

With nothing to lose, the middle-aged art lecturer gathered and led a squad of passengers who, against all odds, overcame the hijackers and saved hundreds of lives. But what at first looks like heroism may play out very differently in the courts of law and public opinion. Especially when you have the blood of two men on your hands.

Opinions are heated and divided. Was she a selfless and quick-thinking hero? Or an attention-seeking vigilante and unrepentant murderer? Until now Claire has remained silent. Now, she’s finally speaking out about what happened that morning on the 10:12.

But is it the whole story?

EXCERPT

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Beautiful to See You (Again) by Lygia Day Peñaflor, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Two years ago, she fell in love with her high school’s valedictorian Natty, the awkward boy who’d always adored her. But their summer together ended in tragedy. Now, instead of attending Columbia, Tia works as a dog walker, drifting through New York City and avoiding the future.

Then she discovers a hidden tunnel in Central Park…a tunnel that can take her back: back to Natty and their glorious summer, the summer she thought was gone forever.

But every visit comes at a cost. The more time Tia spends trying to change the past, the harder it becomes to return to the present—where the ambitious film student, Razor Ford, is determined to cast her in his short film…and maybe even pull her out of her grief and remind her that life is still waiting for her.

Caught between then and now, Tia must decide between holding on to what she’s lost—or moving forward to what might be the bravest love story of all.

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The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Beautiful to See You (Again)’ by Lygia Day Peñaflor appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from False Face by Josh Galarza, which releases on October 20th 2026.

Rusty is positive Todd with two D’s is a figment of his troubled mind. That’s the only explanation for why he breaks into musical numbers and lurks in the school bleachers to stare unabashedly at Burt, the cutest guy in school. But when Todd’s antics go a little too far, Rusty quickly finds himself in a dangerous situation. Little does Rusty know, the boy he’s head over heels for just might be the one to save his life.

By day, Burt Espinoza is the only out kid in school who’s ever maintained his social status. But by night, he is a real hero: a secret agent rescuing vulnerable queer kids in danger. His handlers (also his adoptive moms) are concerned he’s pushing himself too hard to be the man he thinks he needs to be. Now Burt has to prove that he’s ready for his biggest mission yet: saving the only boy he’s ever hurt.

Raw, surreal, and timely, this novel is perfect for fans of Rex Ogle and Randy Ribay.

EXCERPT

Penny’s voice deepens with determination. “I’m serious, Tina. There’s not a moment to lose. I mean, back when you were growing up, all these poor men who thought they could get away with that revolting behavior ended up with AIDS.” She drops her voice to a whisper, as if uttering the acronym might conjure the virus. “And the ones who didn’t get exterminated were left alone. No friends—they were all dead. And certainly no children.” She gives her head a tight shake. Not a single hair moves from the Aqua Net sculpture framing her face, a deeply creviced facade of indignation, cheeks pinched as if her salivary glands pump lemon juice. “And sure, we could chalk it up to the price of sin and wash our hands of the whole mess, but I’ve been praying faithfully about the issue, listening to my WellWord cassettes each and every week, and I can say with absolute certainty that the next generation doesn’t have to face the same fate.”

Tina raises an eyebrow.

“It’s true! But to save them we have to be vigilant, even and especially with the little ones you teach. I mean, with all these queers traipsing about like they own the place—”

“Homosexuals.”

Todd’s chains rattle as he roars with laughter. His shock is overshadowed only by his delight that I just opened my mouth to correct Penny. I don’t know which of us—Penny, Todd, or me—is most stunned. I’m about to berate Todd for composing the retort, but I’ve got him locked up tighter than the queen’s jewels, several boards nailed over his dungeon door. Did I just correct Aunt Penny of my own free will?

Penny raises her brow and fixes her gaze on my chest. I can almost feel the blood bubbling from a stab wound. “Did you say something, Rusty?” Her words sound like, I know exactly what you said and you will live to regret it. They sound like, I’ve had my eye on you ever since you insisted on performing the Nutcracker ballet for the family as a one-man show when you were seven. They sound like, I produced my youth documentary because I love you.

“No,” I mumble. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Speak clearly, Rusty. Pro-ject.” This is one of Aunt Penny’s favorite words. When she was a high school geography teacher, she was famous for screaming it from the back of the classroom whenever a student was giving a presentation, always drawing out the first syllable so the second hit like a gunshot. Prrroooeee-ject!

“I . . .”

“Look at me. You’re a strong young man. If you’re going to speak, do so with authority.”

I clear my throat, force myself to meet Penny’s eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Good, because you should be listening. You . . .” Penny narrows her gaze, seems to reconsider her words. “Your soul is in deep peril. I would hate to see you become another casualty to the devil.”

My gorge rises. There’s something in Penny’s tone, in the knowing look in her eyes, that has me certain she’s leaving something unsaid—something she is saying, actually, just not out loud, something she’s saying only to me. Penny knows. She sees the giant rainbow banner above my head. The flashing neon signage, the pulsing arrows pointing out the truth: homo, homo, homo.

Todd sticks his head through the window in his cell door and gives me a pitiful look, the type you’d give a toddler refusing to accept his bedtime. They all know, Russell. They’ve known since we tried to get away with stealing Liesl’s My Little Pony collection by writing “Rusty” on each of them in permanent marker. It was not the heist of the century, I’m afraid.

I glance around the table at the assembled. All these people who pretend to know me but definitely don’t know me. They don’t know me, do they? Please, God, tell me they don’t know me. They can’t.

Says the boy who used to wear his sister’s bathing suits to play dress-up as the anthropomorphic, tightrope-walking kitty from our favorite Muppet-filled show.

That was you.

Whatever you say, you big, strapping hetero.

Penny returns to her conversation. Besides Tina, none assembled heard our exchange. Dad sits at Penny’s shoulder, but he hasn’t even glanced my way. So why do I feel so naked? I’m standing center stage in Todd’s sinful production, the spotlights so blinding that I can’t see the audience, bulbs so hot that my skin shines with sweat. I’m cowering, trying to cover myself. Whoever is out there—hundreds and hundreds of seats, all filled—they’re jeering, lobbing rotten produce. I want to scream, but I don’t have the breath. I have to get out. I have to . . .

Somehow, I find the strength to move my limbs. I shove my chair back without asking to be excused. I bolt for the staircase. The safety of my bedroom is so close. Just have to make it up the stairs.

My dad calls after me. “Hey, Rusty, you gonna eat your stuffing there, kid?”

“It’s all yours,” I choke. I remember what Penny said about the way young men are supposed to talk. I have to get this one thing right, if only to show Penny that she’s wrong about me. I manage to modulate the quaver in my voice. As I reach the landing, I project, “It’s all yours, Dad.”

I burst into my room and close the door. I sink to the floor, back propped against the wall. Is this really happening? Penny’s secret message? Has she told the others? Are they all talking behind my back? Private phone calls? Hushed conversations while I sleep? Has she told Pastor Davis? Does Pastor Davis know? Is that why he wanted to have a heart-to-heart yesterday? Does my dad know? Has he always known?

My hands tremble. I feel . . . Is this what shock feels like?

But the greatest shock of all is yet to come.

I touch my cheek . . . and my fingers come back wet.

When was the last time I cried? Not since my dad found two dozen of Liesl’s My Little Ponies under my bed. How old was I? Eight? Liesl stood at his thigh, a hand on her tiny hip, fury in her eyes. Even Mom rushed into the room, roused from her day-sleeping by the commotion. Dad threw up his hands in frustration, yelled four simple words that haunt me to this day, even though it’s been nearly a decade since they had me hiding behind the shed in the backyard to cry. “Rusty, you’re a boy!”

Todd steps from his cell. All the padlocks and chains and restraints are gone. I’m not sure if I’m too weak to keep Todd chained or if I just don’t want to fight tonight. For once, he doesn’t say anything sassy or outrageous. He doesn’t make me feel like a jerk and he doesn’t torture me with a song. He just sits beside me and takes my hand. In the mirrored doors of the closet, he’s almost real. I can see his bright eyes and long lashes, his spattering of freckles and rusty red hair, his face so quick to break into a grin.

“I . . . I feel . . .” I sniff and wipe at my eyes. “Um, I feel weird.” A sob bursts out.

Todd gives my hand a squeeze. I know. I’ve got you, lady.

You do?

Of course I do. I’ve always been here for you, haven’t I?

I nod, for once willing to admit that it’s true. Tomorrow is soon enough to acknowledge a more complicated reality. Tomorrow, I’ll remind myself that Todd, whether he means to be or not, is the cause of all my problems. He’s the reason I’m sitting here crying right now. But maybe, just for tonight, I can let myself remember how it feels to be comforted by him.

Just like that day behind the shed, I rest my head on Todd’s shoulder, grit my teeth, and weep.

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