Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from East of Envy by Nikki St. Crowe, which releases on November 3rd 2026.

Dorothy Gale has been betrayed by the Wizard of Oz; he used her, broke her, and left her stranded in a strange land.

Now she’s forced to team up with the last person she should trust: the Tin Woodman. He’s a heartless mercenary with an axe to grind and nothing left to lose. Because the Wizard didn’t just steal his heart, he took Tin’s little brother, Gabriel, too.

Everything about Tin is dangerous, and the closer Dorothy gets, the harder it is to tell what scares her more—his blade, or the fire he ignites within her.

But defeating the Wizard won’t be easy. His magic hums beneath every brick and coils through every whisper, until you’re walking in circles on the Yellow Brick Road. He has all of Oz under his spell and more power than anyone. Or does he?

Dorothy is more than she seems, and the longer she’s in Oz, the more she remembers. Things about her past, about what she is, and about the magic awakening inside her.

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The post Read An Excerpt From ‘East of Envy’ by Nikki St. Crowe appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Glimmer of Death by Lauren K. Hamilton, which releases on November 3rd 2026.

I am Meredith Gentry. Princess of the realm of faerie, private investigator in the mortal land of Los Angeles, mother of triplets, and lover to my men—the royal guards sworn to protect me. With a family and a court to support back home, I can’t say no to a job investigating a string of magical attacks against up-and-coming Hollywood actresses. Not when the case raises old nightmares from my own past. This time when I find out who is responsible for all this pain, I can make him pay.

But affairs in the land of faerie keep interrupting my hunt. Aisling is supposed to be the next king of the Seelie Court, but he is doubly cursed once by beauty and once by despair. If we cannot cure him my uncle Taranis, former King of Light and Illusion, may regain the throne. If he does he will destroy me and everyone I care about. Only true love will cure Aisling of his curse but is my love true enough? If not, I will share his fate and lose myself to the haunted magic that torments him.

While we fight for one kingdom of faerie, my aunt Andais, Queen of Air and Darkness, claims my deceased best friend, Keelin, has turned up alive and well along with a child supposedly sired by her dead son. If this baby is the true child of my former rival to the Unseelie throne, my enemies might use it to take the throne from me. Mysterious fey babies, curses both ancient and new are shaking the delicate balance of the faerie courts, and I am still hunting a monster terrorizing the women of Los Angeles.

EXCERPT

Chapter Three

The entrance from the garden was through the back of the house, which looked nice but less ostentatious than the front, which made it seem cozier and somehow more family friendly. We walked through the crowd of children, parents, and grandparents. There was punch, cider, cookies, caramel apples, and face painting and that was just what we could see from near the door. The room kept going with the crowd blocking our view so there was more out of sight. It looked both fun and like a lot of work to navigate. Were the triplets old enough to hold still for face painting? Was Liam? Caramel apples were out unless we could cut them into manageable pieces. Cookies looked safer, but the cider and punch sitting out in open plastic cups was a mess waiting to happen. We had sippy cups with us, and we were going to use them otherwise we’d be wearing the red punch.

I looked at Liam’s once pristine white prince outfit. It looked even worse in brighter light. It was ruined, he could have punch and anything else stain wise. The cleanest thing was his short blonde hair and the new paper crown on top of it. Tempest had managed to get chocolate not just on her fairy outfit, but into her white curls. She had cried to get a crown, but once she had it she hadn’t wanted to wear anything but the bouncy antenna.

Little Essus was happily wearing his pirate hat over his puppy costume. Bree was trying to pull her pirate hat over the hood of her dragon outfit, so her face was almost completely hidden except for the tip of her chin.

A woman with short black hair wearing a red dress that fit her like a second skin came to stand near us. Her dark eyes were framed by a red lace mask that acted more as eye makeup than a costume. She was tall, slender and very modelesque. I thought at first she was going to get some cider for herself, but she gazed at all of us, then looked down at me with a smile that had that edge of condescension to it that I’d endured all my life at the high courts and now in Hollywood for not being tall, or slender enough. Once it had hurt my feelings, but all the differences that people had hated me for had led me to a life and the people I loved. No stranger’s attitude could pierce me now, so I smiled up at her sweetly. Her smile stayed fixed, but her eyes showed hesitation, then she blinked, and I felt the prickling dance of her power along my skin.

We’d been sent to find magic and here it was inside the house flexing at us. I did not have to flex my own power; I just had to stop hiding it. The woman’s power was pushed back from my skin before my eyes started to glow. I saw the Jade, emerald, and metallic gold light reflected in her dark eyes.

“It was silly of me to try and match magic with a being made of it,” she said, her voice managing to sound unimpressed, “I’m Trina, the witch they hired before you.”

“We’ll need to confirm that with Mr. Brewster,” Doyle said.

“Of course, I was sent to take you to the meeting.”

“Then why didn’t you start with that?” I asked, and concentrated on shutting down my magic before anyone else at the party saw my eyes glowing.

She gave a graceful shrug. “I have never had a client need more than me when it came to supernatural issues. I had to try you a tiny bit.”

“It was foolish,” Doyle said.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“It was dangerous,” Frost said.

“Perhaps,” she said again, then, “follow me.”

She turned without waiting for us to react as if she was either certain we would follow or didn’t care. I hesitated for a second, then Doyle came up beside me, and we followed her swaying hips through the room. I glanced down to see that she was wearing six-inch stilettos which would make anyone sway when they walked. I hoped someday to be back in shoes that high, but right now I was too top heavy and chasing too many babies for stilettos.

I lifted my skirts and did my best to keep them out of the way of the running, shrieking herd of children. A toddler rammed into Trina’s long legs and nearly knocked her down. She recovered and I followed her in my sensible low heels, smiling.

She led us through the sprawling mansion and gradually the noisy party receded until we came to a part of the house that was so quiet you’d have never known the party was happening.  Trina opened a door and ushered us inside. It let us know how big the house was and how good the sound proofing was. I expected her to stay for some reason, but she just closed the door and left us alone.

The office was large and dimly lit with only a desk lamp and a floor lamp sitting by an overstuffed, leather chair that had reading chair written all over it, except the books on the built-in shelves looked leather and perfect and untouched. The library part of the room was just for show, but the dark wood desk gleamed with decades of polish. I doubted that Brewster had ever polished it himself, but the work laid out across the leather desk blotter looked messy and real.  There were even two small metal file cabinets that were dented and looked older than the antique desk, because they looked like they had been at Tom Brewster’s side decades before he could have afforded the rest of the furniture or the house around this office.

Did he keep the file cabinets to remind himself of where he came from, of how hard he’d worked, to not get too full of himself? Did he even know why he kept them? The office was a showpiece that Architectural Digest would have been happy to photograph, except for those two file cabinets. Maybe he hid them when he was interviewed, or maybe he didn’t?

Bree was looking around the room with large, dark eyes. It reminded me of the way Doyle was watching the room with his own dark eyes. We’d agreed tonight that he would have limited baby duty so that he could have his hands free for all the weapons he was wearing and the magic he could do with his hands.

Frost came to stand beside us with Tempest wiggling in his arms. She wanted down. She’d start bouncing in his arms soon, and if that didn’t get her what she wanted she’d start screaming. The file cabinets could withstand toddler love, but the globe of the world on its wooden stand gleamed in the low light like each country might actually be made of real semi-precious jewels. I really didn’t want Tempest hitting that, or the crystal whiskey decanter set It really wasn’t a room made for children. I was betting his own four-year-olds didn’t go into daddy’s office much.

Liam said, “G’obe!” pointing at the beautiful globe. He’d recently acquired a fascination with maps and globes. You never knew what children would latch onto, and only time would tell how long those fascinations lasted.

I heard Essus say, “Da-da,” softly, persuasively. I turned and wasn’t surprised to see Essus’s small hands on either side of Galen’s face. The little boy leaned in towards Galen’s face saying softly, pleasantly, “Da-da, down.”

Galen smiled at him, face full of all that fatherly love. I smiled at them both part romantic love for Galen and motherly love for our little boy. I wish I could have taken my phone out and taken a picture, but if I got out any electronics the babies would want it. If I wanted to calm Tempest down getting out my phone wouldn’t accomplish that.

Luckily the door opened, and new people to meet was enough distraction for Tempest for at least a few minutes. Trina held the door and the Brewsters walked through holding hands.

He was tall, gray-haired and had that confidence of someone who had been powerful and wealthy for most of his life, but when he looked at his wife he glowed like anyone else in love. It made me smile because I was in love, too, and nothing makes you enjoy seeing other people happy as much as being happy yourself.

Helena Brewster was beautiful, just like a hundred other beautiful blond actresses you could see at every casting call or being waitresses as they waited for their big break. She was truly lovely with big, wide blue eyes, and nice cheekbones, full, sexy lips and a thin figure finally curving after the birth of twins. I sympathized with that last part, though I’d started with more curves than most modern actresses allow themselves. She looked great, but other than slightly more curves in appropriate places it was a generic loveliness like a Barbie doll come to life.

I finally understood why people in the business were so puzzled why this woman had been the one to tame one of Hollywood’s great womanizers. Brewster had other wives that had given him children over the decades. He had one grown son that worked with him at the Studio, but most had left with their mothers after the divorce. He wasn’t stingy with child support and made sure his ex-families had no reason to write a tell-all book or rock his Hollywood power boat. How did I know all this? It helps to share a home with Maeve Reed, the Golden Goddess of Hollywood.

I expected him to take the lead in the meeting, but she said, “I’m Helena Brewster thank you so much for taking this meeting in the middle of the party. We’ll make it as brief as possible, so your little ones don’t get too bored.”

Tom Brewster added, “And so we don’t miss seeing our boys at the party.”

Helena gave her husband a look that made her appear even more beautiful, because love does that. She didn’t look like a generic blond anymore; she was unique and herself and it was wonderful to see that she loved her husband as much as he loved her. I would tell Maeve that it was true love when she got home from Europe.

Helena turned back to me, and then she looked at Bree, and bent over to say, “Aren’t you just the most beautiful little baby?” Bree wasn’t impressed, but then she seldom was. Helena stood up and looked up at me and asked, “Or are you raising your babies so that you don’t compliment the girls on their looks, but praise everyone on actions like boys are traditionally raised?”

“We tell all of them that they’re beautiful, and smart,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, “I hadn’t thought about telling the boys they’re beautiful, just telling the girls they’re smart and strong.”

“In our culture we celebrate beauty in everyone,” I said.

“That’s lovely,” she said.

Tom came to his wife touching her arm gently. “It is a lovely idea but let’s tell the princess and her men why we need their help.”

She nodded. “Of course, thank you for keeping me on track, dear.”

“My pleasure, sweetie pie,” he said, kissed her cheek and stepped back so she could be the center of attention.

“I think there’s a rapist in town that’s using magic on his victims.”

Excerpted from A Glimmer of Death by Laurell K. Hamilton Copyright © 2026 by Laurell K. Hamilton. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from To Dream in Darkness by Ann Liang, which releases on October 27th 2026.

China in the age of brilliance, where gods freely wander the three realms. Amongst them is the cruel and beautiful Death God, who has never failed to collect a soul on time. Until now. For when he seeks out Rujia, the noble god of healing—and the only god he is fated to kill with his own hands—she makes him an offer he can’t refuse: she will help lift the excruciating, century-old curse placed upon him if he gives her a one-month reprieve.

Rujia knows she isn’t as noble as everyone believes. Her deal with Death is merely an excuse to buy herself time while she figures out an escape plan. But when her plan causes the Celestial Palace’s collapse and the beloved crown prince’s disappearance, she and Death are both held responsible. The only way to avoid the wrath of all the other gods is to travel across the realms and safely retrieve the crown prince themselves.

Yet the journey proves far more treacherous than expected. As the unlikely alliance between them blooms into more, and Death’s resolve to kill Rujia weakens by the day, neither can outrun their intertwined fate without devastating consequences: A mysterious plague. An empire-destroying flood. A thousand deaths—and rising—to restore the balance Rujia’s disrupted. And if Rujia continues to live despite the will of the Heavens, this is only the beginning…

EXCERPT

PROLOGUE

Contrary to what those pesky mortals might believe, the Death God does not enjoy killing.

He does not even kill, really. Such violence is beneath him. He is the breeze that floats in through an opened lattice window, the gray smoke rising from a burned incense stick, the blood seeping from a fresh-made wound. He only appears when the last breath has already been drawn and the skin has already gone cold.

At least, that is how it has always been.

The truth is much less dramatic than the silly tales they tell at teahouses in the Mortal Realm about him arriving with a sword in his hand and murder on his mind. He had stayed once to listen out of morbid, misplaced curiosity, and while he hadn’t expected much in the first place, he still found himself scoffing at what he heard:

“He has horns and fangs and claws that can cut the body into clean halves.” He is not an animal.

“He will slaughter the husband first and seduce the wife second.” Mortal flesh holds as much temptation to him as the carcass of a lamb.

“He spends every waking minute planning out the most painful death possible for his next victim.” Perhaps, given their nature to make everything about themselves, the mortals would be disappointed to find that he barely thinks of them at all. That as he drifts through the crooked streets and alleys, passes from house to lantern-lit house, collecting the souls with weary expertise, he is most concerned about returning to the Night Realm as early as possible.

So it’s something of a relief to be stepping back through the enchanted doors, into the dim, empty halls of his palace. He brushes the dust from his sleeves, though the scent of mortal fruit and fire clings to him. He forces himself to tolerate it; he is al-most done now. His robes trail behind him, whispering against the smooth, polished stone, and the souls float a little farther behind, glowing softly, just as white as the eternal snow falling outside. Just as silent.

More sets of heavy doors heave open on their own when he approaches until at last, he finds himself standing before the gates to the Yellow Springs. The final destination for the souls and his final destination for the night.

He lifts a hand. For a moment, nothing happens—as expected. These gates are ancient, after all, hundreds of centuries older than he is, used by the Death God appointed before him and the Death God before that. He would not be surprised if they had been created at the very beginning of the Three Realms, the images of the dragons and lilies carved deep into the wood by the first immortal. Then the gates rumble. The dragons uncoil and slither to the sides as if alive, and he is greeted by a darkness so complete that the surrounding obsidian walls seem bright by comparison. That even he, dressed from head to toe in pure black, stands out against it. It is a darkness that stretches on and on, without shape, without edges. As a child, he had been terrified that he would enter and be swallowed whole by it. Simply step in and disappear.

But he has not been a child in eons.

He keeps walking, chin up, shoulders straight, the souls gathering closer around him, illuminating the way. There is a faint humming sound building in the background, like a thousand voices conversing quietly in a faraway room, and soon it merges with the rushing of water. He can taste the water on his tongue, the unpleasant blend of salt and ash and copper. He can feel it, too, the shock of plunging into those frozen depths, of sinking farther and farther as the darkness pours in over his head, the voices sharpening into screams, sobs, pleas . . .

The ever-present throbbing in his skull intensifies. He squeezes his eyes shut. Presses two fingers to his temple, as if he can physically drive out the pain.

Useless.

He does not know if he means himself, or the curse, or the hundreds of so-called cures that have promised everything and solved nothing.

But never mind that. He has a job to complete first; he will be free to suffer afterward.

The souls begin to quiver, their pale light glossing the Yellow Spring’s surface. Some seem to know the path forward and are eager to let themselves be swept away by the currents, into the next cycle of the afterlife. Others grow restless, flitting left and right like fireflies. These ones he guides downstream with his own hands.

When the very last soul has left the shore, he rises and turns to go, but a ripple in the air catches his eye.

The Death God frowns.

This is unusual, but not entirely unseen before. Most deaths are natural, inconsequential, no more worthy of attention than the dropping of flies. But some deaths are written out in the constellations in such a way that if they do not come to pass, the balance of the universe is disrupted. Like rocks to pebbles, these souls tend to weigh heavier, to cast stronger waves when they fall. So as the ripple expands outward, forming a mirage, he anticipates the death of an ancient god, perhaps one of the higher-ranked officials from the Celestial Realm.

Yet instead of shining gold pillars, red-crowned cranes, and dusk-painted clouds swirling around the steps to the Celestial Emperor’s throne, he is shown a vision of the sea.

The sea, a lone cottage on a floating island, and a god.

She is gathering herbs from the back garden, her long hair spilling over her shoulder as she plucks a peony and holds it up to the brilliant daylight, her robes the same blue and white as the foaming waves below her. He has never met a god from the Celestial Realm who could be described as kind before, yet there is something undeniably kind about her features. The harmony of her long lashes with her soft lips. The care with which she touches the petals.

Then the vision changes. The sea vanishes. The cottage disintegrates. Only the god remains, but she is crumpled on the floor, a crimson puddle spreading rapidly around her. A sword twisted deep into her chest while she lies there, mouth opening and closing, her face contorted in pain.

And he sees himself in the mirage, his hand around the weapon, his fingers stained red.

His frown deepens. His next breath comes out too fast, too sharp.

He is almost tempted to think it a mistake, except the Heavens are never wrong, never to be defied. He can feel the will of the Heavens pressing into his mind like a blade into flesh. This is the fate designed for the kind-faced god who picks flowers and lives on the sea, and he is the one who must see it through. It is insulting to know that he will be acting exactly as the mortals imagine him, that he will no longer be able to correct them when they say his hands are tainted. How uninspired. How inconvenient. And how deeply ironic.

The Death God does not enjoy killing. He has never killed at all—

Until now, that is.

To Dream in Darkness. Copyright © 2026 by Ann Liang. All rights reserved.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘To Dream in Darkness’ by Ann Liang appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

All Dan wants is to find a way home. He’d settle for a beer, a bite to eat, and a place to sleep off his hangover.

But, in an endless, ever-changing dungeon cobbled together from twisted carnivals, abandoned shopping malls, janky laundromats, and condemned insane asylums, getting a bit of shut-eye is harder than it sounds.

Dan has accidentally ‘Noclipped’ into the Backrooms – a bizarro, extra-dimensional world, overrun with nightmare creatures known as the Dwellers. No one ever gets out. Hell, forget about leaving, if Dan wants to survive the week, he’s going to need to harness the strange game-like magic of the Backrooms, make some very sketchy allies, and carve out a safe haven to call his own.

And he’s going to need to do it fast because Dan is being hunted. The Flayed Monarch of the 999th floor has marked him for death and no one walks away from the Skinless Court with their hide intact . . .

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE
THE HANGOVER

I was going to die. At least, that’s what the floating screen told me.

The prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim, the message read in bold, blocky letters. The words were scrawled across a semitransparent yellow window, which looked like one of those eight-bit Nintendo Game notifications from the late eighties. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

My eyes skipped frantically from word to word as I reread the prompt for the third time.

What in the absolute fuck is going on here?

A cold sweat broke out across my skin, and I momentarily pulled my gaze away from the prompt and looked down at the ground. The ghostly yellow screen remained frozen in the air.

I was in a wide hallway with short gray carpet—the kind they use in hotels and office buildings—and walls covered from floor to ceiling in stained yellow wallpaper, peeling in places and covered with water spots in others.

Directly behind me was a dead-end hallway with a blazing red exit sign, but no door.

Ahead was an open, empty conference room with high ceilings that could’ve belonged inside any of a thousand run-down hotels across America. The walls were plastered with more of the nondescript yellow wallpaper, and white columns rose to a drab white-tiled ceiling dotted with recessed fluorescent lights. Those lights flickered sporadically, casting pools of sterile illumination and oceans of darkness across the carpeted floor in turns.

There was no furniture in the room beyond. No end tables or cheap wing-backed chairs. No reception desk or receiving area.

Just an enormous, abandoned cavern of gray carpet and wallpaper, which reminded me of a yawning mouth. Hallways branched off from the vacant conference room, snaking out of view.

This couldn’t be real. It didn’t make sense. None of this made any sense.

For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in the name of sweet baby Jesus was happening to me.

Maybe I was going crazy.

Or maybe I’d died, and this was my own, personal version of hell. That was the most plausible option, all things considered.

The last thing I remembered was from the night before.

I’d been at the bachelor party to end all bachelor parties with the rest of the guys from the general contracting crew.

There’d been a stripper dressed as a clown for reasons I couldn’t quite recall. Although my well-known hatred of clowns probably had something to do with it. Also, fireworks. Well, maybe not fireworks per se, so much as sticks of Tannerite and a wee little bit of dynamite, which our buddy Jake had procured from a demo site in Dayton.

Cow tipping had definitely been involved at one point.

I vividly recalled cannonballing off my buddy Zack’s roof into an oversized kiddie pool filled with an unholy amalgamation of Natty Ice, Bud Lite, Corona, and whatever else the rest of the crew had lying around. Pretty sure Dave had dumped two or three boxes of Franzia red wine into the unspeakable alcohol concoction.

That probably explained why it felt like I’d slept in a churning cement mixer filled with boulders and broken beer bottles. Leaping into kiddie pools full of booze was a young man’s game, and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. Not old exactly, but even at thirty-six, I found I didn’t bounce back quite the way I had at twenty-six. Getting absolutely shitfaced also explained the raging hangover and the dull ache radiating through my skull.

But none of that gave me any insight, whatsoever, into where I was, how I’d gotten here, or what in heaven above was happening. There was just a blank hole, big enough to drive an Abrams tank through, between the party and waking up in this barren stretch of industrial hallway.

One minute I was laughing with Jake and Zack, telling old war stories about our time in the sandbox together, and the next I was peeling my ass off the gray carpet with the glare of harsh fluorescents stabbing into my eyeballs like an ice pick.

Guttural, inhuman roars and the sharp clang of steel clashing against steel drifted from a corridor just out of sight. This place might’ve appeared barren, but it wasn’t empty.

Something was in here with me. Something dangerous.

Which probably accounted for the ominous warning, tattooed on the air itself.

The sounds of battle were getting progressively closer by the second. Feeling the cold edge of panic creep into my chest, I turned my gaze back to the yellow screen and reread the message once more, this time from the beginning.

Warning! Temporal Boundary Displacement Breach!

As Standing Chair of the Variant Research Division, it is my responsibility to inform you that due to an unstable temporal anomaly

—and circumstances outside of VRD control—you have accidentally experienced a Temporal Displacement Event (TDE), sometimes referred to as “Noclipping.”

Fortunately, you survived the event and have NOT been integrated into the Progenitor Engine or reduced to “Meat Slurry” by the Influx Processing and Randomization System.

Unfortunately, the prognosis for your long-term survival is vanishingly slim. I suggest you come to terms with this reality and prepare yourself accordingly. If you happen to be a person of religious conviction, now would be an appropriate time to make amends with your preferred deity.

— The Researcher

Yeah… None of that was even remotely helpful.

I’d never heard of the Variant Research Division, and I couldn’t even begin to wrap my mind around what a temporal displacement event was. To me, the whole message was just a bunch of bullshit that sounded more or less like corporate speak for “go fuck yourself.”

I squinted, examining the box itself a little more closely.

I’d been so panicked and shocked by the message that I’d failed to notice there was a tiny “X” in the top right corner of the notification. I let my gaze linger on it for a beat, and when I mentally “clicked” the button, the window blinked away. Gone in an instant as though it had never been there at all.

A thunderous boom rattled the floor, sending fine dust motes spinning and dancing overhead. A moment later I heard an odd mewling noise followed in short order by the dull thump of footsteps and the whoomph of an explosion. Rolling tongues of flame blazed into view from a connecting corridor before quickly dissipating.

Every instinct screamed at me to turn tail and haul ass in the opposition direction, but there was nowhere for me to go. I was trapped in a hallway with no exit and the only way out was through the conference room ahead. I idly considered trying to climb up through the ceiling panels, but instantly knew that wasn’t an option. They were twelve feet up, easy. Even in my prime, I couldn’t have made that leap.

I turned back toward the conference room just in time to see two figures barrel into view from a hallway off to the left.

The first was human. The second was… not.

In a blaze of furious movement, a lanky man in a duster bolted forward and lashed out with a ridiculously oversized sword, slamming the weapon into what could only be called a monster. There was no other description that fit.

Though writhing crimson ball of nightmare fuel came close.

The sword blow batted the horror diagonally across the cavernous space like a baseline drive, and it collided with one of the square columns on the far side of the room. The impact violently shook the floor and cracked the pillar in two. More plaster particles swirled in the harsh blue-white light.

The attack would’ve snapped me in two, but it hardly seemed to phase the creature. It pulled itself from the ground with ease.

Although the monster was eighty feet away, I finally got my first good look at the thing. Problem was, even with it standing in clear view, my brain couldn’t quite comprehend what exactly I was seeing. It was a bit like looking at one of those MC Escher paintings where the perspective is all wrong and none of the lines come together the way they ought to. And the longer I stared, trying to puzzle it out, the more it hurt my eyes.

The eldritch horror was eight feet tall and vaguely man-shaped—though it wasn’t human even in the most liberal sense of the word.

An extra pair of arms jutted out from its muscled torso, and its whole body was bloody red and sinewy as if the creature had been crudely flayed alive. Its lower half was a mess of segmented legs protruding out from a writhing centipede body. A cruel obsidian mask covered its face and a crown of jagged black spikes hung suspended above its head. A cloak of thrashing scarlet tentacles trailed down its back, reaching all the way to the carpet.

Those tentacles were covered in oozing sores and glaring eyes.

Embedded in the center of the monster’s bloody chest cavity was a gleaming multifaceted gem with golden numbers engraved on its various faces. Encircling the glittering stone, were six glowing green sigils that looked like they’d been cribbed from the Necronomicon.

In one hand, the monster held a curved khopesh crafted from yellowed bone, and in the other, it wielded a whip made entirely of teeth and spinal vertebrae. Those weapons radiated a dark, almost malevolent aura that left me both nauseous and scared shitless.

I looked down, evaluating what I had to defend myself with. I was in trouble. A lot of trouble.

Turned out, drunk me had made some interesting fashion choices the night before. Choices that I was deeply, deeply regretting right now.

Slung around my shoulders and trailing down to my thighs was a knock-off red-and-gold, baroque Versace bathrobe. It was a hideous assault on taste and sensibility, and it actively made me despair for the future of humanity. I had never hated something so profoundly, or so quickly. Where it had come from or why on god’s green Earth I was wearing it were mysteries that beggared the imagination.

I had on a wife-beater beneath the robe and a pair of cut-off jean shorts—better known in trailer parks the world over as Daisy Dukes or jorts—that were so short and so tight they looked like faded blue denim spray-painted onto my nutsack. Instead of tennis shoes or flip-flops, Drunk Me had opted for my clunky work boots, which were missing the laces.

Then, to complete the look, I’d apparently decided to don my tool belt, which connected to a pair of leather suspenders. Although I didn’t have a mirror, I knew exactly how I must’ve looked. Like a strung-out hobo who’d managed to raid both a Home Depot and an upscale department store during a city-wide blackout. Of all the terrible life choices I’d made last night, however, grabbing my work belt had been the best of the lot.

I reached down and slid free my 19 oz rip claw hammer.

The shaft was hickory, the head worn from years of hard use. Its familiar weight was a comfort in my clammy hand, even though I doubted it would do much good against the walking nightmare. Certainly not as much good as a Glock with a full mag.

Not that a Glock would serve me much better.

Even though I’d spent eight years in the Marine Corps and done a couple pumps overseas to combat zones scattered across the Middle East, I’d served as a Motor-T driver. I’d spent most of my time behind the wheel of a troop carrier, pounding Rip Its and chainsmoking cigarettes, not kicking in doors or raiding insurgent stash houses.

And that was the better part of ten years and thirty pounds ago. Other than the occasional hunting trip with the boys, I hadn’t picked up a firearm in ages.

Besides, even if I were an expert shot and in peak physical condition, a handful of 9 mil rounds weren’t gonna do much against that thing. Hell, I was pretty sure a .50 cal and an anti-tank Javelin missile wouldn’t do much against that thing. If it wanted me dead, I wouldn’t last more than a handful of seconds before it gutted me like a trout.

My hand tightened around the handle anyway.

Fuck it. If I was going to die, at least I’d go down swinging.

But maybe it wouldn’t come to that. The big ol’ scary son of a bitch didn’t seem to be interested in me.

Not yet, anyway.

Its attention was entirely fixed on the lone figure swaggering through the conference room like an Old West gunslinger getting ready for a showdown at high noon.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Discount Dan’ by James A. Hunter appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Compendium of Supernatural Entities Found in the Government Girls Higher Secondary School by Kuzhali Manickavel, which is out now.

In the oppressive heat of a small Tamil Nadu town, strange happenings are common. And the local government secondary school is teeming with supernatural entities.

For Thamarai, an outsider considered strange by her peers, life is dreary and frustrating. She endures nosy neighbours and incomprehensible tuition classes. She despises the way her lecherous English teacher harasses the other girls in her grade. But when Thamarai finds a mysterious notebook full of descriptions of the school’s paranormal phenomena, she wonders if it may hold the key to escape…

EXCERPT

Introduction

The Government Girls Higher Secondary School – or GGHSS – is one of the most supernaturally infected places in the known and unknown world. Western concepts of the supernatural should not be used as a framework while exploring, documenting, or archiving the paranormal here; the entities of the GGHSS are decidedly unWestern, and cannot be measured by Western definitions.

The Association for Moral Upliftment and Universal Friendship (AMUUF) takes great pleasure in being the first officially recognized body to endeavour to categorize and catalogue the many supernatural entities that exist within the realm of the GGHSS. With our dynamic team of researchers, archivists and volunteers, AMUUF has achieved great things in the area of supernatural categorization. However, the monumental task of creating this compendium has not been without its challenges. Many volunteers, particularly those who have been raised in the Western school of thought, become confused as to how to identify supernatural phenomena if they do not fall into familiar slots like “vampire”, “haunted house”, or “Satan”. This situation is made doubly difficult by the fact that many volunteers know only one language: English. This monolingual handicap severely limits the words, sounds, and ideas they have at their disposal; however, it need not hamper them in doing their job. We have always encouraged such individuals to view absolutely everything as supernatural, and work backwards from there. For example, if one comes across a chair, one should understand that it can also be an undead carnivorous bird at rest, or a community hall haunted by paranormal mushrooms. One must never assume it is just a chair.

Even today, many of the paranormal phenomena of the GGHSS remain undocumented. It pains us to note that a number of entries are either incomplete or totally blank, simply because the researcher/archivist/volunteer didn’t feel like completing the task at hand. For example, the entries for a number of small, deceased gods, for the Giant Scrub Typhus Mites, and for the Ammapettai Fire Lizards could have been completed quite easily. However, the Ammapettai Fire Lizards entry has nothing more than a rough description of the entity’s toes, while the entry for the Giant Scrub Typhus Mites is made up of the words “The Giant Scrub Typhus Mite is…”, followed by at least twenty blank pages.

This brings us to our next problem. There is a good deal of documentation in this compendium that has been entirely made up, as a “joke”. While AMUUF is loath to point fingers, it cannot be denied that a majority of those accused are from our volunteer base. The task of removing these entries is a daunting one and continues to be a drain on our resources.

Despite the many challenges that we continue to face in our epic endeavour, AMUUF cordially invites you to be a part of this monumental work. Should you encounter a supernatural influence that is not listed here, feel free to make detailed notes of your experience in the pages provided at the back of this compendium. Notes should include clearly labelled diagrams, maps, lists, and bagged/sealed specimens. Please do not use ballpoint pen. Kindly include any and all discharge summaries or death certificates if applicable.

***

The bus entered the town, and instantly, Thamarai forgot where she had come from. Her old life seemed to fade away, leaving behind a vacuum that was already filling up with this new town’s witchy sunlight, smoke, and relentless holiness. She had been here before, when she was younger, but all she could remember from that trip was the heat, the crowds at the temple, and the priest who had conned her family out of five hundred rupees. This town would now be home for the foreseeable future.

There was no transition period, no time to work through the shock of being unceremoniously transplanted. Thamarai settled in quickly and quietly. Her new life was not terrible, but it was lonely and insignificant, dotted with only a few special occasions that involved wearing coloured dress or eating ice cream. Her parents had gotten work in two different towns so Thamarai had been sent to stay with an unmarried aunt, who provided her meals and slept in the hall at night. Thamarai attended the local government school for girls, as well as tuitions for maths, physics, and chemistry. She went to the temple on Fridays and watched the weekly televised Tamil movie on Sundays. Hers was an ordinary life, no different from any other local girl’s life.

Thamarai did not know her aunt well, but they soon settled into a routine that Thamarai found comforting. Her aunt was brisk and plump, always talking, always moving. She would watch the Sunday evening movies with Thamarai, every so often bringing out a small treat: a bar of chocolate, a bag of chips, a packet of Maggi, and on one occasion, a small glass bottle of Coke. She was sweet and unintrusive, and Thamarai decided she mostly liked her—except for her eyes, which were always hidden under round white reflections in her thick glasses. Thamarai had never actually seen her aunt’s eyes, and if she thought about this too much, it scared her.

Thamarai herself was an unremarkable girl: skinny, with good teeth and thin hair. She was not pretty, but in her new school, she often got compliments from the girls because she looked like a boy. Not like a boy play-acting as a girl; to them she seemed like an actual shy, mysterious, and violent boy. It was a quality that made girls stare at her. They would sometimes touch her cheek or shyly hold her hand. They would blush or become flustered when Thamarai smiled at them. Thamarai decided this was the best aspect of her new life. She liked to see what happened when she held a gaze for too long, or absent-mindedly touched someone and let her hand linger.

Thamarai was constantly falling in love. In school, she fell in love with sports girls, bold girls, repressed conservative girls, orthodox girls, mixed-caste girls, and homely girls. She would think about these girls all the time, looking at them covertly during class, and cringing each time one of them said or did something that shattered Thamarai’s beautiful idea of her. She fell in love in an intense and alarming way that would consume her completely, and then die away after a few days.

Thamarai even fell in love with the girls who made fun of her. They laughed at the parting in her hair, which was always crooked, no matter how hard she tried to straighten it. They laughed at the fact that she never put turmeric on her face or wore bangles. They laughed at her hands, which were always covered in ink even when she hadn’t touched her pen, and they laughed at her school uniform, which for some reason always smelled like kerosene.

For the most part, Thamarai liked the new town. It initially seemed harmless, like a very old house. But strange things began to happen to her. Sometimes it was just unlucky strangeness: a pig would get its head stuck in the spokes of her cycle or a family of ravens would consecutively poop on her head. Other events were inexplicable: a crowd of children who all had hands where their heads should have been had once chased her while she cycled to school. Another time, while fishing in her bag for her pen, she had repeatedly pulled out handfuls of old teeth which tried to bury themselves into her palm like they were shy. There was the young man who had grabbed her arm at the railway crossing and then dissolved into a cloud of reddish dust. Another day, she had been alone at home when she had stumbled into a wall and remained stuck inside it for the whole afternoon.

And of course there was the incident with the old woman at maths tuition, which Thamarai did not like to think about.

The very first of Thamarai’s supernatural experiences took place a couple of weeks after moving, on her first day of 9^th standard. There had been no room for her in the classroom, so she had been relegated to sitting on the floor in the doorway. No one spoke to her, but everyone stared at her. She looked like them, but she was clearly not one of them; she was too well-nourished to be one of these girls—these girls with their anaemia, their fluoride-stained teeth, and their holes in their hearts.

She spent most of that day looking at the empty assembly ground that stretched hopelessly in front of the classroom. She memorized the pockmarks and scratches on the wall in front of her–the one crack that looked like a horse’s head, the other that looked like a laughing clown. She counted the tiny holes in the floor and the mounds of dust that lay nestled at the bottom of the door.

Feeling the stares of the girls around her, she decided to rummage through her bag like she was searching for something important. Inside was a cheap, plastic raincoat, a geometry box, her unused rough notebook,  her new textbooks… and something else. She frowned as she gingerly pulled out a very old and dusty botany record notebook.

She had never seen it before. Its binding was falling apart but somehow the book seemed to be holding itself together. Thamarai looked around her, to see if someone had put it in her bag by accident. A prank maybe?

She opened the notebook and saw intricate transectional sketches. These were not the usual drawings of shoe flowers and seed germination. Some of the diagrams looked like young girls and others looked like gigantic insects. The text portions almost read like botanical entries, except that they included warnings and danger rankings.

It’s just a book, she said to herself. I am not afraid of it. I’m not afraid of anything here. She leaned over and placed the notebook on the floor, next to the wall. Someone would eventually pick it up and deal with it.

She went back to staring outside.

Sometime later, when she looked in her bag again, there was the notebook, nestled under her plastic raincoat. For the next half hour, she kept putting the notebook on the floor against the wall, and it kept reappearing in her bag when she wasn’t looking.

She decided she would toss it in the drainage canal on her way home.

But after school, as she slowed her pace near the canal, someone chased her away, saying it was dangerous, and didn’t she have enough sense to stay away from places like that?

No matter what she tried, she could not get rid of the notebook. It became a silent, permanent fixture in her bag.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘A Compendium of Supernatural Entities Found in the Government Girls Higher Secondary School’ by Kuzhali Manickavel appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Fangs by K. L. Speer, which releases on October 6th 2026.

“Run, lil rabbit, before Wolf tears you apart.”

Twelve years ago, Ember Cutler obeyed her father and ran away from a devastating crime scene, but the girl who disappeared into the desert was not the same girl who came out. Now, she’s known only by the name “Bones.” When her older brother appears in her clinic at the Vault and abducts her at gunpoint, Bones knows her time has finally run out, and the past she tried to escape has caught up to her.

Taken by Wolf and his team of deadly bounty hunters, Bones finds her past and present identities colliding. With the help of her crew and its leader, Mac, Bones struggles to untangle who she is now from her trauma and grief. But the gods have taken notice of her—and her potential—and enemies new and old are circling.

When her magic begins to evolve in mysterious ways, Bones is forced to decide who she wants to be in the face of the terrifying forces that threaten to alter the entire world.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1

“Think you ran far enough?” asked Wolf.

I couldn’t speak, couldn’t remember a single word. I was ten years old again, staring into my older brother’s furious face, but he wasn’t a gangly teenage boy anymore. New scars marked his skin. He wore a dirty, worn green and brown uniform, a rifle strapped to his back and a pistol on his hip, along with several sheathed knives. A pair of goggles sat on top of his head, and his wavy brown hair hung long enough to cover his ears. The hardness of his green eyes made me feel sick.

“What? You got nothin’ to say to me?” He smiled with no humor in it. “After all this time?”

I stared at him, my heart lodged in my throat. He stared back, studying my face as though looking for something. Was he trying to find the ten-year-old girl he last saw? A low whistle came from the main floor of the clinic below us, and Wolf whistled back, then scanned the loft. There wasn’t much. My mattress lay on the floor, covered in Trey’s quilt, and my dresser stood in the corner. Wolf glanced back at me, his expression unreadable, then spun me around and marched me toward the loft ladder.

“We’re leaving,” he ordered. “Go down the ladder.”

I obeyed. Another man, with black hair pulled back into a messy topknot and dressed the same as Wolf, stood in the clinic holding a large rifle. He looked familiar, but the chaos roaring through my head made it impossible to place him. His face stayed expressionless as he shifted to put his body between me and the door. Wolf came down behind me, twisting my arms behind my back. I heard the familiar sound of a zip tie cinch shut and felt the plastic dig into my wrists.

“Not a word, you hear?” Wolf growled in my ear as he propelled me toward the door. “I don’t want to shoot my way out of here, but I will if I have to.”

He held a pistol in his hand. It had a silencer on it, and my heart seized with terror that Mac would return and—

I gulped in short, frantic gasps of air. I couldn’t watch another person I cared about get shot. Wolf and his friend hesitated, staring at me with furrowed brows.

“Quiet,” Wolf said as he shook me hard.

Almost as though a switch flipped, it felt like I was outside my body, watching. My gasping eased, an empty nothingness washing over me. They both stared at me for a second longer before pulling their goggles down and dragging me outside.

They slid through the shadows easily, and I stumbled along in a dreamlike state. After I tripped for the tenth time, they practically carried me, the toes of my boots barely brushing the ground.

As we approached the gate, I didn’t notice the bodies until we were stepping over them. They lay in the shadows of the wall, and I couldn’t tell if they were dead or alive.

F***. Oh gods, please don’t be—

“Sable?” Wolf called in a low voice.

Another shadowy figure bled out of the darkness of the gate, startling me. The man holding my left arm released me and traded places with this third person—Sable, apparently. As Sable took my arm, I could barely see his features in the moonlight, making out long blond hair and lips that were frowning at me. The dark-haired man operated the pulley to open the gate doors just enough to fit a person, and Wolf and Sable darted toward the woods with me in tow. I craned my neck to look back. The gate inched shut behind us, closing with a soft thud. I had to bite back a gasp as the man rappelled down the wall with ease. There were no cries of alarm. No guards shouting. Nothing.

Please don’t be dead.

The dark-haired man and Wolf dragged me through the woods. Sable took up the rear, drawing the large rifle he carried on his back. I tried to keep up and cooperate, but I didn’t have night vision goggles, and stumbled over every damn tree branch and rock. Soon, they seemed to grow frustrated and started carrying me again. They moved so fast, and now that we were out of the hold, reality set in.

My brother was about to kill me.

I knew he would catch up to me eventually, but turns out I hadn’t been as mentally prepared as I thought. They looked like mercenaries. Was Wolf a merc now?

Wolf let out a low whistle, and an answering whistle sounded from somewhere ahead of us. A minute later, a figure appeared, leading a horse.

“Any trouble?” a male voice asked.

“No,” Wolf said. “Any updates?”

“All clear at home base,” horse guy responded.

“Are your bones full of air?” the dark-haired man holding my arm muttered. I glanced up to find him tilting his head, a slow smirk curling one corner of his mouth. “You’re a lot prettier than Wolf.”

“Shut up, Lee,” my brother growled, taking my arm from Lee and dragging me toward the horse. Terror had me light-headed. “If you think passin’ out is gonna help you, you’re dead wrong,” Wolf said harshly.

He reached toward me, and I instinctively jumped backward, only to crash into a body that grabbed me tightly by the shoulders. I froze in fear, and Wolf’s angry face swam in my vision.

“I wouldn’t try to run if I were you,” the person behind me said.

A quick glance revealed it to be the horse guy.

“Listen to Tuck. Or you’re gonna make this ten times worse for yourself.” Wolf lifted me onto the saddle. As he bent to make sure my feet were in the stirrups, Tuck joined Lee and Sable, and the three of them spoke in low tones while watching me. Juck’s voice echoed in my head.

Quit cryin’, Angel, or I’ll give you somethin’ to cry about.

As soon as Wolf finished adjusting the stirrups, we started moving again in a single-file line. Sable led the way, and Wolf walked behind him, holding the horse’s reins. I only knew Tuck and Lee were behind my horse because I glanced back and saw them. Somehow, the only sound was the horse’s hooves crunching through the snow. The zip ties stung where they rubbed against my skin. I wondered if the horse would bolt if I gave it a good kick, but I knew I’d probably fall off with my hands tied behind my back.

What would Mac think when he returned and found me gone? Would he assume I’d been called out to heal someone? Would he even look for me before morning? It wasn’t unusual for me to be out healing during the night. At this speed, we’d be far away by then.

That was for the best, though. Wolf was going to kill me. Like he’d said, my time was up.

Was this how Trey felt when he knew he was going to die?

I’ll find you again in another lifetime.

I struggled to wrestle my emotions down. It was harder than I expected; I’d gotten too used to letting them out. I had to fall back on my old method of reciting medical text in my head until I felt myself sinking into the vacant quiet again, the woods passing by in a dreamlike blur. By the time the sun began to rise, I was numb inside and out. I was only wearing a thin jacket and no gloves—fine for running around the hold while healing people, but not warm enough for an overnight trek through the woods in late winter. I couldn’t feel my hands anymore, and the adrenaline barely kept me awake. How far were they going to take me before they got it over with and killed me?

The sun had fully risen when they finally stopped. On one side of us was a rocky cliff with large boulders scattered about its base. Despite my effort to stay calm, my heart thudded out of control. This had to be it. This was where my brother would kill me.

The others shrugged their packs off, and Wolf came to the horse’s side. I was shaking like a leaf when he pulled me down. I saw his gaze narrow on me before I dropped my eyes. When he set me on my feet, my knees buckled, and he had to catch me before I ended up in a heap on the snowy ground. I could barely feel my ice-cold feet, and my legs were stiff and sore. Wolf dragged me toward the rocky cliff and sat me on a flat rock someone had cleared of snow.

“Don’t move,” he ordered.

I pulled my legs in and leaned forward, trying to stop trembling. We’d fought constantly, but Wolf had never laid a hand on me. The idea of him hurting me was worse than the idea of him killing me. His boots stayed before me for a few breaths, but then he turned and went back to the horse.

The other men were moving around the small area, getting food and water. I didn’t move. I knew better than to run. I’d be lucky if I made it five steps before one of them caught me. A gust of wind blew some of the powdery snow into my face, and I shivered, miserably cold. If only my hands were tied in front of me so I could try to warm them up. Jaw clenched to keep my teeth from chattering, I risked glancing up, scanning the three men who traveled with my brother. It didn’t look like they planned to make a fire.

In the morning light, I could see them clearly now. Sable’s long hair fell to his collarbones in a silky sheet, and his eyes were so pale blue they almost looked white. Tuck was the tallest and had brown skin; his head of messy black curls seemed permanently mussed. His glances at me seemed more cautiously curious, bordering on concern. Maybe he was the weak link in my brother’s group.

I glanced at Lee and tensed when I realized he was staring at me. His hair was pulled up in a messy topknot with a shaved undercut. He had high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes, and again, vague recognition tickled my brain. For a few seconds, I held his gaze, and then the memory crashed over me.

He was the prisoner from the cells at the Vault—the man who looked at me like he knew me, and Mac had later accused me of helping escape. So he had recognized me. I guessed that answered the question of how Wolf found me.

Excerpted from Fangs by K. L. Speer. Copyright © 2026 by K. L. Speer. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Southern Sorority of Superstitious Witches by Katie Ortiz, which releases on October 6th 2026.

When Lucille, Catherine, and Victoria are invited to participate in a trial semester for women at Alabama’s most prestigious university, they each have their own reasons for accepting. Lucille wants freedom from both her father’s control and reminders of her traitorous first love. Catherine wants to escape an arranged marriage meant to halt her attraction to women. And Victoria wants to run from the guilt that haunts her after the death of one of her fellow mill girls.

The trial semester will determine whether or not women across the state will be allowed to attend other universities. But the enrolled women quickly learn that success is not guaranteed, and some of their male cohorts are determined to see them fail. When the men’s pranks go too far Lucille, Catherine, and Victoria form a coven under the guise of a sorority and call upon witchcraft steeped in the traditions of Southern folklore to fight back.

As they gather their fellow witches, they discover there is something darker at work at the university, a force that is determined to expel all the women at the university, and they’ll need all the allies they can get if they want to succeed.

For fans of Witchcraft for Wayward Girls and Weyward, this historical speculative novel explores the darker side of human nature and the ways in which women navigate—and survive—oppressive, male-dominated societies.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Cursed City by Kate Golden, which releases on September 29th 2026.

Viv Abbot will do whatever it takes to rescue Reid Graveheart, the reformed Brood demon she loves—even if it means teaming up with his violent, unpredictable older brother, Deacon. Her uneasy truce with him offers Viv something Reid never could: the chance to embrace her darkness.

As the search for Reid intensifies, Viv and her friends must maintain appearances on Harker grounds while wading into Astera’s seedy underbelly with none other than the White Stag as their guide. But when a bounty on Viv’s head puts those she cares about most in danger, Viv will be forced to go to lengths she never dreamed in order to protect them.

With enemies closing in from all sides and a ticking clock on her life, Viv must save the Half City from destruction while surviving a betrayal that strikes at the heart of everything she’s fighting for. Because in a world where monsters wear familiar faces and temptation cuts deeper than any blade, making it through her second semester at Harker will take more than skill—it will take everything Viv has left to give. Who can she really trust in a city that thrives on lies?

EXCERPT

The sun is setting over Astera, and I am dying.

“It’s about your brother . . .” My voice is garbled by all the blood pooling in my mouth. Deacon—all hulking, demonic, six foot six inches of him—drags me through grime and snow to hurl me in-side his club. I land hard and my body shrieks in pain. Another bout of hacking results in a gory splatter of red on Fever Dream’s polished concrete floors.

Baz follows Deacon inside, as silent and looming as a shadow, his dark hair hanging mournfully in front of his face. He looks wary of me—violet eyes flitting back and forth between my crum-pled, shivering body and his menacing boss. A baby‑faced bar-tender leans over the bar with interest, fangs jutting from his mouth at the sight of my blood. An elegant, bronze‑skinned acro-bat peers up from her stretches on the raised dais where the DJ equipment stands.

“Speak,” Deacon commands. His pale eyes fixate on the sizzled flesh of my back—the place where I carry the deadliest spell known to man.

“The Brood . . .” My lungs crackle with each word. “When Reid—”

“What’s all that noise?” When I turn toward the voice I find Ward, the handsome werewolf bartender I met a week ago, coming out from a swinging door behind the bar. He’s holding a dishrag and a bottle of gin. His earthy green eyes widen at the sight of me. “Snow White?”

Deacon ignores him. “What happened to my brother, Vivienne?”

At that Ward straightens, leaves the bottle and rag on the bar top, and stalks over to Deacon’s side.

“He’s at the docks,” I wheeze. “Finn, the High Thane’s son, has him. Please, they’re going to—” I cough again. Dim lights and Grecian columns and the lofted ceiling swirl around me. “They’re going to kill him.”

A curse rips from Deacon, the sound rumbling through the club like an earthquake. Despite my best efforts, I cower at the fury rippling off his broad shoulders and stern jaw. “Heal her,” he com-mands. I’m not sure who he’s talking to, because my sight has faded into bursts and splotches. When I can no longer hold myself up, I slump to the floor.

Before consciousness slips away from me, I’m lifted by ice‑cold hands. From the weak hum beneath my skin, I know it’s a deviant, but I’m too depleted to squirm away.

“Don’t let any Brood in tonight,” Deacon growls. “Not until we return. And nobody breathes a word of this outside these walls, yeah?” Quiet murmurs of agreement. “And for the love of Christ,” Deacon barks to whoever is holding me. Baz, I’d guess, from the vampiric chill of his skin. “Don’t let her bleed all over the lounge.”

With that, two sets of feet file outside before the massive front doors swing closed with a hideous thud.

“Will they save him?” I don’t care what happens to me. But Reid, but Reid—

I don’t hear Baz’s response. Only the rushing of my desperate heartbeat, the shimmering twinkle of the syrabraxa below my skin, and the gentle thump of club music. Something warm and wet brushes my lips, and an endless void swallows me whole.

Excerpted from Cursed City by Kate Golden Copyright © 2026 by Kate Golden. Excerpted by permission of Ace. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Witch Daughter by Tanaz Bhathena, which releases on September 22nd 2026.

Rumors of witchcraft follow Princess Tahmineh like a storm cloud, making it impossible for her to secure herself a marriage or any kind of future. With her father, the king’s, health in question, it becomes shockingly clear how desperate her situation will soon become in his absence. If she doesn’t act now, she will quickly find herself destitute and desperate.

Tahmineh seeks out a prophecy, from which she learns she will fall in love with a warrior of great renown named Rostam and bear him a son. However, she is warned this match is a dangerous one for her. Heedless of the warnings, Tahmineh boldly orchestrates a meeting with Rostam and the two develop a close friendship and ultimately fall in love and marry. At the peak of her joy, Tahmineh gives birth to Sohrab, Rostam’s son.

All too soon, Tahmineh learns the tragic second part of the prophecy. Father and son will meet as enemies in battle and one will die at the hand of the other. What follows is a mother’s desperate attempt to undo the threads of fate and try to protect her son at all costs.

EXCERPT

CHAPTER ONE

“Do you like your hair, Your Highness?”

The maid who’d asked the question was a slip of a girl, her body still in that awkward adolescent stage of transitioning from angles to curves, her limbs trembling with uncertainty.

I examined my reflection in the bronze mirror she held up, taking in the loose black curls artfully framing my face, the thick braid woven all the way to my hips. Delicate brass butterflies had been pinned across the length of my hair at regular intervals, metal wings fiery in the lamplight.

“Why, Binaifer.” I raised a hand to my chest in mock astonishment. “You’ve outdone yourself tonight. You’ve made me look beautiful.”

This was not a real surprise. For all her nervous energy, Binaifer was the cleverest among the palace maids when it came to arranging hair, knowing exactly what styles suited my angular face. Garbed in my favorite green silk dress, the corset embroidered with red roses and the sleeves embellished with pearls, tonight I looked more like a forest spirit than the witch I was reputed to be.

“You are beautiful, Your Highness!” Binaifer’s round face beamed.

“Everyone says so!”

“Really? I thought they were calling me an old hag by now.”

Binaifer instantly began protesting this statement, brown eyes widening with alarm.

“Oh, don’t fret,” I said, gently squeezing her shoulder. “I am not fishing for more compliments.”

Certainly, by now, on the eve of my thirtieth birthday, I no longer held illusions about who I was nor how I appeared to my father’s court. King Arshak’s only daughter: the princess no man wanted to marry. The princess many called demon- born behind her back.

Under my touch, Binaifer slowly began to relax. She would be easier to soothe if asleep. Then I could slip past the barrier between wakefulness and slumber and walk into her dreams, unseen, assuring her that she was safe with me.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness.” Binaifer’s smile held the slightest hint of a tremor. “I know you are not like the other ladies of the palace. If not for you, I would not be here today.”

“You must not say such things,” I chided gently. “You are loyal and good. Any lady would be lucky to have you attending her.”

Yet there was truth to Binaifer’s words. I had seen the way ladies at court treated their maids— their withering rebukes, their backhanded slaps for the smallest mistakes. Once, years ago, when I’d tried to defend a maid from being unfairly reprimanded by a courtier’s wife, the maid herself had turned me away. “No need for you to step in, Shahdoxt,” she’d said, her voice polite but firm. “My mistress is right. I should have known better.”

The maid did not say it aloud, but I understood what she meant:

She did not wish to be saved by a witch.

With Binaifer, however, things were different. I’d first encountered her over a year ago outside the queen’s quarters: a small, scrawny thing being beaten within an inch of her life by my stepmother’s favorite lady- in- waiting, Banu Azad. Bruises bloomed across the young girl’s face and blood had begun to seep from her nostrils. I did not have to think twice. I stepped into the dimly lit corridor and shoved Banu Azad aside.

“Leave this girl alone,” I told the woman, my voice cold. “If you don’t, I will find out. And there will be consequences.”

What those consequences would be, I did not say. I did not need to. Banu Azad had erupted in outraged squeaks of protest, fear mingling with the hatred in her beady eyes. That day, I did not mind the rumors that constantly swirled around me— including the mistaken belief among the palace women that I could transform them into lizards or burn them to ash with the force of my gaze.

Leaving the queen’s lady to sputter unintelligibly, I had turned to a stunned Binaifer. “From now on, you work only for me, understand?” I had said. “I will speak to the king about it.” Neither Banu Azad nor my stepmother would dare kick up a fuss once I had Father’s approval— especially not over an ordinary maid.

“Y- yes. Yes, Your Highness!” the girl had sputtered in response.

No one dared touch Binaifer now. Not while she was under my protection.

Of course, my protection worked only because no one at court really knew what my powers were, their imaginations always conjuring worse things than what my own magic would ever be capable of.

Our world was divided into three realms: the celestial realm ruled by the yazata or angel, the human realm where we lived, and the underworld where the daeva or demons reigned. There were times, of course, when the inhabitants of these realms crossed paths. Most times in war, but a few times in love as well, the way my father and mother had. A human king and a pairika— an immortal witch from the underworld— their love resulting in the birth of a child who could cross over into the realm of human dreams.

My parents’ marriage did not last, my mother leaving the palace shortly after I was born for reasons no one really knew, my father remarrying a few years later. My stepmother hated me on sight, repeatedly trying to send me away. Father, however, protected me, brushing aside her protests about bad omens and my “vile daeva blood.” “I do not abandon my children,” he’d said sternly.

King Arshak was a man of his word and he’d remained steadfast as the years passed, even as the whispers about me grew at court. Even as princes, knights, and noblemen refused my hand in marriage, unwilling to have a witch’s daughter for a wife.

But my father was growing old now. There was no saying how long his protection would last.

“You look perfect for the feast.” Binaifer’s voice distracted me from my thoughts. A wide smile revealed the gap between her front teeth. The sight jarred me for a moment, reminding me of another young face. Another smile.

Noshir.

My ribs tightened. No. I could not grieve my little brother’s death tonight. Tonight, I would need all my wits about me— as was usually the case with family celebrations. I rose to my feet and clipped a small dagger onto my leather belt, its gold sheath pebbled like the feathers of a bird. Father had gifted the dagger to me when I’d come of age at fifteen, and it never failed to comfort me during these gatherings— a reminder that I always had the king’s protection. That I could use it to protect myself, if needed.

Pinching color into my cheeks, I determinedly stepped outside. The corridors were bustling with servants, most of whom ignored my presence. But Binaifer’s ministrations seemed to have an impact, for a few of the queen’s maids stopped to stare as I approached and bowed. I smiled, hoping my nerves did not show.

At least tonight’s feast would not be in the palace’s stuffy banquet hall. It was the eve of Nowruz, the spring festival that marked the end of winter. Several bonfires had been set up in the lawn outside, along with a long wooden pavilion, its pillars festooned with red ribbons and garlands of roses and the gold and ochre saman wildflowers that bloomed fragrant across our pastures, giving our kingdom its name.

Tonight, people would sing songs, make wishes, and pray to Ahura Mazda, hoping to leave behind their illnesses and misfortunes in the previous year. Already, minstrels had begun playing a lively tune on flutes, while a group of children took turns leaping over one of the smaller bonfires.

“Let your redness be mine!” the children chanted. “And my paleness be yours!”

I paused to watch. I, too, had been like these children once. Had joyfully chanted these phrases while leaping over the fire, imagining that my arms were wings. This was in the years before Father had married my stepmother. The years when the court saw me as only the king’s daughter— or so I thought at the time.

As I stood there, a small boy raced past and nearly tripped over his own feet.

“Careful!” I cried out, righting him with a hand. My smile faded when I saw the downward curve of his rosy lips, the stark terror in those big brown eyes as they locked on mine.

“P- please!” he cried out. “Please don’t hurt me!”

The words of reassurance caught in my throat. I stepped back, watching him run back to his friends, who were shooting me horrified glances. Demon, they mouthed to each other. Witch.

Had the boy simply run away instead of saying anything, I might have been able to retreat to the palace and lock myself in my room.

But now I had drawn the attention of the adults as well.

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Witch Daughter’ by Tanaz Bhathena appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Morfran, Dark Lord Reformed by S. B. West, which is out now.

Morfran the Beheader is done being the Dark Lord of the kingdom of Ruthven. He’s tired of managing minions, and his wife, Queen Ravana, has officially exceeded his personal comfort level of evil. Yet when he books it for the hills with the hopes to live out his days disguised as a goat farmer, his aspirations are tragically cut short when Morfran’s former soldiers catch up with plans to behead him.

Morfran’s only chance at safety is to seek refuge within a tiny forest dwelling where no one recognizes him. But he quickly learns the village is the base for a brewing rebellion against his rule. And after he reluctantly saves said village from an attack, he’s voted the one to lead the charge. Against himself.

Morfran helps the rebels while planning to desert them at the soonest moment. But as he fights by their side, he discovers that they’re actually quite pleasant—especially the lovely assassin who has been out for his blood for a decade. Too bad Ravana has sent Morfran’s best men to nip the revolt in the bud, and too bad his unlikely allies would burn him alive if they learned he’s no hero, but actually their Dark Lord in disguise. Because even Morfran knows that only a hero would stand up to Ravana and fight for friends, and he’s certainly no hero.

Right?

EXCERPT

Dear Diary,

It is day two-hundred and forty-eight, and I am still not dead. Progress on the lute has been going melodiously well, and Benjamin has finally given birth to two kids. Their adorable bleats woke me up first thing this morning, and I can already tell it’s going to be a splendid day

A noise that sounded like a cat throwing up arose from the yard.

Morfran the Beheader lowered his quill, glanced out at the soft morning sunlight warming the yard of his property, and listened. From the barn, which he’d painted a quaint, pastoral red with the blood of highwaymen who thought him an easy target when he first moved in, he could hear it: the delicate bleeaat of Benjamin’s kids.

It wasn’t a sound he was used to. No, he was used to dying wails on some battlefield and piteous pleads of de-legged men who’d suctioned themselves to his boots as he tried to walk past, and their grunted oofs as he promptly kicked them off. But this—this little noise that was barely a noise as the wispy-furred kids curled up beside their mother’s belly—this was welcome music to his ears.

Content that they were well, he picked up a wedge of rye toast he’d topped off with his delightful raspberry jam recipe and savored the warm, sweet moment.

It’d been two weeks since he’d last seen another human face, and it was glorious. There was no ugly mug coming to tell him that the expected shipment of pikes and halberds was somehow lost in transit near the southeast coast. There’d be no one coming to tell him soldiers were complaining about having to march through the Marshes of Ret and getting soggy socks (though this was a mostly reasonable complaint). There was no one coming to tell him about an argument between his two best generals that “involved jealous feelings and a wench and a shiv and oh, we need to appoint two new generals because the argument is now over and neither of them survived the stab-happy wench.”

Here he could just be. The weather in the southlands was relatively mild, the winters wet and weak, and even during the chilliest of days there was the promise of sun. It provided bounteous opportunity for him to work on his tan, which he’d already indulged in, foil reflector and oils and all.

His farm was perfect as well; a steal of a bargain, it was. It only cost him the lives of the three others vying for the property, and afterwards he buried his sword (again) behind the barn and wiped his hands clean from their blood in the stream at the far end of the yard.

It was in that moment, as he watched the cold water wash the red from his hands, that he officially announced it to Benjamin.

“That’ll be the last of it.” He affirmed as the she-goat gnawed thistle weed by the bank. “For real this time. No more beheadings. It is unseemly and I recognize it can be upsetting for some people.” Then, as an afterthought: “And if I am to be just a goat farmer, such things might be an uncommon hobby and raise suspicions.” He paused, shuffled in spot, and amended. “I should probably stop killing people.”

After that he felt like a new man. He burnt his cloak and blood-stained gloves in the kitchen hearth that night, and the next day at market bought a set of peasant clothes complete with his own set of ugly peasant hose. Then he ditched the scissors and grew his hair out and even kept a trimmed beard, which he’d never had permission to do before, because Ravana despised facial hair. “It’s like kissing the rear end of a sweaty ox,” she’d complain. (How she knew such a thing, Morfran had always been too afraid to ask).

He had to look the part of a goat farmer: property, goats, and appearance. And when he gazed in the stream one morning after the makeover to study the man peering back at him—a lean, dark-haired rustic with green eyes—he hardly recognized himself.

Good. It meant his men wouldn’t either. As for Ravana…she’d recognize him. She had that uncanny ability of stripping down the truth within moments. She’d recognize him for sure. He’d just have to stay out of her sights, if she ever did leave Castle Atrago clear in the northlands.

He finished the last of his raspberry toast and went to check on Benjamin, whose delicate head lay in her bed of straw, her tongue hanging limply out of her agape mouth like a fat pink worm plucked fresh from the garden.

Poor thing is exhausted, he thought with affection, kneeling before her and her two kids who’d fallen asleep while nursing. They’d be the first in a pedigreed lineage of goats he intended to establish here. In just a few years from now, roaming the green valley of his farm, there’d be hundreds of goats, an army of goats, and sheltered among them he’d build an empire on the finest damn raspberry jam the southlands had ever seen.

He’d already envisioned it. His jam would win first-place blue ribbon in the county fair, and it would continue to win for eleven years strong until a rival jam maker—he imagined it to be a stout woman with massive jowls whose fifteen-year-long title he usurped—would come back with a vengeance. She’d set his farm on fire and steal Benjamin’s kid (kids, he corrected, he hadn’t been expecting two) and everyone would be gutted when he became too distraught to make his jam. Then he’d find his second wind and go on a rampage searching for Benjamin’s kids and find them stashed away in an old butchery the woman sold them to. After rescuing them in the nick of time, he’d then unearth his buried sword and go find that jowly woman to deliver quick judgement. And as he’d raise his sword above her bedside where she slept he’d maybe shed a tear or two about how desperation had driven him back to a life he tried so hard to leave, but this was Benjamin’s kids, and he promised to protect them, and—

“Are you Bernard?”

The voice tore him out of his daydream so unexpectedly he leapt to his feet, growling and slashing out with an imaginary sword at the barn’s entrance where a man stood.

The man didn’t flinch. Instead his eyes rolled up towards the hayloft, and he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “drawing the short straw.” In his hands was a letter.

Morfran narrowed his eyes at him. “Did you stay off my lawn?”

“Yes.” The courier glowered. “It was hard to not notice the thirteen signs you posted that read ‘stay off my lawn.’”

Morfran nodded briskly, still distrustful. “Good.” He thrust his hand out towards the courier. “Now give it to me.” Peasant, he wanted to add, but he did have a disguise to maintain, so he kept his tongue begrudgingly still.

The courier stretched out his hand as if he were reaching towards a particularly slimy slug. Morfran raised his eyebrow and snatched it, glancing over the envelope. It was off-white, made of fine parchment, and when he turned it over, he saw something that raised the hairs on the back of his neck: a wine-red wax seal of a magpie eating a marigold.

“Get out.” He muttered, eyes fastened and unblinking on the seal. “I said get out! And don’t walk on my lawn!”

No reply. He looked up. The man was already gone.

He pressed his lips together, looking down at Benjamin. She’d woken from his outburst, blinking sleepy, incurious eyes at him. You doing all right there, Morfran?

I don’t know yet, Beni.

He slid his fingers into the envelope’s slit, breaking the seal. It could be a coincidence. It could be someone other than her, someone who used the same seal. Marigolds and magpies were common enough emblems. Originality was dead, anyways, wasn’t that the saying?

Then he saw the lone words, written in scrawled, feminine handwriting, and all hopeful doubts vanished away.

Found you.

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