Intrigued? Well read on to discover the cover and synopsis from Death Witch Rising by K. M. Schumacher, which releases on January 26th 2027 and is now available for preorder.

Analise is a death witch, able to see and hear the dead. Death witches have been hunted to near extinction, so Analise keeps her head down, focused on her job in a morgue—until a ghost from one of the victims on her slab throws her life sideways.

Meanwhile, Ezra, once the city’s most celebrated witch hunter, now gets by as a prizefighter for a notorious gangster. When he’s asked to track down a death witch for the Church, he uncovers a secret society, the beginning of the end of days . . . and Analise.

In a city drowning in smog and secrets, death is never the end—it’s the beginning of a war for your soul. Analise and Ezra are thrown together to save the world’s souls, and there’s an undeniable heat between them. As the Devil begins calling in his debts, they’ll have to face the wounds of the past and find a way forward, together.

With the magic and mystery of V. E. Schwab’s A Darker Shade of Magic and the eerie Victorian vibes of Vivian Shaw’s Dr. Greta Helsing series, this spicy gaslamp enemies-to-lovers romantasy is poised to become your next obsession.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Dragon Has Some Complaints by John Wiswell, which releases on July 14th 2026.

Garrodigh was once a four-headed dragon, among the most powerful in Kardoša. After an unfortunate incident, he now has three heads, one stump, and a daily whirlwind of internal bickering. Centerhead wants to rain death upon all humanity, Bottomhead is like a feral cat, and Upperhead is under the delicate delusion that he is, in fact, human.

When a nearby battle goes awry, Garrodigh sneaks into an elite dragon rider academy, pretending to be tame to get free food and a warm bed. Lucky for him, rider Rania Charvátová is desperate enough for a dragon of her own that she overlooks his eccentricities.

As Garrodigh recovers under Rania’s care, all three heads start to turn, for the first time, in the same direction. Each wants to protect her from the invaders who killed their fourth head—the same invaders who seek to conquer Kardoša. When the academy comes under attack, can this wild dragon and his wilder rider save their homeland together?

This cozy fantasy intertwines epic battles with loving friendships, sharing an utterly unique perspective on what it means to be a “monster.”

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Intrigued? We are delighted to be revealing all THREE covers from M. H. Foster’s The Gentle Apocalypse series! This previously self-published cozy fantasy series will publish in print for the first time through Grand Central Publishing with new bonus material and in audiobook format with Neil Hellegers narrating each audiobook!

With all three books releasing over the next several months, read on to discover the synopses, covers, and an excerpt from the first installment, The Demon Overlord’s Retirement Plan by M. H. Foster and be sure to preorder your copy today!

The Demon Overlord’s Retirement Plan by M. H. Foster (25 August 2026)

When destroying the world and killing the hero grows boring, what’s a Demon Overlord to do but quit while he’s ahead?

Galornus Prime was the Scourge of Nations, Ender of Hope, and Master of the Cardinal Sins. He had done everything worth doing. Some of it more than once.

His retirement plan was simple: get a goat, farm quietly, and avoid accidentally conquering anything. The plan didn’t include soul-crushing town halls, after-school combat lessons with children, and a war with perhaps his most worthy nemesis yet: the rose-growing, seventy-three year-old widow next door. 

Even in retirement, evil never sleeps…but it does plant turnips.

When corrupt officials and greedy merchants threaten his infuriatingly loveable neighbors, Galornus faces a new kind of challenge: saving the village without revealing he is the monster parents invoke to make children eat their vegetables.

The Demon Overlord’s Retirement Plan is a cozy fantasy with teeth, where the hardest battle isn’t defeating heroes—it’s staying retired and learning how to live after 444 lifetimes of villainy.

Love, Politics, and Other Acts of War by M. H. Foster (10 October 2026)

An annoying long-lost “cousin,” war, and the prospect of love all threaten the Demon Overlord’s tranquil retirement in the edgy, funny follow-up to The Demon Overlord’s Retirement Plan. Includes an exclusive bonus adventure!

There’s no rest for the wicked, especially when they have family next door.

After centuries of conquering kingdoms and terrifying the cosmos, the Demon Overlord just wants to retire in peace. Unfortunately, peace is hard to find in Lower Middleton, a quiet village full of gossip, feuds, and one dangerously charming succubus—who also happens to be his “cousin.”

Now Willem Porter (definitely not Galornus Prime, Destroyer of Worlds) must navigate enchanted pickles, noble politics, and the delicate art of staying out of trouble, all while pretending he’s just a humble turnip farmer.

A cozy, laugh-out-loud fantasy of infernal bureaucracy, reluctant heroism, and small-town chaos.

Band of Others by M. H. Foster (29 December 2026)

The stakes are higher than ever as the Demon Overlord must once again confront forces that threaten to trample his town and his vegetables in the third installment of this witty, sharp cozy fantasy series. Includes an exclusive bonus adventure!

The Demon Overlord retired. The problem is… not everyone else did.

Galornus Prime, former Demon Overlord and current enthusiast of comfortable seating and tasteful interior décor, has finally achieved the quiet life he always wanted.

No wars. No heroes. No destiny.

Just a small town, a modest farm, and the occasional threat to his pickles. It was working. Then Lucas found him.

Retirement, it turns out, is not a state others recognize.

Some loyalties do not end.
Some problems do not stay solved.
And some things, once set in motion, refuse to stop.

EXCERPT from The Demon Overlord’s Retirement Plan

Magic is bound to one’s core sense of self and purpose. I’d learned that during my thirty-seventh death (or was it the seventy-third?), the one with where a particularly powerful and idealistic hero had tried to redeem me with theology and faith. He’d pursued me across the continent with idealism. It was the first time (but not the last) a hero had chased me with a scroll rather than a sword. Those wars usually ended with my sanity as the major casualty. My conclusion that time was that the human definition of divinity and demonic, of Good and Evil, was a fundamentally flawed construct.

It really didn’t matter what type of magic you wielded. What mattered was your intent.

That’s how I’d finally managed to wield both Demonic energies and Divine power simultaneously. My goal was to create by destroying. I was going to preserve the lives of untold billions by annihilating the role of the Demon Overlord forever. Whether or not this would work remained to be seen, but my purpose aligned with both divine preservation and demonic transformation, and I believed it with every fiber of my being.

Which was why I was currently walking along a dusty road like a common biped, developing what I could only describe as ouches on my feet.

Could I have used my power to teleport? Certainly. Could I have sprouted wings and flown? Without question. Could I have summoned a chariot pulled by hellhounds wreathed in flames? Yes. I’d done it thousands of times before. And stylishly.

But all magic is bound to one’s core sense of self and purpose. I was powerful because I never lied, not even to myself. Because when I committed to something, I committed.

I had committed to being Willem the porter. Willem walked. Therefore, I walked.

Simple. Logical. Agonizing.

My journey to Lower Middleton—yes, Lower Middleton, the armpit of the back end of nowhere—stretched three hundred and fifty miles. An eternity by foot. By my fourth hour of walking, I’d begun to understand why humans had invented so many words for suffering. My human form was still tender from my transformation, and it was making its complaints known.

“Ow,” I said aloud, testing the word as my left boot found another sharp rock. It felt insufficient. “Ow ow ow ow ow.”

Better, but still lacking nuance. Perhaps I should invent new pain descriptors. Flizzark for the sharp shock of stepping on stones. Grumph for the dull ache spreading through my calves. Whispendale for whatever was happening to my lower back.

A merchant’s cart rumbled past, the driver giving me the universal nod of acknowledgment between travelers. I nodded back, then had to consciously stop myself from incinerating him when road dust billowed into my face.

Willem’s muscle memory wanted to wave. My muscle memory wanted to eviscerate. We compromised on a violent sneeze.

“Bless you!” the merchant called back cheerfully.

Bless me? Bless me?! I was a Demon Overlord. The Demon Overlord.

Former Demon Overlord, I corrected myself. I could bless myself, thank you very much. Although technically, given my current divine-demonic hybrid nature, any blessing I gave myself might create a theological paradox that could—

No. Stop. Willem wouldn’t think about theological paradoxes. Willem would think about… What did aspiring farmers think about? Turnips?

I spotted the shadow of a succubus flying overhead. Rajani. She was definitely looking for me. Not all my former followers would believe that I was really dead. Being the Archbishop of Deception had its downsides. Every act I took could be interpreted as a devious plan of some sort.

I ducked into the trees to hide from her. Eviscerating the merchant was not worth discovery. I needed to be careful in retirement. One slip and either the Divine Order or the Armies of Hell would discover I was still alive.

Blending in would be critical. I couldn’t just be retired. I needed to think more…mortal…common. Hide blatantly in plain sight.

I tried imagining turnips as I walked. Root vegetables. Purple-white. Grew in dirt. Could be mashed, roasted, or fermented into surprisingly potent alcohol. I knew everything about alcohol. It was one of the few commonalities shared by the forces of Good and Evil.

If Rajani happened to look down at my pitiful human form and scan my surface thoughts, she would get a mind-full of turnips and dismiss me as irrelevant. I doubted she could conceive of Galornus Prime as a human turnip farmer in her wildest nightmare.

My feet hurt. This was novel. In my demonic form, I’d once tap-danced on molten lava for three days straight to mock a particularly pompous fire elemental. Now, simple leather boots on a dirt road produced sensations I could only describe as aggressive discomfort.

The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly. Sweat—actual mortal sweat—trickled down my back. In past lives I’d bathed in solar flares. Now, ordinary sunlight was making me feel like a slowly roasting turnip.

I’d retained my power, of course. My body had been reinforced to demonic standards. I could shatter mountains with a sneeze, part seas with a whistle, or rewrite local reality if I felt particularly motivated. But I’d deliberately kept human sensory input and basic anatomical responses.

If I wanted to blend in, I needed to react like them. The last thing I wanted was some busybody priest noticing that I didn’t blink, sweat, or use the bushes for necessary biological functions.

Those damned priests of the Divine Order. They’d been thorns in my side for centuries, meticulously recording every detail about my incarnations. No matter how thoroughly I’d tried to stomp them out during my periods of dominion, they always managed to preserve crucial information.

The worst incident was during my two hundred and third incarnation, when they’d encoded my allergy to blessed silver into a drinking song. Within a generation, every tavern from here to the Ice Wastes was bellowing:

When the Demon Lord comes knocking,

Don’t let him in!

Throw silver spoons and forks at him,

He’ll howl and hop and hiss and spin—

That’s how the holy wars begin!

So polish your grandmother’s candlesticks,

And keep your silver close at hand,

For the Demon Lord hates table tricks

More than any divine command!

Idiotic doggerel, but effective. By my two hundred and fourth resurrection, every peasant hovel had strategic silver cutlery placed by the doors. Silver was harmful to lower-level demons.

To me it was more like a minor allergy. Gave me a runny nose as I butchered, executed or otherwise dismembered my enemies.

My ruminations were interrupted by another cart passing, this one loaded with cabbages. The smell hit me like a physical force. When had I become able to differentiate between fresh cabbage and slightly wilted cabbage? This level of olfactory detail was both fascinating and mildly disturbing.

“Evening, traveler!” the cabbage merchant called. “Need a ride? You look about done in!”

I was about to respond with something cutting about his presumption when I realized he was right. I was done in. My legs shook. My back screamed. My feet had developed what I believed humans called hot spots, the precursors to blisters.

Blisters. Me. The being who’d once arm-wrestled the concept of Entropy itself to a draw.

“Thank you,” I heard myself croak, “but I’ll manage.”

Foolish pride. But I’d committed to walking, and my word was my power. Even if it killed me. Again.

By sunset, I’d covered perhaps twenty miles. Twenty miles that felt like twenty thousand. Each step had become a philosophical exercise in suffering. Not the grand agony of divine judgment or the exquisite torment of hellfire, just the small, persistent misery of a body pushed beyond its comfortable limits.

I, who was born as the Apex of All Existence, whose destiny had been nothing less than surpassing divinity itself, found myself genuinely struggling to move one foot in front of the other.

When the roadside inn finally appeared through the gathering dusk, I nearly wept. The sign read “The Pickled Herring,” a name that promised absolutely nothing good about the quality of food or lodging, but I didn’t care. It had walls. A roof. A bed.

I pushed through the door with all the grace of a demon lord who’d been walking for twelve hours straight, which is to say, none at all. I may have stumbled. There might have been whimpering.

The common room did not go silent when I entered. At least, not the awed silence that usually greeted my entrances, complete with dramatic lightning and ominous chanting in dead languages. Just the brief pause of regulars evaluating whether the newcomer was going to be entertaining, problematic, or ignorable.

Dusty. Exhausted. Carrying a porter’s pack. They categorized me as ignorable and returned to their conversations.

Perfect.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Treason of Magic by Melissa Marr, which releases on June 23rd 2026.

Two young women. Heirs to altogether different hereditary burdens. Yet bound by a monstrous threat to their village.

Gabrielle is the first woman in Alveus to carry the mantle of Hunter, which comes with an obligation to kill the faery beasts murdering travelers in Brimmond Wood. Wary of the power she wields as guardian of her people, Gabrielle is summoned by her first love, a seductress who shattered her heart into pieces a decade ago.

Isabeau is the rarest of nobility―a lady duke. She is also afflicted by a curse that leaves her in a deep sleep between the gloaming and daylight. How can she begin her tenure as protector when she can’t keep her village safe from whatever stalks its darkest hours? For that, she needs the help of the Hunter.

Against her will, Gabrielle is falling in love all over again. But what new threats will arise when Gabrielle and Isabeau’s star-crossed destinies collide with the beast of Brimmond Wood?

EXCERPT

Her raven-wing-dark hair is cut short enough that the unruly curls threaten to rebel; one seems to be wrapping around the curve of her ear, not unlike the feathers of the raven that comes to mind every time I see her.

Her beauty is the only excuse I have for sounding so cutting as I say, “No, Isabeau, most people find your future title and your proximity to the queen charming.” I pull off my sodden-wet hat. My two thick braids drop like serpents, heavy and twisting down my back. “I am not impressed by either title or lineage, unlike most of your paramours.”

At first, I fear she’s changed too much as she simply stares at me. Then the quick temper I remember fills her charcoal-dark eyes, and she drawls, “Most of my paramours?”

I swallow several replies. I was not intending to imply that I was still in their number, and according to court gossip, her sheets are never cold. Once, I thought she was mine. Now, I have been replaced by countless lovers.

Isabeau’s eyes are fixed on me as she lowers her voice and asks, “So you agree to be my paramour again, then? I would certainly be willing to resume kissing you.”

“That is your reply to me?” I force a scoffing noise to hide the laugh that threatens to escape. Verbally sparring with her does good things for my mood.

I bet exchanging sword strikes would be better, temptation whispers.

Isabeau steps closer than I am prepared to accept, and I stumble away hastily, awkwardly, embarrassingly all but falling until she grips my wrists to steady me.

In a low voice she demands, “Is that blood?”

“Probably.” I look down, hoping upon hope that it’s not faery blood. I could swear there was none. The dead man was mostly drained of his own blood. There was a little, though, in the pool on the ground.

I spot the wet mark; thankfully it’s human blood.

I hike up my skirt’s hem and pull out a dagger. Without a word, I sever the fabric above the blood. Trying to not seem as incredibly bizarre as I’m sure I must, I scour it with my eyes, trying to assure that no faery blood is there.

Contaminants!

I fumble around in a pocket for salt, fill my hand with it, and turn my back to her as if I’m embarrassed. Quickly, I toss salt on the marble floor, but not so quickly that she doesn’t notice.

“Did you salt my floor?”

“Never too careful,” I say, as if that answer is anywhere near truth.

She looks at me again, but this time her gaze rakes over me as if I’m vulnerable and precious to her. “Are you injured?”

“No,” I whisper. I forgot how much I liked her protective side, perhaps because it was coupled with a possessive streak that was sometimes less alluring.

“Not your blood?” she presses.

“Not mine.” Carefully, I fold the blood into the fabric and transfer it to the hand still coated with coarse salt. “Would you escort me to a fireplace?”

Isabeau offers her arm to me as if we are at a ball or something, as if I am not dressed in attire that will be sentenced to a fire when I return home, as if she did not shatter my heart into pieces a decade ago. A lump that might be my heart chokes me, and I sound like a weathered old woman as I manage to scratch out, “I’d rather not ruin your hem if there are other . . . fluids on my dress.”

Isabeau removes her houppelande, tosses the extravagant garment onto a table, and again offers her arm. I try not to stare at the shape of her revealed without the massive houppelande. I fail instantly. Debauched and drunk are the rumors I hear, but what I see is strength and beauty. If she were intoxicated as often as society swears, her face would not be so bright and beautiful. Alcohol poisons health, and Isabeau looks healthy.

The pause has stretched too long. Seeing no other option, I rest my hand on her elbow, tentatively, as if she might sear me.

From A TREASON OF MAGIC by Melissa Marr, Text copyright © 2026 by Melissa Marr, Published by 47 North

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Every promise has its price…

Annethe Tavery fell in love with a god. Now, he hunts her in a twisted game of cat and mouse. If she so much as thinks of him, her past, or even her real name, it will call him like a beacon to her. So she runs—straight to a port town, where a failed pickpocketing attempt leaves her with a nasty curse. 

There’s only one way to free herself: do the bidding of the nobleman she tried to rob. Annethe soon finds herself embroiled in a murder plot amongst the dangerous world of godbound—nobles whose pacts with gods have twisted them in horrifying ways. If Annethe doesn’t complete the nobleman’s task, the curse will rot her from the inside out. But the longer she stays, the more chance there is that her god will find her—and he isn’t the only one looking. 

Before him, before all the death and pain and running, there was a woman Annethe loved—and who her god killed. Now, the scraps of Calika Korska’s body are held together by her own pact with an unstable god. And both of them are broken, angry, and hell-bent on revenge.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Rowan Skye is a debut adult fantasy author who was born and raised in the chilly part of California. She graduated from the University of California, Berkeley with an English degree, a love for the middle ages, and too many bear-themed sweatshirts. Since then, she’s balanced a corporate job during the day and writing the rest of the time She loves unreliable narrators, complex romance, and heroines who create their own problems. When she’s not writing, she’s playing with her cats or relaxing in the desert.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Verdant Cage by Jess Lourey, which is out now.

For as long as seventeen-year-old apothecary Rose Allgood can remember, the towering stone Wall surrounding Noah’s Valley has protected her people. No one leaves. No one fights. And no one questions why.

But their paradise has been hiding its thorns. When Rose’s mother becomes the Valley’s first murder victim and her twin brother is swiftly condemned, she alone is searching for the real killer. Determined to find the truth, she follows a trail of hidden messages, forbidden knowledge, and whispers of a past no one dares to remember.

The deeper she digs, the more certain Rose becomes that her mother’s death was no accident. That the Wall isn’t just keeping something out.

It’s keeping something in.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Paranormal Payback, a collection of short stories edited by Jim Butcher and Kerrie L. Hughes, which is out now!

In this short story collection, our heroes get what’s due to them—with a supernatural flair.

But the injustices that have been holding them back might cost them more than they realized. . . . 

In “Mister Petty,” a brand-new Dresden Files story from #1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher, a woman hires Goodman Grey to get back at her cheating husband. She’s about to find out that Grey isn’t your ordinary detective—he’s a professional monster. And he’s going to balance the scales.

From #1 New York Times bestselling author Holly Black, “Dying Isn’t Just for the Young” follows an elderly widow reckoning with family scheming to take away her independence in a world infected by a disease of vampirism.

New York Times bestselling author Faith Hunter’s “Razors and Revenge” finds the vampire bounty hunter Shiloh awaiting her judgement at the hands of the Dark Queen, fresh off a brutal werewolf attack and the loss of a dear friend. But Shiloh’s not just a vampire anymore—and the wolfish instincts growing inside her are howling for blood.

And Kim Harrison takes us to the #1 New York Times bestselling series of the Hollows in her story “Dog-eared.” The demon Algaliarept makes a bargain with the dangerously insane Newt, the last female demon, to punish an arrogant wizard for abusing his precious magical texts—but how ruthless is Al willing to be to get his petty vengeance?

ALSO INCLUDES STORIES BY Jennifer Blackstream * Maurice Broaddus * Delilah S. Dawson * Kevin Hearne * Tanya Huff * Kerrie L. Hughes * R. L. King * R.R. Virdi

EXCERPT
DYING ISN’T JUST FOR THE YOUNG by Holly Black

Excerpted from the diary of Beryl Finch. Published with the permission of Nora Lee Amin, executor of Ms. Finch’s literary estate.

March 3, 2004

I sat by Nigel’s bedside at Mount Sinai Hospital all today, his papery hand in mine. His lungs were bad for years, then got much worse overnight. When he inhaled, I could hear them crackle, as though someone were wadding up a piece of wax paper. When he exhaled, there was a sound like a dog pouncing on a squeak toy. I told him we were going home in just a few more days.

Our marriage has always been full of polite lies, but this might be the final one.

March 4, 2004

“Beryl,” Nigel wheezed tonight, awake and conscious enough to want to talk. “What would you do differently if you had a chance to live your life over again?”

A dangerous question. Before I could even begin to answer it, he cut me off, his gaze on the screen above us.

“That can’t be real, can it?”

The news anchor was desperately trying to explain some outbreak of a new disease in Springfield, Massachusetts. There’s a Springfield in every state, isn’t there? Wasn’t that some kind of joke on The Simpsons?

Going Cold, they called the illness, because chilly skin is an early symptom. Another is wanting to bite people. That’s how they think it spreads, like rabies.

The night nurse believes it has something to do with drugs. There was that whole thing with people becoming like zombies from doing something—snorting? smoking?—bath salts, so maybe she has a point.

I went and looked online and it wasn’t really bath salts, but some kind of drug nicknamed “bath salts,” which is very confusing. I feel foolish, but in my defense, in my day when people said they were sniffing glue, they were actually, for real, sniffing glue.

March 7, 2004

No new insight into Nigel’s condition, but the news is full of this Cold thing. They’re saying infected people die, but somehow don’t stay dead. The president of the United States addressed the nation using words like “undead” and “vampires” with complete seriousness.

Nigel and I watched together, then he dozed off again. Nigel was always a force of nature. It seems impossible to me that he can’t find a way to wriggle out of death when he’s managed to wriggle out of a bankruptcy, two heart attacks, and at least three scathing reviews of his plays in The New York Times.

The world is upside down and ridiculous, and I want to stomp my feet like a child until it stops.

March 23, 2004

I am left with the news as my companion most nights in the hospital.

The infection seems to be spreading. The National Guard is in Springfield, but instead of helping, they’re erecting a barricade around the outside. It’s awful. There are people inside taking video of what’s happening in there, and there is so much terror and heartbreak. And blood. There’s a lot of blood.

Although I shouldn’t admit it, the screams on the screen are still preferable to the bagpipes of Nigel’s lungs. That’s one of the terrible paradoxes of humanity. The suffering of one person can be inexpressibly painful to us, while we can feel so much less than we should about the collective suffering of thousands.

Nurses and doctors come through the hospital room and try to reassure us that the outbreak of whatever-it-really-was can be contained and will certainly never make it to New York. They prescribe new medicine for Nigel and reassure us about that too. Oh, and one of the doctors finally explained how this Cold thing works. If you’re bitten by a vampire (yes, they’re calling them that officially now), you become infected, your temperature drops, and you crave blood. Biting someone in that infected state doesn’t spread the infection—but it’s the trigger for the infected person to die and then be reborn as a vampire (again, yes, really, a vampire, like Dracula or Sesame Street’s Count). Then they can spread the Cold.

There is a growing belief that the body can shake off the infection, though, if blood is unavailable for long enough. Maybe there is a way to stem the tide of horror after all. Despite the efforts to wall off Springfield, new cases were discovered in Texas and Seattle just this week. Someone has to do something, and soon.

April 3, 2004

Alarm bells rang through the hospital tonight.

Nigel woke up disoriented, and while I was trying to quiet him down, a nurse rushed into the room and locked the door behind her.

“Get down,” she said.

I am ashamed to say that I just stared at her. It was only when she hit the floor that I understood and slowly got to my knees. At my age that’s not easy.

“What’s going on?” Nigel complained.

“One of them got loose,” the nurse said. “Shhhhh.”

“What are you talking about? What got loose?” I demanded, trying out all the possibilities running through my head. A lion. A serial killer. One of the monsters from the television.

Nigel began coughing.

I could see the tension in the nurse’s expression. She clearly wanted to tell him to stop but was enough of a professional to understand that would be useless. He couldn’t.

“One of the infected ones,” she told me, now that quiet was off the table.

“Why would one be here?” I hissed at her.

She made a gesture of exasperation. “Because some of them have money. A lot of money. They put her in a coma and—”

I heard the crash of a door opening so hard it hit the wall. Footsteps. Our doorknob turned before catching on the lock. I caught my breath. Nigel coughed harder, tears leaking out of his eyes. His hand covered his mouth, trying to muffle the sound. The nurse moved toward the attached bathroom, and I could tell that bitch was clearly planning on locking herself inside if our door opened.

From “Dying Isn’t Just for the Young” by Holly Black copyright 2026 by Holly Black from PARANORMAL PAYBACK edited by Jim Butcher and Kerry Hughes with permission of Ace, an imprint of Penguin Random House copyright 2026 by Jim Butcher and Kerry Hughes

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About The Sea Spinner: Blazing with reawakened magic, a young woman challenges the tides of fate in this highly anticipated sequel to the #1 Sunday Times bestseller The Wind Weaver. Out April 28th 2026.

Whenever the real world feels inescapably heavy, I like to slip into a fictional one instead. Is there any greater escape than an all-consuming fantasy novel? Or, better yet, a series? Some of my personal favorites draw influence from the myths and legends of old, where fae are more monster than man, stakes are deadly high, and tragedy is tightly interwoven with even the sweetest victory…

Here are six fantasy series recommendations (some contemporary, some classic) that incorporate Irish, Welsh, or Norse mythology.

Daughter of the Forest (The Sevenwaters Series, #1) by Juliet Marillier

Marillier weaves a spellbinding tale of sacrifice and sorcery in this retelling of the Celtic legend of “The Six Swans” where a young woman risks everything to save her brothers from a deadly enchantment. With lush writing and wholly immersive worldbuilding, this classic fantasy seamlessly blends history and mythology. Read it as a standalone or continue on with the other books in the Sevenwaters saga, which follows future generations of the same family through various perils and passions.

Darkfever (The Fever Series, #1) by Karen Marie Moning

Celtic legend collides with the contemporary world in The Fever Series, which follows plucky heroine Mackayla Lane through fae-infested streets of modern Dublin in a quest to track down her sister’s killer. The series draws heavily from Irish mythology throughout all five books (and their later spin-offs), and never shies away from dark subject matter. The monsters are genuinely horrifying, the romance is torturously slow burn, and, the heroine’s steady character development shines through even the grimmest plot twists.

Broken Souls and Bones (Stonegate, #1) by LJ Andrews

The first in a duology, this Norse-inspired fantasy immediately draws you into an intricately penned world full of pulse-pounding danger and devilish plots. It also features one of the most interesting magic systems I’ve come across lately, where practitioners employ different “crafts” of blood, bone, soul, and melding. Andrews’ characters are carefully penned throughout, facing both internal and external struggles as the story progresses. But beware the cliffhanger! You’ll want to dive straight into book two. (Which, luckily, is already available.)

The Cruel Prince (The Folk of the Air, #1) by Holly Black

In this first installment of a young adult trilogy, Black tosses her human heroine into the treacherous High Court of Faerie. Infused equally with family drama and fae politics, heartwarming scenes and heart-wrenching twists, it’s difficult to put this book down once you start reading. The lore is rich, the pacing well-penned. The tension never lets up (and I’m not just talking about the delicious enemies-to-lovers dynamic). Don’t let the “young adult” classification scare you off. There’s plenty for grown-ups to enjoy here, too.

A Fate Inked in Blood (Saga of the Unfated Series, #1) by Danielle L. Jensen

This Norse-inspired duology starter serves up an equal portion of romance and fantasy, perfectly balancing sizzling chemistry with magic and action. Between the atmospheric setting and strong cast of side characters, you’ll feel you’re right alongside shield-maiden heroine Freya as she battles to control both her destiny and her goddess-granted powers.

The Wren in the Holly Library (The Oak and Holly Cycle, #1) by K.A. Linde

According to the author’s note at the start of the book, this unique contemporary spin on Celtic mythology was inspired by Linde’s own trip to Ireland, and a particularly formative visit to the library at Trinity College. Here, a post-apocalyptic New York City serves as a playground for fae, druids, monsters, nymphs, vampires, werewolves, and more mythological creatures. Linde’s skillful worldbuilding really shines through, beautifully layered without ever feeling bogged down. (Trolls in the subway? That’s pure fantasy fun!)

PS: My own fantasy trilogy begins with The Wind Weaver, a tale inspired by the Welsh goddess Rhiannon. (And the Fleetwood Mac song of the same name.) The rich folklore found in the Mabinogion collection of Welsh stories helped me immensely in shaping the world of Anwyvn and its fraught political structures. Page one drops you into a huge, war-ravaged realm where the fae have been hunted down and possessing magic is punishable by death… 

The post Six Fully-Immersive Fantasy Series Featuring Celtic or Norse Mythology appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Violently Departed by Sarah J. Daley, which releases on April 28th 2026.

A missing nun found murdered, a school built on secrets, a haunted town. A new case for Hero Viridian: half-demon, disgraced ex-nun-turned-investigator.

With the stink of demonic involvement surrounding the murder, who better to deal with it than a woman with something to prove, eyes of literal flame and a direct connection to hell?

However, when those who sought her help turn against her, a vulnerable Hero must rely on an unlikely partner, Oleander Keen – a Demonhunter who has already tried to kill her.

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Strixhaven: Omens of Chaos by Seanan McGuire, which is out now.

Eula Blue was supposed to be a mage. That was before the war came—before the fight for the Multiverse devastated Eula’s home, and with it her hopes for a magical education.

But the destruction of the war also brought something new: the ability to travel to other planes. And when Eula receives an invitation to study magic at a distant school called Strixhaven, she leaps to take it.

Eula’s journey brings her closer than she ever thought possible to her fellow students, including the mysterious Segante, a boy whose secrets Eula longs to share. But not everyone is thrilled by the arrival of the new class, and Eula and her new friends quickly become targets.

To make it through their first semester, they’ll have to fight for their place in this new world—or else they’ll be dead before their final exams.

This special first edition hardcover includes a Command Tower Magic: The Gathering card with all-new Strixhaven artwork—while supplies last!

EXCERPT

Even getting to Strixhaven is no easy matter. Three of Strixhaven’s new interplanar students journey across a treacherous Omen Path on their way to the university. Soon after departing from their home planes, Eula and Alandra receive a swift lesson on the cutthroat reality of Segante’s world of Fiora.

Someone outside the carriage yells. Eula moves, pushing Segante out of the way to look out the window herself. A barricade has been set up across the road, and four men are there, swords in hand, menacing the driver. He’s still seated at the front of the carriage, and their pegasus doesn’t appear to have been hurt, but there’s no going forward.

“He needs to just pay them and we can get on with it,” mur­murs Segante, so close to Eula’s ear that she jerks away, turning to stare at him. He shrugs. “They’re highwaymen. You pay them and they let you by. If you protest too much, they decide you have something worth protecting, and they get curious. That’s when people get hurt.”

Their driver doesn’t appear to have been informed about the customs of Fioran highwaymen. He’s continuing to protest, and as Eula watches, two of the men advance on him, swords aimed low. The other two turn toward the carriage door. Segante grabs her, pulling her away from the window.

“Blue girl,” he snaps at Alandra. “Can you not be blue?”

“Excuse me?” asks the merfolk girl.

“We don’t have anyone who looks like you around here. They’re likely to decide you’re someone important—daughter of a noble household or dignitary from another city-state—and try to take you for ransom. Even if they don’t, that little pet of yours is going to be nigh irresistible. Lots of fine ladies in the high city who’d pay well for something as unique as that.”

Alandra’s eyes darken, literally, sunny yellow trending toward orange, like sunlight filtered through heavy cloud cover. She clutches Orestes more tightly to her chest.

Eula glances back out the window. The men are moving slowly, unhurried and unconcerned, but they’re almost to the door.

Can’t open a door you can’t touch. She raises her hands, hold­ing the dimensions of the carriage in her mind, and throws a shield away from herself, covering the side of the carriage in a shimmering film of white shot through with inky black. The win­dow goes hazy, distorted by the shining dome of the shield.

Segante blinks, then moves to peer through the thickened window. “They’ve stopped,” he reports. “They’re looking confused. Can you make this thing cover the whole carriage?”

“No,” says Eula, voice strained and tightly clipped off. “I can’t hold this forever, either.”

“No stamina, huh?”

“I don’t see you helping,” she snaps.

“I’m not the one who provoked the brigands. All the driver had to do was pay them,” he says. “Highwaymen are a normal part of travel. You can’t just go around killing them because you don’t like them doing their jobs.”

Alandra screams.

It’s less like the shriek of a frightened teenage girl and more like the wail of a seagull: loud, wild, and undulating up and down the scale of what sound can be, impossibly shrill, going on and on and on, long past the point where she should have run out of air. Eula stares at her in disbelief. The sound goes on, getting bigger and bigger in the close confines of the carriage. She claps her hands over her ears, fighting to maintain her concentration and hold on the shield. The highwaymen have reached it now: she can feel them banging their fists against it, testing its limitations.

Holding it intact while Alandra screams is getting harder by the second.

“What is she doing?” demands Segante. “Blue girl! What are you doing?”

Alandra continues screaming.

A peal of thunder announces the arrival of a sudden storm. A crack of lightning splits the sky, and torrents of rain crash down across the plains. It sounds like a wave the size of a city park slamming into the ground around them. Around them, but not—Eula sneaks another glance out the hazy window—not directly on top of them. The rain appears to be falling everywhere except for where the carriage sits, leaving it dry and undisturbed.

The hammering on the door gets stronger, hands beating at Eula’s shield until it feels like they’re hammering against her body. She moans and drops to her knees. Segante steps around her.

“Let it go,” he says, his voice surprisingly soft.

She gives him a startled glance. He looks back at her, expres­sion surprisingly gentle, and nods.

Eula releases the shield. It collapses from the outside in, un­raveling like a lace doily, until the final strands dissolve and the magic snaps back on her, leaving her gasping and unsteady. She braces her hands against the carriage floor as she struggles to catch her breath, and so she misses what happens next, as Se­gante opens the door and steps out into the rain-drenched after­noon.

He closes the door behind himself as he says something, his tone quiet and reasonable, but his words are taken by the storm. A minute or so later, the carriage door opens again, and Segante climbs back inside, dripping wet and perfectly calm.

“They’re gone,” he says, simply enough. “Alandra, if you could shut down the monsoon long enough for our driver to get us out of here, I’m sure he’d appreciate it.”

Alandra stops screaming and blinks at him, the orange bleed­ing out of her eyes and leaving them bright yellow once again.

“What did you do?” she asks as she holds Orestes close against her chest.

“Nothing,” he says.

He retakes his seat. The carriage rolls on, gathering speed as their driver resumes his journey toward the omenpath, and as there’s no window in the back of the carriage, none of them looks back.

None of them see the bodies.

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