Intrigued? Read an excerpt from The Great Disillusionment of Jay and Nick by Ryan Douglass, which is out now.

Seventeen-year-old Nick Carrington wants nothing more than to leave Greenwood, Oklahoma, behind and make a name for himself in the papers. But when tragedy strikes, dreams turn into a twisted reality. Forced to start anew in Harlem, only a letter of acceptance from the prestigious West Egg Academy is able to pull him back into the world.

But the supposedly integrated private boys’ school is more of a catchy headline than a fact, with the same prejudices Nick left behind back home. And his secret but growing feelings for the founder’s wickedly charismatic son, Jay Gatsby Jr.— who dances past society’s conventions with practiced ease—only add more complications.

When Nick’s cutting pen exposes dangerous truths about West Egg and leads to perilous consequences, he and Jay must decide whether to spend a lifetime outrunning trouble or be the ones to light the match. Can they not only fight back but triumph? Or will the powers that be win yet again?

Chapter 1

Time always moved slowest when I wanted something. I wanted to know why Isaiah had invited me to talk.

He didn’t say what was on his mind, but I knew it was about what I did on the porch in that moment of poor judgment all those years ago. It had been the pit of my shame ever since. I knew the day would come when we’d have to talk about it. I just didn’t think it would be today.

I sighed and fell back against the wooden shelves. It was nearing the end of my shift and the time showed 4:54 p.m.—only six more minutes until I was free.

Free from brushing mud out of shoelaces, polishing church shoes, and attaching straps to slingbacks.

Warm air blew through the room’s window—the only breeze I had in this place. It was always hot in here, on account of Mr. Wallace’s protest against air-conditioning. “The world don’t need more machines,” he said. “More machines means more toxins. More toxins means shorter lives, for all humankind.”

Mr. Wallace was a shoe-shiner but make no mistake—he was whip-smart. I never would’ve connected air-conditioning to doomsday, but it made sense I guess.

I wiped sweat from my forehead as the floor creaked beyond the door. Mr. Wallace was approaching the backroom from the parlor.

I quickly closed my pocket watch to sort the remaining shoes into boxes, but then Mr. Wallace opened the door and the watch slipped from my fingers, rolling across the carpet and stopping at his shoe.

He reached one of his long arms down over his belly and picked up my clock, eyebrows tensed as he handed it back to me. “You dropped something,” he said.

“Thank you, sir.” I took the watch and tucked it into my shirt pocket.

My mentor looked around at the mess. “How long does it take to box a few shoes, young man?” he asked, his tone carrying a sting of judgment.

“Sorry, Mr. Wallace,” I said. “I got distracted.”

By all my memories with Isaiah, I didn’t add. The fact we’re growing different, like a sweet gum and a black gum, each in its own swamp.

Mr. Wallace looked at me like he knew something was wrong. “What’s on your mind, son?”

What would I say? Friendship meltdowns?

I could talk to him about some things. More than I could talk about with Pa—that’s for sure. But I knew what was between me and Isaiah was for us to work out.

Mr. Wallace sat on a stool with fatigue. He’d worked for generations. His shop was a staple of the community. It had outlasted every business that popped up and called it quits soon after.

“If it’s about your father,” Mr. Wallace said, “you know what I’m going to say, Nick.”

Ah, there was a change of topic that felt daunting, but somehow more approachable. He’d advised me on my issues with Pa before. Like a rooster in the morning, he told me to forgive him—forgive him! Cock-a-doodle-doo.

“With respect, sir, I can’t forgive somebody for something they ain’t sorry for,” I said, before he got around to saying it.

“You stay waiting on people to apologize to you, all them grudges gon’ crush you like a ripe grape!” he said. “Do you want to win, or do you want your grudge to win?”

“I suppose I want to win,” I mumbled.

He leaned back with righteousness. “So . . . ask yourself what your father’s choice in denying you apprenticeship is teaching you about your own sovereignty. Take the lesson, leave the pain.”

“Sovereignty, sir? Like power?”

“Not quite.” Mr. Wallace pulled a dictionary out from a drawer under the shelves. “That would be the A definition. I, myself, prefer the B definition.”

He looked like an explorer in his loose canvas pants, spouting out knowledge. “Freedom from external control, or autonomy,” he read from the dictionary, while looking at me over his glasses. “Your sovereignty is your choice. It’s what leads you in life. If you intend to be a writer, it shall be that you become one, whether you have your father’s blessing or not.” He closed the dictionary and placed it back in the drawer.

“See, we don’t need apprentices and masters,” he went on. “It’s the structure of things, not by necessity, but because each of us makes a choice to uphold this order. In reality, each of us needs only the discernment to guide ourselves.”

It’s funny. I knew I could do things and be someone without my father’s blessing, but I so desperately wanted it. He was my blood. All I had since Mama passed and Daisy moved away.

I began sorting polish into the pockets of a wooden case. “Papa thinks I don’t got enough brains to write for The Star,” I said. “So, if I do end up writing, it would have to be for someone else.”

“Did he say that?” Mr. Wallace asked. “That you don’t have brains?”

“Naw, but he implied it.”

“Perhaps have another talk with him and ask for his reasoning—ah, ah,” Mr. Wallace said, pulling a black canister from my hands. “Careful, this shouldn’t be with the polish.” He placed it on a side table.

“What is that, sir?”

“Toxic chemicals that will burn your skin to the bone if you touch ’em!” Mr. Wallace crooned like a dramatic stage performer. “I should have warned you before leaving it out on the worktable.” He stretched to pull a safe box down from a top shelf. “Mrs. Millie has forgotten the combination to her late husband’s safe box and has asked me to crack it open.”

Mrs. Millie was my neighbor. She was about seventy years old, and one of the first to buy land some twenty years ago from Mr. Gurley when he started selling plots to Negroes looking for a new start. Lots of my elders was coming from tenant farms where they worked like slaves for a tunic and some cornmeal.

Since Greenwood was new, we still acted like folks on the run. We were real secretive with our money, like storing cash in a shoe-shiner’s shop secretive. If the white folks ever came to loot us, they’d go straight for the banks, never here.

Mr. Wallace screwed the top off the canister. He dipped a pipe cleaner into the soppy stuff and then rubbed it along the door of the safe. “This locked safe? Think of it like your life. You could waste it trying to find the perfect series of clicks to open the door. Or you could work smarter and not harder.” He continued to delicately rub the substance in a rectangle. I could already smell burning steel from what it was doing.

“There are many ways out of a trapped situation,” my mentor said calmly. “Not just one combination. My personal favorite is sulfuric acid, otherwise known as grease. This stuff is highly dangerous, son—you may want to stand back.”

In seconds, the grease caused the metal door to curl and melt off the safe, sending tendrils of dark smoke into the air between us. Inside was an ocean of banded dollar bills.

“What?” I exclaimed. “That’s slick!”

Mr. Wallace let out a long whistle as he pulled some money out and inspected it, seeming impressed. “Never knew Old Man Francis had it like this.”

He was fascinated with the sight of money—typical for the son of Easter Wallace. His father was a reckless kleptomaniac who stole his old master’s safe before escaping his farm for Greenwood. He taught his son safecracking, and though Mr. Wallace followed a more legitimate career, best believe he still knew how to crack one open.

“Say, out of curiosity, how do you make that st—” My question hadn’t left my mouth before a hard object smacked me on the side of the head, landing with a clack at my feet. “Ow!”

The object was still rattling slightly between my brogans—a small pebble that had been hurled in from outside.

“What in the—?” Mr. Wallace limped toward the window and barked, “Who’s there?”

“Sorry!” came a familiar voice. “I didn’t mean to throw it that hard.”

I felt a throbbing in my temple as my old friend’s open hands appeared in the shop window.

“Sorry, Mr. Wallace,” Isaiah repeated.

“Don’t be throwing rocks through my windows, boy!” Mr. Wallace screamed.

I started laughing.

“Sorry!” Isaiah called, backing away across the grass. “Sorry!”

Mr. Wallace turned around. I stood up and ran toward the window, sprouting out of it so my upper half could be outside.

“A pebble?” I asked. “Really?”

“Just trying to toughen you up.” Isaiah sauntered forward with a smile, drawing closer to me across the field. “What time do you get off? I wanna show you the Vanderbilts’ estate.”

Ah, the Vanderbilts. They were the rich family he’d become a groundskeeper for. Isaiah moved up in life faster than me, that’s for sure.

I pulled out my watch and found the hands showing five p.m. “Right about now! But I’m supposed to be home before the sun goes down.”

“Well, move back! I’ll help you finish up.”

I moved, and he climbed clumsily through the window and landed with a thud.

Mr. Wallace was stringing up a money bag with Mrs. Millie’s cash. He raised an eyebrow at Isaiah. “You break something, you paying for it!” he said, then left to go back up front.

Isaiah looked judgmentally at him and then my work quarters. “What’s got his buttons in a bunch?”

“He’s sensitive to violence,” I said. “Mr. Wallace is a gentle man.”

“Is that why you work here?”

“No,” I said, fitting two shoes in a box like puzzle pieces. “I work here because I don’t have a choice.”

I could feel Isaiah rolling his eyes. “Nick, you always have a choice in being a shoe-sniffer.”

“What a terrible way of framing it! We all need a shoeshine every now and then.”

“Not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” I turned to face him and then caught our reflections in the wardrobe mirror. Even our fashions were more at odds lately. I wore a flat cap and loose shirt with suspenders to hold my knickerbockers up. He wore a blue suit that fit his muscled form and a matching fedora that complemented his square face. Isaiah’s hair underneath was in close-cut, brushed waves. His complexion was a warm, reddish brown, like chestnut. Mine was similar, but a bit darker.

Three weeks ago, we’d finished the school term, likely our last, and now our futures were the main focus of our lives. Isaiah thought about where he was going more often than I did, and anyone could tell from our clothes that he was destined for greatness and me, for less.

“The point is,” Isaiah went on. “We gon’ be eighteen soon and you still letting life control you, like you some kind of tumbleweed. I ought to call you Tumbleweed Carrington.”

“Tumbleweed is a nice name,” I said, turning away to put the final pair of shoes in its box. “Maybe it would suit me better. I’m named after my grandfather, after all.”

All I could do was joke in the face of Isaiah’s criticism. He talked opportunity all day! Never music, family, romance—the stuff we used to discuss. Just what I should’ve been doing to move up.

What if I didn’t wish to climb as fast as he did in the first place? The world he’d gotten into scared me—its pristine polish, its strange emptiness underneath. It was as if the main purpose of being rich was to impress people rather than to be happy.

I didn’t say anything about it. I preferred not to touch a sore conversation, and to keep the remnants of our friendship intact.

I finished up my final duties and called, “Bye, Mr. Wallace!” as I grabbed my satchel off the coatrack.

I curled out the window, slid down the little gap between the bricks and grass, and fetched my bike from its post outside. Isaiah followed close behind.

We rolled into the streets, where golden sun stretched across the cobbled road. We biked through the channel of brick and wooden storefronts as the shopkeepers reversed their signs from Open to Closed. The radio operators hung their headphones on the wall and the mail trucks returned to the post office parking lot.

We were headed past the city and toward the big oil derricks at the end of town. The big, latticed triangles, shaped like Christmas tree angels, manned a strip of country road that separated Greenwood (the Colored district) from the rest of Tulsa, which was white. It was best to travel the road by car and to keep a look out for white people hunting down Negroes. I’d never travel it by myself, but with Isaiah, I could make it through without feeling scared.

The rustling of crickets and cicadas grew louder as the noise of people faded and darkness set in. Here, with no one around us, I nearly remembered that moment—the moment I messed up our friendship. But then, his voice took me out of it.

“You’ll love it, Nick,” Isaiah panted, slightly out of breath. “I promise.”

Soon enough, a glowing streetlamp showed us to the first sign of white Tulsa. It was a little train post at the bottom of a hill. I followed Isaiah up the street that flattened out to a private property. A stern guard in black uniform stood by an iron gate protecting a grand house.

“Hi, Edward!” Isaiah sang as we approached. “I left something in the courtyard, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Isaiah.” Edward gave a friendly smile and twisted a key through the gate and pushed it open.

It gave a groggy squeak, and the courtyard expanded before us. A short walk brought us to the heart of the space: a huge pool of light blue water, with palm trees forming columns beside it. These trees, which threw shade everywhere, took me to a tropical place. The house was three stories, with arched windows, a big balcony, and pillars connecting the floors.

I spied a woman at a third-floor window watching us enter, and a familiar discomfort set in my bones. The discomfort that led me to find work in Greenwood rather than Tulsa.

“It’s getting so dark already,” I noted, feeling anxious.

“No offense, Nick, but your pop needs to lighten up on the curfews,” Isaiah said, as he sat on the edge of a fountain and crossed his legs like he owned the place.

“None taken,” I replied. “Maybe he’d listen to you if you told him.”

Isaiah laughed. “No way I’m listening to a lecture on the dangers of the white man. The white man pays me well here. I say if I stick it out for a year, smile, and trim hedges good, I can work my way up to a Touring.”

My friend thought having a nice car would solve all his problems.

“That’s no good,” I said, sitting beside him. “Because then you’ll leave Greenwood, and I’ll have no friends.”

“Well, you might have more if you put yourself out there!”

“Out where? I don’t want to put myself anywhere. I want to be a turtle.”

Isaiah ran off to a white veranda between the fountain and pool, perhaps to get a better look at my pathetic self. “You ought to learn to be a hare!” he said, folding his arms, leaning against the wood. “That brings me to what I wanted to talk to you about. If you’re interested, I’m sure the Vanderbilts can find you a nice job that would level up your money.”

I looked up at the woman in the window again. “I don’t think that lady wants me here.”

Isaiah looked up too. “I know Mr. Vanderbilt better than the missus, but I would hazard that staring back makes it worse.”

I took my eyes off the woman, but she continued to watch me. I could feel it.

I found a wobbly version of myself in the clear water of the fountain as I pondered Isaiah’s offer. Deep down I may have been tired of being such a dewdropper. “Perhaps I should get a better job,” I said. “Say I leave Greenwood to write for some paper outside this town. What could Pa say about that?” I met Isaiah’s eyes and felt a boldness creep into my bones. “What law is there says you have to work in the town you grew up in?”

“Not one.” Isaiah shrugged. “You could potentially take the first train up North tomorrow morning. But where would you go?”

“Chicago,” I answered.

He raised his eyebrows. “Not New York?”

“New York is too far,” I said. “And possibly too big. And too close to the water. I’d hate to drown.”

“So, you want to be somewhere better,” Isaiah said, his tone softly asking for assurance.

“Yes,” I admitted. “Not here, in Oklahoma, but if I could see more of the world, I think I would find my place in it. To become charming and adaptable, like you.”

Isaiah laughed lightly, accepting the compliment with a muted grace.

A low noise—a hiss—came from the grass, and then sprinklers around the property turned on, spraying us with water. I looked up to the window again and the woman was gone. Had she done that?

“Probably a sign it’s time to go,” Isaiah said, holding up his arms to shield himself from the spraying mist.

He broke into a jog down the pathway toward the gate, and I followed.

[no ornament]

Once home, I waited on my front porch in the dark for a moment, watching lightning bugs glow every few seconds around me. At last, the air was cool outside, but I hated this part of the day.

I unlocked and opened the door, stepping over the threshold as quietly as possible.

“Nick?” Pa called from his study, before I’d even closed the door. “That you?”

I found him in his room—a cave of the fixations that fueled his writing. His walls were covered with newspaper clippings from The Tulsa Star. They told of politicians trying to take our rights away and the rising heroes who would save them. On his desk, a burning candle sat beside a big globe, and behind the desk, a three-dimensional sailboat jumped out of its frame.

He gave me a glance, in between clacks on his typewriter. “Where have you been out so late?” His tone was direct. But his focus? On anything but me.

“Isaiah was showing me the fancy estate he works at now,” I said.

Pa paused his typing and faced me gravely. “You went to that side this late?”

“Yeah, he invited me after work. It was the only time I could go. But Isaiah got all kinds of connections over there and they all know him.”

Pa crossed his arms and furrowed his brow, a mixture of disappointment and quiet anger on his face. “But they don’t know you. They don’t know you from a wild hog, and they damn sure won’t treat you any better.”

I knew this already. Every other day it was some dismissive lecture about how little I knew of the world. How I’d only understand things when I was older. I was sick of it!

“I don’t think I should have a curfew anymore,” I said. It came out almost against my will. My words drenched the room in uncomfortable silence, and I regretted them right away.

Pa looked very confused. Then he started to laugh—something he rarely did. “That’s an odd statement because you’ve never had a strict curfew.”

“I mean I don’t think I should have to be home before dark. I don’t think . . . well, I think I’m old enough to come home when I please.”

“When you please.” Pa raised an eyebrow at me. “Nick, what are you talking about? What do you have to do at seventeen, besides go to work and come home? Are you looking to be traumatized by the world?”

I couldn’t quite explain to him what I wanted . . . a chance to explore life without worrying about trauma at all. The confidence to move through the world like I belonged in it. Like Isaiah. He was effortless. He didn’t waver. The only way I’d get like him was by breaking free from my father’s rules.

Pa looked from my eyes to my feet. “Your weight is down,” he said. “There are boys far more strapping than you being taken down every day. White folks are trying to take a young man down as we speak, over a rumor he’s attacked a white woman in an elevator, for which there is no evidence. Do you know what that means?”

I shrugged. I knew he’d tell me anyway.

He leaned forward in his chair. “It means a white man needs no true motivation to want to kill a Negro. Don’t ever tell me you should do what you please, Nick, until you’re really out there on your own. Understood?”

“Yes, Pa.”

I had to resign. He exited the conversation as if it were a story he had finished printing, already forgotten in favor of his next lead, and placed his full attention back on his work.

I stormed to my own room, heart in my chest. Maybe if I didn’t have to go somewhere else for work in the first place, I’d have no reason to be out late, sir!

I closed the door to my room and plopped down at my desk. I kept a little Chinese fan my mother had brought back from New York when she went to help Uncle Beet, Auntie Lorraine, and my cousin Daisy move seven years ago. Mama was in heaven now. A fire at her hospital took her away, but the fan helped keep her nearby. Next to it was this rolled-up map that Daisy gifted me before she left. She found this map at the train station; someone had left it behind.

In my annoyance, I unraveled the map. It showed the world in perfect detail, and it was labeled by color, which showed colonial possessions. So many places in the world were owned by people who weren’t from there originally. The colonizers tried to control them but they still found joy. Their spirits were invincible!

I traced my finger over the printed image, mapping exactly where I wanted to go. French West Africa and Brazil were at the top of my list. There were Negro boys there too, fighting back against control, but the boys there had different customs of living entirely.

Perhaps their fathers didn’t doubt their ability to brave the world on their own. Perhaps they were in control of their own destinies.

The post Read The First Chapter From ‘The Great Disillusionment of Jay and Nick’ by Ryan Douglass appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Faraway Inn by Sarah Beth Durst, which releases on March 31st 2026.

When sixteen-year-old Calisa arrives at her great-aunt’s B&B in rural Vermont for the summer, she’s shocked to find a rundown inn rather than the cozy bed-and-breakfast she was expecting. Grumpy and eccentric, Auntie Zee is determined to keep anyone from messing with her beloved inn . . . even though she clearly needs the help.

To convince her great-aunt to keep her around, Calisa sets to work fixing up the inn, enlisting extra help from the groundskeeper’s (handsome) son. But the longer she stays, the surer she is that there’s something strange about the B&B—and its guests. Something almost . . . otherworldly.

The inn is keeping a magical secret—but to protect the place she’s come to love, Calisa must unravel the truth before it’s too late.

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Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and the first chapter in audiobook format and the second in print from Her Hidden Fire by Cliodhna O’Sullivan, which is out March 3rd 2026.

In a world where dragons soar through the skies and magical abilities are an elite privilege, the ruling family of Ailm’s Keep is on a knife-edge: Can their son Ionáin prove that he can channel magic, or will his entire family be cast out in disgrace?

Éadha, a servant girl who loves Ionáin, is shocked to discover shortly before the test that she can wield magic herself. It’s extremely rare for a girl to have this talent, especially outside the few great Families. At Ionáin’s moment of truth, when it’s clear he is about to fail, Éadha makes a desperate gamble to save him from humiliation by pretending her magic is his, forfeiting her own claim to power.

Her decision sends them both to an academy of magic, where she must shield her secret from every grim Master and scheming apprentice—especially the handsome but enigmatic Gry. As Éadha enters this whirlwind of patriarchy, class, heartache, and jealousy, she also learns about magic’s terrible cost—the human price that Channellers willingly pay to maintain their power.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Half a Dark Heart by H. F. Askwith, which is out now.

The Horrors gain strength when things in our world are broken.

A bone. A promise. A heart.

Ever since she first encountered ‘The Horrors’, Alice has hidden herself safely behind the walls of her family’s Whitby guest house. Only her beloved sister, Lucille, knows why: that Alice can see things – gruesome, terrible things – in the darkest corners of our world. Shadow-monsters which will do anything to satisfy their violent cravings – and seemingly nothing can stop them. Of course, no one would believe them if they told them – and so the girls stay silent.

That is, until Lucille goes missing, and the boy she was in love with turns up dead. All of which coincides with the arrival of Austin – a dashing young actor from London, who claims a demon has stolen his voice, and only Alice can help him.

Faced with a world and powers she never even knew existed, Alice must race against time to save her sister, herself, and perhaps the only other person who’s ever cared about her. As well as send a demon or two back to where they came from . . .

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Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from The Sun and the Starmaker by Rachel Griffin, which releases on February 17th 2026.

Nestled deep in the snowy mountains of the Lost Range, the village of Reverie is a small miracle. Beyond the reach of the Sun, Reverie is dependent upon the magic of the mysterious Starmaker: every morning, he trudges across a vast glacier and pulls in sunlight over the peaks, providing the village with the light it needs to survive.

Aurora Finch grew up on tales of the Starmaker’s magic, never imagining she’d one day meet him. But on the morning of her wedding, a fateful encounter in the frostbitten woods changes everything. The Starmaker senses a powerful magic within her and demands she come study under his guidance. With her newfound abilities tied to the survival of the village, Aurora is swept away to his ice-covered castle and far from everything she’s ever known.

The Starmaker is as cold and distant as the mountain itself, leaving Aurora to explore his enchanted castle alone. Yet the more she discovers about the sorcerer, the stronger their attraction grows, pulling her closer to the secrets he refuses to share. But a deadly frost approaches and Aurora must uncover what the Starmaker is hiding before she is left in an endless winter that even the Sun cannot touch.

Prologue

Star-Crossed

Deep in the mountains of the Lost Range, in a small village on the tallest peak, a young girl was listening to a bedtime story. It was a story she had heard many times before, and yet when her parents tucked her in and she pulled her blankets close, it was always the tale of the Sun and the Starmaker that Aurora Finch wished to hear.

“There once was a village so far north that most considered it the top of the world,” her mother began, brushing a piece of long brown hair from Aurora’s face. “Or rather, they surely would have, had they known of its existence. But as very few did, the village was rarely considered at all.

“The Sun had always held a fondness for it, though. Nestled in the snow-covered mountains, the small village was the northernmost point her light could still reach year-round, and she thought it an intriguing curiosity that it was so far removed from the rest of the world.

“One day, the ground beneath the village began to shake, and the Sun watched in dismay as the plates of the Earth moved past each other. The gently sloped mountain that held the village cracked and broke, and steep rocky peaks rose up, taller than anyone had ever seen. So violent was the quake that the Sun could hear the terrible groaning of the Earth from her perch in the sky, a powerful, frightening sound that lasted longer than it took to read a child a bedtime story.” Aurora’s mother paused, winking at her. “As the mountain rose higher, so did the village, moving up and up and up until finally, the shaking stopped.

“The Sun tried to find the village, but a great cloud of dust hung in the air, blocking her view. Impatience ate away at her as she waited for the sky to clear, anxious to learn the fate of the small village at the top of the world.

“Days passed, then weeks, and finally, the dust settled.

“The Sun searched frantically for the village, surveying vast swaths of land, but she could not find it, not even a trace. Then, impossibly, she heard it.

“At first, she did not believe the sounds were real, sure she was making them up to ease her sorrow. But what had started as indistinct noise soon clarified into undeniable cries. The Sun tried to follow them, but still she could not find the source, and she realized with utter heartbreak that the movement of the Earth had shifted the village beyond her reach, surrounding it in jagged peaks that she could not rise above.

“The village had survived, but it was now shadowed in eternal darkness.”

Aurora’s favorite part of the story was approaching, and she turned to her sister, smiling in anticipation, but Elsie was already fast asleep. Aurora couldn’t believe her sister could sleep through so thrilling a tale, and she turned back to her mother, eager for her to continue.

“As hard as she tried, the Sun could not rise high enough to see the village, could not find her way over the severe peaks, and so she did the only thing she could do: she made herself human so she could go see the village for herself. And perhaps so she could say goodbye, for she knew it could not survive without her light.

“Her time was limited, of course, as the rest of the world needed her, but she knew she would be unable to let go of the village until she saw it one final time.

“When the Sun arrived on the mountain, she was wholly unprepared for what she found. The absence of light had created a colder cold than the village had ever known, and a deadly frost had begun to form. Plants and animals, dwellings and humans were covered in a frozen white film as if they were statues made of cloudy ice. The Sun was horrified, and she went from person to animal to plant, trying to save whatever she could. Whoever she could.

“It was then that she met a man who was doing the same, and he offered her his assistance.

“He taught her the burial rituals of the mountain and cried for each and every lost life, and she cried with him, a deeply human experience that moved her to her very core. They saved lives as well. The Sun was able to heal using the warmth within her, and slowly, the cries ebbed as more and more of the village recovered.

“The days were long and the work endless, but the Sun enjoyed the man’s company, and the man enjoyed hers. He answered the Sun’s questions about the villagers, such as how they spent their time at night when the Sun was on the other side of the world, and he taught her what it meant to share a meal and share a kiss and share a bed. And as they shared those things, they fell deeply in love.

“Finite time was particularly cruel when one found oneself in love.”

Aurora’s mother paused, looking behind her at Papa, absolute adoration in her eyes. They shared a moment that eight-year-old Aurora could not understand, and she tugged at her mother’s sleeve, impatient for the story to continue.

“Okay, okay,” her mother said, laughing. “The Sun had come to the village to say goodbye, but what she had found—resilience and beauty and love—were things she could not let perish. And so she spent her remaining time with her lover crafting a plan that would save not only him but his entire village.

“It was hasty and preposterous to be sure, a plan she wasn’t even certain was possible, but there is nothing quite like a woman desperate with love.

“When her time was up, the Sun took the man to the glacier at the edge of the village and created a lamppost using the magic within her. It rose up before them, a shimmering gold that glowed even in darkness, tall and sturdy and lasting. The lantern at the top of the post contained a glimmering hook that could hold only one thing: sunlight.

“‘Are you ready?’ the Sun asked, heartbreak straining her beautiful voice.

“‘I am not ready to live without you,’ the man replied, his eyes rimmed in red. ‘But I will do what I must to save my home, and every moment of every day, I will love you.’

“The Sun slowly reached out her hands. The man took them, and she held on tight.

“‘I thought I saw the world before, but I was wrong.’ She paused. ‘I see it now.’ She was the Sun, illuminating everything, but for the first time in her very long existence, someone had cast their light on her, and she shone brighter for it.

“‘I owe my life—and my home—to you. Thank you.’ The man’s voice cracked, and the Sun nodded because she did not trust herself to speak.

“The Sun kissed him, gentle and slow, and when a tear fell down her cheek and touched her lips, she pulled away and closed her eyes. She whispered incantations that stirred the power within her, heat and light tangling around each other, held together with magic. The Sun knew she was taking a risk, that they both were—she could very well incinerate him if she made the slightest error—but they had agreed that this was his best chance at living.

“The Sun met the gaze of her lover once more. She paused for a single beat of her heart, committing every line of his face to memory: the angle of his jaw and the curve of his lips and the crinkle of his eyes. She thought he was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Then, all at once, she sent her magic into him, flooding his bloodstream with her light, forming an unbreakable connection between them. He did not cry out when the heat found him. Instead he kept his eyes on the Sun, whispering his own sort of spell, one of devotion and sacrifice and a love that could span the whole universe.

“The Sun felt the enchantment take hold, and the man who had once been mortal now held her heart within him. His life stretched out before him, year after year after year, his body no longer aging. The mountain was his responsibility now. He would call to the Sun every morning, pull her light into the village, and though they could not be together, they would feel each other’s presence.

“The Sun held on to him as tightly as she could, even once the spell was done. She held on because the thought of letting go was unbearable. She knew that one day, many years hence, she would lose him entirely; true immortality could not exist in a human, not even one with her magic, and after he had lived a very long life, his body would be given to the mountain to fight the Frost. Then she would choose someone new to call her light each day. She had promised the man that his home would survive even in his absence, and it was a promise she would keep.

“They held each other for several breaths, and before the Sun ascended back into the sky, she kissed the man one last time as tears of gold fell down her face. Leaving him was the hardest thing she had ever done, but she would feel him in the mornings, pulling her light toward him, and that would be enough. It would have to be.

“The Sun wept as she was pulled away from him, clinging to his hands as she returned to the heavens, his fingers finally free of hers. She reached toward him, frantic for one more touch, but there was too great a distance between them, and she was met only with the frigid air. As she was dragged through the vast emptiness, she kept her eyes on his until he was no longer a man but rather a distant point of light in an otherwise dark void.

“The villagers came to call him Starmaker, but he thought of himself simply as hers.

“And so it was.

“He was hers, and though an astronomical amount of space had come between them, she was his.” Aurora’s mother smiled. “The end.”

There were tears in Aurora’s eyes, and she blinked them away, reminding herself to breathe. She loved the lore of the mountain, and yet it knocked the breath straight out of her every time she heard it. Her parents took turns kissing her on the forehead, and then they quietly slipped down from the loft, not giving a second thought to the unsettled look on their daughter’s face.

Bedtime stories were harmless, after all. Nothing like, say, a sharp rock or an open flame, both clear threats to a young child. But cuts could close and burns could heal, and if they were minor enough, they could be entirely forgotten in a few days’ time.

Not a story, though.

A story could weave its way into one’s mind, growing roots so vast and wide it could infiltrate one’s entire being, making it impossible to weed out. A simple story could turn into a great fear or a lifelong dream or a deep wound.

It could turn into anything, really.

Perhaps, then, a bedtime story was not so harmless after all, and one ought to be mindful of the stories one told.

The end, Aurora’s mother had said, but it wasn’t the end for Aurora. In fact, it was much more like a beginning.

Excerpted from The Sun and the Starmaker by Rachel Griffin, Copyright © 2026 by Rachel Griffin. Published by Sourcebooks

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘The Sun and the Starmaker’ by Rachel Griffin appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

This is a wonderful mix of genres with fantasy, dark academia, mystery, and a touch of horror all blended together into a brilliant nightmare. It feel so rich and layered, with plenty to explore around every corner. It helps that we are brought into this through the eyes of Emma, who is a fairly quiet and unassuming woman used to tumultuous change following her mother’s research. She is smart and has a single-minded focus of doing the best she can. The prestige of the University is alluring but also means she has to work ten times harder to keep up. Around her is glamour and wealth beyond her wildest dreams, so when she is tempted to have a taste, what happens next feels inevitable. Do not be fooled though as Caitlin Breeze has plenty of surprises in store along the way. It is a Gothic fairytale at times with flair and passion running through. Emma’s story is endlessly compelling and you’ll race through the pages to discover just what will happen next. Around her is a well-developed cast of characters that I thoroughly enjoyed (shoutout to the Librarian, Nat and Robin) and again, their stories hint at further yarns to be spun within this universe. There is backstory and intrigue aplenty. For me, it is a real mark of a good fantasy story where you feel like you could chase down the various story threads forever. 

I really enjoyed the way Breeze explores class dynamics, particularly within an English context. It is so keenly felt in our society and yet it can be like a quietly accepted division, only broached when it becomes impossible to avoid. Class is a huge power imbalance and we see it reflected in the real-life power structures Breeze references in the book. I am from the UK and instantly that kind of old boys club and the doors unlocked by grace of your last name and who you know are all too familiar. There is a universality to it but also within this context, a kind of specificity that is chilling. It lands with even more of an impact given the events of recent years and the certain type of person that is seemingly shielded from it all. Hand in hand with this is the patriarchal dominance instilled – even the women that are ‘in’ and have been part of the upper echelons for aeons are not truly part of this community. Breeze is careful to consider the intersectional nature of these deliberate divisions across class, gender and race, showing just how insidiously horrifying they are in isolation but tenfold more combined.

Emma is very much an outsider peeking into this world and that is hammered home in a fantastic sequence that does not entirely go the way you may think it does. From there, we move into new territory where Breeze’s creative imagination runs wild. It is such a gorgeously detailed world with plenty of lore and history that is touched on but I craved more. The tales here are fascinating and even the seemingly throwaway breadcrumbs feel like they have heft behind them. 

Everything builds to an action-packed conclusion that still has a few questions lingering. Like a classic faerie bargain, it is enthralling but feels like there may be more than meets the eye. I really enjoyed the literature references Breeze includes too. You come out of the book feeling like you have just stepped out of a nightmare and without giving anything away, that ending is memorable. I have high hopes that this may not be the last we see of Emma’s quest against the Turnbull Club.

The Fox Hunt is a beguiling gem of a book that stands out from the crowd with its twisted blend of genres and cutting social commentary, married with incredible characterisation and world-building that you could get lost in. 

The Fox Hunt is available Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookshop.org, Waterstones, and other good book retailers, like your local bookstore, as of February 17th 2026.

Will you be picking up The Fox Hunt? Tell us in the comments below!

Welcome to the University, where an ancient magic secures the right of elite society the Turnbull Club to rule – in exchange for a sacrifice to the hidden, magical world of the Night City …

When naïve student Emma Curran falls for the Turnbull Club’s leader, the glamorous Jasper Balfour, she enjoys parties and strange rituals – until one night, the Turnbulls propose a dark little game: a fox hunt. The women run. The men chase. And Emma is their mark.

Emma is ripped from her mortal life and transformed into something beastly, in thrall to the magical Night City. Now she must harness all her ferocity and cunning if she wants to claw back her mortal life and topple the Turnbull Club. And as dark magic spills through the University, bargains go unpaid and the Night City loses control, Emma must choose between seeking vengeance … and saving herself.

Perfect for readers of Ninth House, The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue and The Atlas Six

The post Review: The Fox Hunt by Caitlin Breeze appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Prodigal Tiger by Samantha Chong ahead of its release on March 17th 2026.

For five years, Caroline Chua has lived in exile from her home and family in Malaysia at a magical academy in New York City–far enough away that she can’t hurt the people she loves. That is until she is abruptly summoned home in an emergency—her beloved older brother, Aaron, who is next in line to become the Protector of the Island, has vanished. And now back in Penang, she can’t help but notice that things don’t feel the same as they once did and it’s unclear if she’s changed, or the island.

Despite her family’s desire to keep her close and the Council’s explicit instructions to stay out of trouble, stubborn, self-sufficient Caroline is hell-bent on saving her brother with or without anyone’s help. But when it turns out that Aaron has been kidnapped by vengeful ghosts with a centuries-old grudge, even Caroline must admit she’s in over her head and will need the help of the friends she had abandoned, including her first love, J.J.

The ghosts’ goals are simple: break the barriers between the ghost and mortal realms during the Hungry Ghost Festival using Aaron to take the island’s magic, and cement their rightful place as the true—albeit dead—rulers of the island. With only seven days before the barrier weakens, Caroline is in a race against time to save her brother. But as enemies stack up, always one step ahead, Caroline can’t help but wonder if she’s strong enough for this battle. Or is she doomed to repeat the mistakes that sent her away all those years ago?

PRODIGAL TIGER is a rich, cinematic celebration of Malaysian magic and folklore, as well as an emotional exploration of never quite feeling like your whole self after living in the diaspora.

ONE

The moon was full the night I almost died.

Leaves slapped at my skin as I dashed through rows of banana trees, crashing inelegantly through the grove. J.J.’s voice cracked behind me. “Caro, she’s coming!”

“I know!” I tried to pry magic from the air, scrambling to remember the protection spells I’d learned. The island’s magic pulsed in my hands, ready to serve, and my fingers twined around its silken threads to weave it together with my own magic. Shield spell, shield spell, shield spell, c’mon—­

For one fragile moment, the spell held: golden thread gleaming in the dark.

Then the island’s magic slipped from mine, and the shield dissolved. I cursed, abandoning this idea, and picked up speed. No island magic to rely on, ­then—​­just my own paltry strength and wits.

A tree root reared to trip me and send me sprawling. J.J.’s hand closed around my arm, pulling me up. His glasses glinted in the dim light. “I’ll distract her. Go, run, get ­help—­”

A ­high-​­pitched, deadly cackle reverberated through the trees. “Silly children,” a woman’s distorted voice chanted, singsong in an ominous rhythm. “Silly, silly children. Coming alone. No one to see them die.”

J.J. stumbled backward, pressing himself against a tree to hide as I tried again to conjure a spell. Panic burned my throat as the spell flickered, dying between my fingertips. My teacher’s voice echoed in my head, stern and resolute: Calm yourself. If you don’t control your own magic, you’ll never be able to properly use the island’s.

Before I could focus properly, a sharp whistle cut through the air. Something slammed J.J.’s head backward into the tree, and he crumpled soundlessly at its base. Jagged fingernails, sharply carved and deadly, closed around my arm and hurled me across the ­gravel-​­covered ground. I went tumbling, rocks biting into my skin as the ­half-​­formed spell shattered into pieces again.

The world went dark for a few moments as I slowly pushed myself to my feet. Details took shape slowly, revealing the nightmare of a creature looming over an unconscious J.J. Dim moonlight made the sliver of bone sticking out of J.J.’s arm gleam white, and cast shadows under his contorted, twisted leg. I watched, horrified, as the monster withdrew her hand, J.J.’s blood dripping off her fingers. Long lines of red streamed down his face, staining the collar of his shirt.

“Stop,” I begged, and the pontianak turned to assess me. Rows of discolored teeth glowed gray when the vampiric spirit bared her teeth. “Please don’t hurt him!”

I’d barely blinked before the pontianak grabbed me, her nails closing around my throat as I looked into the twin dying stars of her eyes. “You foolish child,” she rasped, choking me with the scent of rotten sulfur. “You thought you could kill me? Monsters aren’t so easily killed.”

I watched, terrified, as her bloodless lips ripped at the corners of her mouth, jaw unhinging wide to reveal dangling bones and flesh. My mouth went dry, unable to make a single sound. Only one thought pounded in my head as she curled a hand around my wrist: This is how I die this is how I die this is how ­I—­

Someone shook my arm. I jerked awake, my limbs flailing and almost smacking the flight attendant in the face. “Sayang,” she said, tone gentle, “is everything all right? You’re screaming.”

I stared at her, unable to reconcile the airplane’s bright lights with the darkness of the banana grove. The ­nightmare—​­memory, my mind reminded ­me—​­still clung to me like cobwebs, making my heart race. “What?” I croaked.

“You’re screaming,” the flight attendant repeated. She pinched her fingers and slowly peeled twin silencing and illusion spells away from the ceiling. Most of the ­non-​­magical, mortal passengers looked unaffected, and only a few busybody wizards were peering at me, so the attendants must have worked fast.

The attendant adjusted her position, rocking back on her heels. “Is everything okay?”

I pulled myself up, trying not to wince at the stinging ache in my back. “Bad dream,” I mumbled. “Can I, um, get some water?”

“Sure.” The attendant got up, patting my headrest. “We’re landing soon, though, so please put your seat upright.”

My seat companion, a little old lady, looked up from her book. “Hello, dear,” she said, her eyes crinkling at the sides. “You slept the whole way north from Singapore. Long journey?” She pointed at the small new york! <3 sticker on my phone, the one my roommate, Lydia, had gifted me as a joke. “Did you fly all the way from New York City?”

I nodded, hoping that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t. “Are you on vacation? First time here?”

“I’m from Penang,” I said shortly, pressing my palms to my eyes. “Visiting home.”

“Oh,” she chirped. “What brings you back?”

My brother is missing. “Family,” I said instead. Then, as a polite afterthought, I added, “I haven’t seen them since I moved abroad five years ago.”

“How brave of you to leave so young,” the woman said, beaming.

I forced a smile. Brave, yes. Certainly nothing to do with my exile. Explaining that would mean explaining the Incident, and I really didn’t feel like revisiting my nightmare.

The flight attendant appeared back by my side. “Compliments of the airline,” she said with a practiced smile, handing the woman a brochure: the ­non-​­magical version, judging by the color scheme. She handed me a different brochure and a glass of water. “And for you, ma’am.”

I flipped it open, even though I already knew what it would say. They hadn’t changed the tourism brochure in years, though it looked like someone had updated the fonts, at least. At the top, as always, it gleefully screamed: MAGICAL WIZARDS WELCOME! A glossy aerial photo of the island took up the top third of the page, followed by a cheerful paragraph: Want to make sure your personal battery of magic never runs dry? Boost it with the island’s repository today, whether you’re in the east or west! With one simple permit, you can rest easy with an unlimited supply of magic at your fingertips. All visitors welcome!

Right below was a yellow box, blinking brightly: Apply for a Magical Pass Today! A little dragon bounded around the page, jaws snapping on paper. I glared at it. Do I have to apply if I know the answer is no?

I followed the dragon to the other side of the brochure, where it danced and slithered around blocky letters that theatrically announced AUGUST: HUNGRY GHOST FESTIVAL at the top of the page. I sighed, tapping the words with my finger. Who told the High Magical Council about clip art?

Well. At least they were trying new things. That was not something you could usually say of the Council.

Skimming the brochure offered the barest level of information about the festival possible. I snuck a glance at the woman’s next to me; it didn’t have the fancy dragon, but it did say functionally the same thing. In the seventh lunar month, the barriers between the spirit and mortal realms are believed to grow thinner, allowing ghosts to emerge from the underworld to visit their ­descendants . . . Look out for lively performances meant to please the ghosts, lest they wreak ­havoc . . . The peak of the festival is known as the Hungry Ghost Festival. This is believed to be when the gates of the underworld open.

Mine had a live countdown: Seven more days until the Hungry Ghost Festival! And then an extra line, underlined in red ink: PLEASE ALERT AUTHORITIES IF YOU SEE MALEVOLENT GHOST ACTIVITY. I rolled my eyes at ­this—​­how like the Council to stir up fear about something that wasn’t actually a threat, just so they could crow at the end about how safe they were keeping the island.

I shut the brochure with an irritated flick, turning to look out the window past my seatmate. Thick, fluffy clouds cast long shadows over the little ­blue-​­bottomed fishing boats dotting the ­green-​­gray expanse of the sea. The sun caught the waves, causing the surface to glimmer.

If I closed my eyes, I could imagine Aaron hovering next to me, crowding against the window to marvel at the way the water gleamed under the sun. As children, we’d always flipped a coin before getting onboard a plane: heads, he would get the window seat; tails, and it was mine.

I stared deep into the waters. Where is he?

Overhead, the loudspeaker crackled to life. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are making our final descent into Penang International Airport. Welcome to Malaysia. For our ­first-​­time visitors, selamat datang, welcome, and to those returning home, selamat pulang, welcome back. Thank you for flying with Malaysia Airlines. We hope you had a pleasant flight. May your time here be enjoyable.”

As I emerged from the airport, the goose bumps the ­air-​­conditioner left on my skin evaporated in Penang’s warm, sticky humidity. I swept my messy strands up into a ponytail, keeping them out of my face and off my immediately sweaty neck. “Welcome home, Caroline Chua,” I muttered.

I’d been gone for five years, but everything seemed the same at first glance. Bored traffic cops, overdressed in dark blue ­button-​­ups and long, neatly pressed pants, waved cars aside with barely a glance. Palm trees still loomed outside the airport, framed by lush hills dotted with mushrooms of ­red-​­roofed bungalows. The island’s magic swirled around me, feeling as it did when I was a child: a rushing eddy of energy waiting to be controlled. My own personal ­magic—​­sharper, faster, and stronger after years of cultivating it in New ­York—​­stirred. I could see it take shape in my mind as its usual form of a tiger, bristling with strength as it sniffed curiously at the magic in the air.

Almost absently, I reached out to touch the island’s magic, but it bristled under my hand, feeling prickly and rough. I scowled, withdrawing my hand. That was something else that had stayed the same.

But while so much remained unchanged, I couldn’t help but notice there were just as many unfamiliar sights. Cars snaked in and out of a new colossal parking garage down the road. At some point, someone had taken out the local mamak stall and replaced it with a McDonald’s. And the biggest, most jarring change: a giant statue of my ­great-great-great-grandfather now stood in the center of the concourse. Mortals swarmed around it, unable to see the magic that hid it from their view, but I watched several wizards pause to admire it.

The monument depicted an imposing man standing on a ship, his carved granite face solemn and stoic as he peered out toward the ocean. In his right hand was a hammer, symbolizing how he’d built our magical side of the island from scratch; his left hand rested on the ship’s helm, long fingers curved around the ridges of the wheel. Every wizarding child on this island knew his name: Chua Yun Fan, the politician and warrior who’d ­single-​­handedly defended the island against bloodthirsty pirates and built the systems that led us to prosperity out of the ashes.

My family had traded on the Chua name, both literally and metaphorically. Generations ago, the earliest of us had sailed from the south of China to join the new streams of wizards and mortal traders thronging British Malaya. They’d brought their Hokkien traditions with them, pioneering new ways to safely cross the ocean. When my great-great-great-grandfather had been born, astrologers had told his father that he was truly a son of the wild ­seas—​­that he would turn the tides of our family’s fortune, bringing great glory and riches to his name.

Decades later, he’d done just that. I could hear my friend Zati exaggeratedly reading it to me from our history textbook: The siege of Penang was broken when Naval Commander Chua Yun Fan led a successful battalion to destroy Ooi Kai Tsiang and his pirate ships during the Straits Emergency, restoring prosperity to the ports and allowing trade to flourish in the region again.

And that’s why Caroline gets to boss us around, J.J. had said solemnly. One day she might be the High Protector, and then we’ll get to tell everyone about how she stole our fries during ­lunch—­ He’d broken off, chortling as I shoved him.

I hefted my bag onto my shoulder, skin prickling with discomfort and sticky humidity as I turned away. Where Chua Yun Fan had stayed and built his entire life into this island, I had fled. He’d built our family name from the ground up, and in one night, I’d almost torn it to pieces. It was almost funny how fragile legacy could be.

Anyway, I was here to find out what I could about Aaron’s disappearance. Everything else was secondary. Once I found him, I could vanish. Nobody would miss me. It had been five years since I’d left; everyone had probably moved on by now.

A streak of silver caught my eye, and I turned to see two tall twin girls, almost identical save for their hair color, walking toward me. I swallowed hard, surprised to see them. I hadn’t expected to run into old friends so ­soon—​­I’d thought I’d have at least an afternoon before my arrival was made public. I wasn’t ready; I wasn’t prepared.

One twin lifted her hand in greeting. “Caroline!”

Dammit. It was too late to make a run for it.

I managed a weak grin as they approached me. “Hi, Bella,” I said weakly. “Hi, Tina. What are you both doing here?”

“Picking you up,” Arabella Lim replied. Her mouth curved in a cool, polite smile. “Obviously.”

They were taller and tanner than I remembered. Athena and Arabella Lim were both nineteen, like Aaron. The Lims were the other prestigious family on the island, having continually served on the Council for generations since Chua Yun Fan’s time. The twins, Aaron, and I had all grown up together, and even though the three of them had ganged up on me for being younger, they’d always made sure to include ­me—​­and later, my best friends, J.J. and Zati.

I’d always admired them: ­cool-​­headed, clever Arabella and ­electric, bold Athena. Where Athena went, Arabella always followed, like the sun and moon. I’d always thought they’d had a soft spot for me. But the way they were looking at me ­now—​­arms folded, shoulders straight, wearing expressions that were carefully neutral (Arabella) and outwardly critical (Athena)—​­didn’t bode well.

Athena broke the stalemate. She flicked her silver hair over her shoulder, and the smell of sharp lemongrass mixed with the chemical, summery scent of sunblock hit my nose. “Look who’s finally returned,” she said, a chunky ­jade-​­and-​­silver-​­studded bangle falling around her wrist.

Arabella threw an arm around me in a ­one-​­armed hug, pushing up her round glasses with her other hand. “It’s been a while, Caro. Welcome home.”

Athena smiled, though on her it looked vaguely like a predator baring its teeth. “Any reason why you haven’t even bothered contacting us in the last five years?”

I stiffened, the accusation of my neglect stinging a little. Par for the course, ­really—​­Athena had never particularly cared about niceties. But I decided to be polite anyway. “I was busy.”

Arabella, ever the diplomat, changed the subject as she adjusted her arm across my shoulders for a more secure grip. “How’s school?”

“Fine.”

Athena turned on her heel, and out of habit, like we always did, Arabella and I fell into step behind her, heading down the ­concourse. “Should have updated Instagram every once in a while,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to see New York.”

“The Academy doesn’t allow Instagram,” I muttered, still irritated. I swallowed down the added snark of And I wasn’t on vacation, remember? Instead, I said, “I don’t like social media, anyway.”

Athena arched an eyebrow. “Are you sure you’re a normal ­eighteen-​­year-​­old?”

“Leave her alone, Tina,” Arabella intervened, finally letting go of me. She tapped my bag. “Let me help you with this.”

“It’s fine, I can handle it,” I said, hiking it even higher onto my shoulder to prove a point. “What do you know about Aaron?”

The twins exchanged a glance before Arabella said, “You should talk to your parents about that.”

I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but Athena meaningfully cleared her throat as we arrived at the glowing transport room, where magical gates waited to take magical travelers all over the island. Her implication was clear: Not here.

The gatekeeper, a bulky giant of a man, didn’t even look up at us as we entered. As the gates flashed and glowed with all the different wizards coming and going, he said in a bored voice, reading off the script in front of him, “Hello, and welcome to ­Penang—­”

“Not to cut in here,” Arabella intervened politely, “but we’re in a little bit of a hurry.” She flashed him a smile and held out her palm, a flicker of silver magic dancing between her fingertips before settling into the shape of a palm tree. “Council business.”

He grunted and waved us through, allowing us to skip the queue for registration and get in line for the gates instead. I glanced at the twins. “You’re on the Council?”

“Uncle Leonard petitioned to expand the Council to include us once we came of age,” Arabella explained. She smiled. “We’re the youngest there, so it’s kind of nice. We’re making history.”

I tried not to scowl at the memory of the twins’ uncle. I had ­better things to do than waste my time hating on Leonard Tan or thinking about how irritating it could be to work with a Council who dug their heels in at every turn. Rather than picking at this particular grudge, I went for a safer option. “And how’s your mom?”

“Ah, she’s having a great time.” Arabella stepped up to the gate, which yawned open. White light spilled out from inside. “She’s actually in London right now visiting family.”

She flicked her wrist, and her magic took on the form of spellthreads that wove themselves into the island’s swirling magic, ready to take us from one strategically placed gate to another on the island. It would only take a few seconds, but my hair still stood on end. My magic paced, a fretful tiger rumbling anxiously. Aaron had always laughed at how nervous I got taking these gates; they always made me feel like my skin was being turned inside out.

At least the ride was quick. The gate safely spat us out, sending us stumbling into a hidden park tucked discreetly between two mortal houses. I dusted myself off before I turned on the twins. “What do you know?” I demanded again. “It’s just us now. What’s going on?”

“Always the questions.” Athena spun around, irritation clear in every line of her body. “Well, we don’t have any answers. Come on. In ten seconds, you can ask your parents everything you want to know.”

The post Read The First Chapter From ‘Prodigal Tiger’ by Samantha Chong appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt in print and audio formats from Red Star Rebels by Amie Kaufman, which is out now.

It’s 2067, and the Graves family has transformed Mars from a lifeless rock into a chaotic patch of settlements. You can buy a one-way ticket to a new life–if you’re rich.

Enter Hunter Graves, the handsome, ambitious grandson of the man who settled Mars. With spectacularly bad timing, Hunter arrives at the United Nations base just as an emergency evacuation sends everyone scurrying for safety. Except he’s left behind. Uh-oh.  

Also stranded: Cleo, a sharp-tonged stowaway with no intention of dying today, and even less patience for overconfident trust fund boys. But the enemy of your enemy might just help you survive, so here we are.

It turns out the evacuation is just a cover for the mercenaries who come next, and the plan to blow up the base–and every trace of their crime–in eight hours.

Now, Hunter and Cleo have one shot to stop the explosion, escape alive, and deal with the inconvenient fact that they’re falling for each other.

The clock is ticking.

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The post Read or Listen To The First Two Chapters From ‘Red Star Rebels’ by Amie Kaufman appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from A Practical Guide to Dating a Demon by Hannah Reynolds, which releases on February 3rd 2026.

As a scholarship student at the magical Lyceum, Naomi would rather focus on deciphering ancient scrolls than dating. Especially since the only boys asking her out are less interested in a night in Naomi’s company than an introduction to her influential aunt.

So Naomi devises an excuse to turn down her persistent suitors: She claims to be betrothed to a demon.

Her story works perfectly. Until she arrives home one night and finds the demon Daziel lounging in her rooms, insisting he’s her betrothed. Naomi knows he’s lying—after all, the betrothal was never real—but the gorgeous and infuriating demon is surprisingly resistant to her banishing spells. And with his penchant for baking and home décor, it’s not so bad having him around.

Besides, she has other worries—like the ancient scroll she’s trying to translate, and the way the city’s magic has become suddenly unstable. But the more Naomi learns about the scroll, and the more she gets to know Daziel, the more it seems like she might be at the center of something bigger than she could have imagined.

ONE

In the city of Talum, the winds were strong, the magic thick, and everyone knew each other’s business.

My floormate, Leah, nudged me as we crossed campus. It was late in the ­day—​­the setting sun painted the Lyceum’s marble buildings a tawny gold, and warblers sung from leafy branches as students laughed and shouted. “Your latest suitor,” Leah said with a wicked grin.

I groaned. Sure enough, a boy in a gray blazer lingered before the open brass gate. Beyond, a land bridge led from the Lyceum’s peninsula to the rest of the island. Everyone crossed here to leave campus, so it was a great place to catch someone. “Let’s hide.”

“Too late.” Leah’s brown eyes were bright, her expression impish. “What number are we up to now?”

“I’m not telling.” We slowed, other students swirling around us. The majority of us wore ­school-​­issued blazers made of ­twill-​­worsted wool to protect against the winds. They varied in color based on which of the five Lyceum schools we attended, but the gold emblem emblazoned on the breast remained the ­same—​­an open book against a stylized tree. Leah and I wore blue, for the School of Humanities, paired with sensible blouses and trousers tucked into sturdy boots.

Leah smirked. “Eight, is it?”

“Seven,” I corrected quickly, as though one fewer were any better. Leah cackled while the boy caught sight of us.

Ephraim was ­reed-​­thin with freckles stark against his pale face. We had the same Old Cinnaian language class, and we’d worked together on a project last week. He seemed smart and nice enough, save an irritating habit of ­second-​­guessing my work.

“Naomi.” He wiped damp hands on his pants and swallowed hard enough to bob the amulet around his neck. “Hi.”

My father’s advice about confronting mice back home flashed through my mind: They’re more scared of you than you are of them. I suppressed a sigh. “Hey, Ephraim.”

“Well, I’m off.” Leah sounded delighted to leave me in this awkward situation, which would make a good story for her tomorrow. “You two have fun.”

I shot her a pleading look. If she stayed, maybe I’d avoid Ephraim’s inevitable question. “Aren’t we walking home together?”

She shook her head, the crystal studs in her ears glinting in the ­early-​­autumn light. “I have a date.”

We’d both been in Talum only a month, but Leah had already gone on more dates than I had in my entire life. Admittedly, I’d been on none. I was torn between admiration and exhaustion at her social life. “Right. See you later.”

“I’ll walk you home.” Ephraim spoke unsmilingly, as though a graver utterance had never been made. He was a serious boy, as all these ­gray-​­blazered School of Government boys seemed to be. Their school’s main requirement seemed to be a dour expression and the inability to take a ­joke—​­or a hint.

I tried not to sound pained. “Sure.”

We crossed the land bridge over the Lersach River into Issachar ­Quarter—​­the Scholars’ ­Quarter—​­where students and academics lived in shoulder‑­to‑­shoulder buildings above bookshops and cheap pubs. I decided to nudge Ephraim and get this over fast. “What’s up?”

“Oh. Uh.” He gave me an appraising look as we turned up Avenue de Bedzin, which cut through Issachar Quarter like an artery. Wind tugged at our clothes. City fashion favored trousers instead of long skirts like back home; without weights in the hem, skirts could easily gust up. People usually wore their hair either short or braided, and I’d bound my own long brown curls in the student style of four braids knotted at the nape.

But despite my best efforts at looking presentable, my ragged shirt had come untucked from my secondhand trousers, and the sole of one boot was ­half-​­detached. Even the frayed red string around my wrist looked ready to disintegrate. Like the amulet around my neck, I wore it to protect against demons. Superstition said if it fell off, you were about to meet your spouse.

I hoped Ephraim noticed the bracelet was still securely tied.

He cleared his throat, obviously steeling himself against my dismal appearance. “Are you going with anyone to the graduation festival?”

And there it was.

I wish I could say seven boys had asked me to the Lyceum’s festival because of my dazzling beauty and wit, or for my skill at languages, which had landed me my scholarship.

This was not the case.

“No, Ephraim,” I said tiredly. “I’m not going with anyone to the festival.”

“Really.” Ephraim braced his shoulders. I could almost taste his nervous anticipation. “You’re not?”

“Nope.” The avenue opened onto one of the quarter’s main squares, where loud music and rowdy debates drifted from pubs. We cut across the plaza, passing elderly folk playing games of strategy. Globes of ­neshem-​­powered light blazed in ­wrought iron lamps to hold back the darkness. Children chased each other around the bronze statues at the plaza’s center, which depicted the three primordial beasts of ancient mythology: the Behemoth, a ­desert-​­dwelling monster; the Leviathan, a sea serpent with piercing eyes and brilliant scales; and the Ziz, a ­griffin-​­like bird with a wingspan capable of blocking out the sun.

Ephraim took my hand and pulled me to a stop, his skin clammy with sweat. “Would you like to go with me?”

Oy. I tugged my hand from his grasp and kept walking. “Thanks, but no.”

Ephraim followed, sounding surprised. “Are you waiting for someone else to ask?”

All the boys did ­this—​­they wouldn’t take a simple no for an answer. They’d all pressed on against my every excuse. Well, almost every excuse.

If it hadn’t been so infuriating, it might have been ­flattering—​­except I knew it wasn’t me they were interested in. It was an introduction to my ­aunt—​­a member of the Great ­Council—​­that made them so desperate to bring me to the festival where she would be in attendance.

To deter my unwanted suitors, I’d settled on a stronger deterrent, one girls in my village had used for ages. I’d first dropped it glibly, a sarcastic whim born more out of frustration than expectation it would work. “I can’t go with anyone.”

“Why not?” Ephraim thrust his chin forward.

“Because I’m already spoken for.” Around us, a fresh easterly wind tugged at the fronds of palm trees in the plaza. A few birds took flight, though most remained. A small ­blue-​­and-​­orange kingfisher swiveled its head and looked, I swear, right at me. “I’m betrothed.”

Ephraim looked skeptical. City folk thought eighteen was young for an engagement, except in unusual circumstances. “To whom?”

I smiled sharply. Because my circumstance was most unusual and impossible to argue against. “To a demon.”

I wasn’t, obviously, betrothed to a demon.

The lie was so silly I had a difficult time keeping a straight face each time I told it. I’d been shocked it’d worked, actually. But people don’t mess with demons, especially not city folk. At home, everyone has crossed paths with demons a time or two at the border market, where they traded strange feathers or stones, but Talumizans had almost no exposure.

It’s not like I was an expert. I knew the basics: Demons lived in the vast plains in the center of ­Ena-​­Cinnai, between the western port cities, like Naborre, and the Lersach River. Some said demons had their own cities in the desert, carved into towering limestone cliffs. Others said they inhabited the cities of ancient human civilizations who’d dared to press into the wilderness only to pay the price with death and ruin. Since the ­long-​­standing treaty between humans and demons prevented us from entering their lands, we knew very little.

Just enough to make us blanch, as Ephraim did now. “A demon?”

“Yes.” I turned onto one of the streets branching off the plaza like spokes on a wheel. It sloped down toward the edge of the island, toward the dorms. “He’s terribly jealous.”

“Huh.” Ephraim sounded stumped. “What’s his name?”

“Um.” No one had ever asked for a name before. I cast about. “It’s Daziel.” Many demons’ names ended in -​­iel, didn’t they? “The demon Daziel is my betrothed,” I said again, trying to sound convincing.

“How did you meet?”

Wow, this boy really wanted details. Usually, people backed off immediately. I’d never spun an in‑­depth story before, and I floundered. “I’m from one of the northwestern plains villages, close to the borderlands. I ­was . . . out picking ­flowers . . . and I wandered too close to the wilderness, and there he was. Daziel, my demon betrothed. And we fell madly in love.”

Inwardly, I winced. I was too busy minding my three younger sisters to go out gathering flowers. Plus, I wasn’t stupid enough to linger by the border.

Ephraim, apparently, didn’t have a high enough opinion of my intelligence to find this suspicious. “I didn’t know demons and humans could marry.”

Could humans and demons marry? Another thing to which I had no answer. The grandmothers in my ­village—​­some with a knowing gleam in their ­eyes—​­had warned us about how seductive demons could be. It wasn’t impossible a village girl had run off with a demon before. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“What do you even talk about? With a demon?” When I glanced at Ephraim with likely wild eyes, he held up his hands. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Mazel tov. When’s the wedding?”

I let out a sigh of relief. “It’s a long engagement. Not until after I graduate.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then refocused. “So, do you have any single sisters or cousins?”

***

The wind picked up after I ditched Ephraim, chimes pealing out as the eastern breeze strengthened. I’d sailed down the Lersach into Talum a month ago, when gentle, humid winds carried memories of ­sun-​­soaked summer days. Now, as autumn edged in, the winds had abandoned their warmth, though I’d been told the bitterly cold Trio Winds wouldn’t arrive until winter.

The winds influenced everything here, from fashion to architecture. Testylier House, my residence hall, was a ­five-​­story sandstone building with thick walls to block out the wind. The roof barely sloped so the winds would have difficulty peeling tiles away.

The door to Testylier House bore the same emblem as my ­jacket—​­an open book against a tree. Inside the foyer, a few worn but presentable chairs stood by the mailboxes. A desk took up most of the space, behind which the dorm’s guardienne, Madame Hadar, often sat. Her sharp eyes caught everything.

I opened my mailbox, anticipation surging at the sight of a beat‑­up packet with Mom’s handwriting. A creamy white envelope, which I ignored, lay alongside it. I ripped open the packet as I started up the stairs to the fifth floor, where I lived with Leah and two other scholarship students.

Two giggling girls came flying around the bend, their arms linked. They wore long coats with flaring skirts, much more fashionable than our school blazers, and kitten heel lace‑­up boots I coveted on a ­soul-​­deep level. The three of us pulled to an awkward stop.

“Oh, hello.” Élodie bat Amit straightened the sleeves of her royal blue coat. Birra Shachar said nothing, fixing her gaze over my shoulder. They’d piled their hair high and embellished it with jewels and flowers. You’d need wire frames, hair pads, a jar of mousse, and a thousand ­pins—​­all of them ­enchanted—​­to secure it against the winds. In Talum, the styles of the rich seemed to exist to show they had the resources to be impractical.

My aunt had suggested I befriend girls like these, Talumizans from powerful families, but we had nothing in common, save family members with the same job.

Aunt Tirtzah served as one of the six representatives of the Judahite tribe on the Great Sanhedrin, the highest court in the land. I only grasped how important people considered my aunt when strangers went out of their way to be ­nice—​­or invite me to the graduation festival. She had a palatial house on Society Hill, the most exclusive neighborhood in the city. But the house was hers only as long as she served on the Sanhedrin. She wasn’t really wealthy, not like these two. And these girls knew it.

“Hi.” I forced a smile. “How are you two?”

“Great,” Élodie said. “Heading out for the evening.”

“We got invited to a party at the Rocks,” Birra burst out, as though she couldn’t help herself. I tried to keep my stab of jealousy off my face. The Rocks lay on the southern side of the island, and I’d never heard of ­first-​­years attending the upperclassman parties there.

“What are you up to?” Élodie asked, scrupulously polite. She was in the School of Government, and I’d have been shocked if she didn’t run for the Sanhedrin herself one day.

“Studying.” If I didn’t maintain high grades, I’d lose my scholarship and be sent home. “I have an Intro to T3 test tomorrow.”

They both winced. Intro to Theurgy and Thaumaturgy Theory was required for ­first-​­years and unanimously hated. “Good luck,” Élodie said, and the two of them were gone.

Continuing up the stairs, I skimmed my family’s letters hungrily. Dad reported on his current woodworking project and asked about my classes; Grandma gossiped about neighbors and my sisters; Mom said everyone loved and missed me, reminded me to eat well and get enough sleep, and asked if I’d made friends.

I swallowed hard. I wouldn’t tell my family and worry them, but it hadn’t been easy to adjust to life as a Lyceum student. I loved Talum, and I’d been lucky to bond with the girls on my floor, but I felt out of my depth at school. While I might have been the most dedicated student in my village, I was nothing special at the Lyceum. Dad had tried to warn me, but I’d been too excited to listen.

Dad had grown up in Talum. He’d left at seventeen to become a sailor, to his parents’ dismay, then met my mother on leave in Port Naborre and never gone back. He knew what the city was ­like—​­and he had been right. The brightest student in a high plains village was considered deeply mediocre at the fabled Lyceum. I had an ear for ­languages—​­my mother’s mother had spoken to me in her singsong southern dialect since I was a child, and I’d picked up foreign tongues from sailors in Port ­Naborre—​­but I didn’t have eighteen years of formal study.

Sighing ruefully, I skimmed my sisters’ letters, though the last envelope nagged at me. Better to get it over with fast. I ripped it open.

Dear Naomi,

I am hosting a festive gathering next month, on the 22nd. I will send a carriage for you at six. Please confirm you have an appropriate outfit. If not, I will send something.

Aunt Tirtzah

My stomach clenched. I’d met my aunt only once, and I wasn’t eager to repeat the experience. Also, what did “an appropriate outfit” entail?

A skittering up the stairs distracted me. I had no time for unwanted suitors, a looming exam, and a mouse. Cautiously, I took another ­step—​­and saw something glowing red with a long tail whip around the bend.

I blinked. Surely I hadn’t seen a salamander. ­Salamanders—​­according to ­legend—​­were born from stone calcite burned for seven years in fires built of myrtle wood. They died as soon as they were removed, their blood used to make one impervious to flame. It’d been a long day; I was imagining things.

At the top of the stairs, a worn carpet lined the wooden floor, threadbare from thousands of footsteps over the years. Lights glowed in ­old-​­fashioned brass sconces, etched with the standard spell for lighting; the four of us had a schedule for painting them every morning with neshem oil so they didn’t run out of power. At the end of the hall was my favorite detail: stained glass windows depicting olive trees.

Four doors faced each other, leading into matching sets of rooms. As I neared mine, I slowed. Something was off. Light glowed from the crack beneath the door, and I never left my lamps on. A faint scent, like the wind blowing off the desert, made the back of my neck prickle.

Had Leah been home, I’d have knocked on her door, but she was gone, and so were the ­others—​­Jelan and Gilli had a late class today. If I was smarter, more cautious, or less tired, I would have called in ­reinforcements—​­the gendarme, or a rabbi, or someone from one of the other floors at least. But wasn’t it usually your imagination when you suspected a villain was hiding in your shower? I braced myself and opened the door.

Someone was sitting on the sofa.

The air around him wobbled, distorted like the shimmer above a fire. His bronze skin glowed from within. Perched on his shoulder sat a small, luminous red salamander.

When I entered, he looked up from the book in his lap, which I recognized as a present from my mother: A Household Guide to Demons. His eyes were a pure, glossy black, no whites, no irises. His mouth turned up at the corners. “Hello, darling,” he said, and his voice sounded like smoke, silvery and strange. “Welcome home.”

TWO

Students at the Lyceum of Talum belonged to one of five schools: the School of Science, the School of Humanities, the School of Engineering, the School of Government, or the School of Religious Studies. Each taught students to write new spells and adjust old ones in their specialization. My yearlong scholarship came from the School of Humanities.

Which meant, notably, I had no clue how to defend myself except through biting social commentary and deflective humor. So instead of tossing out a banishment or containment spell, I defaulted to my baser instincts.

I screamed.

The demon winced and covered his ears. The salamander darted beneath the neckline of his crisp white shirt.

“Who are you?” I looked around frantically. It turned out I didn’t own weapons. The living room consisted of soft, pretty ­things—​­the thick carpet, several throw pillows and blankets, curtains. I had a lamp with an outrageous fringed shade, but it was on the other side of the ­room—​­next to the demon. Besides, it was large and unwieldy and I might be too weak to swing it. “What do you want?”

“I’m Daziel.”

“What?” How did he get in here? I glanced at the mezuzah on my doorframe, which should have kept demons out. It appeared intact. Pressing my palm to my collarbone, I felt the firm disk of my amulet, still there. What had I done wrong? My gaze caught on my mirror, which I’d lugged from a thrift market to the tram and up the stairs. Mom had said I should redo a mirror’s protective castings every six months or keep it covered, and I hadn’t. “Did you come through the mirror? What about the wards?”

“Don’t worry about those,” the demon said, as though I’d been concerned he might get accidentally locked out. “As your betrothed, I have the right to your space.”

My betrothed.

Oh.

This was bad. My mother had told me that naming a demon risked drawing one’s attention. I’d thought I was being clever, but now I realized I’d been very, very stupid.

Taking a deep breath, I studied the demon before me. He looked my age and mostly human, save the fathomless black eyes. Faint lines formed a pattern of shimmery feathers along his neck, disappearing under his shirt collar. His nails were black and came to a point like talons. Gleaming black stones filled the gauges in his ears, and a giant ring with red stones encircled his right pointer finger. No necklace, unlike most ­Ena-​­Cinnaians, who wore amulets both for protection and to show our tribal ­allegiance—​­like the Naphtali amethyst around my own neck.

A wild demon, I ­suspected—​­as intelligent and savvy as a human but chaotic, prone to mischief and capricious behavior.

I tried to remember what A Household Guide to Demons said about ridding one’s home of a wild demon, but I’d barely flipped through the book. I fell back on childhood spells, more superstition than magic, singing a protective song my grandmother had taught me for when I walked alone outside the village.

The demon blinked and didn’t move.

Okay. Fine. Sidling along the wall, I snatched from my bookcase a miniature shofar Dad had given me when I was twelve. When I blew it, the ram’s horn emitted a piercing sound, but the demon didn’t flee.

Instead, he frowned. “You’re very loud.”

The audacity. “You broke into my rooms.” I blew the shofar again, louder. When I tried a third time, no sound came out. I stared at the shofar, betrayed and bewildered, before transferring my gaze to the demon. “What did you do?”

“Do you want the technical explanation about how I stopped the molecules from vibrating?” I couldn’t tell if he was in earnest or teasing ­me—​­I thought it might be the latter, but he was too inhuman to read. “I find usually humans don’t.”

“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about. I had no idea what was happening. I had no idea I was so bad in a crisis. “What are you doing here? You can’t just make things not work. That’s—​­unsettling. And rude.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t sound apologetic; he sounded put out. The little salamander popped out of his shirt and curled up in a ball on his shoulder, resting its narrow head on its hindquarters. Its eyes were as black and glossy as the demon’s. “But I think it’s rude to cast spells to banish shedim with malicious intent when I have none.”

Demons weren’t always malicious, but they might accidentally ruin your life for the entertainment value. Especially wild demons, known for seeking larks and pleasure at any cost.

On the other hand, ­Ena-​­Cinnaian demons upheld the same laws of hospitality and good behavior as humans did. They considered themselves scrupulously polite. This demon had called me rude, so maybe I should backpedal. I softened my voice. “Do you mind sharing why you’re here? Is there something I can help you with?”

“I’m visiting.”

Right. Because that was normal, demons visiting the Scholars’ Quarter. “If you need a place to stay, you could try one of the local inns. The Drowned Pelican at the end of the street is supposed to be very nice.”

He turned his gaze to me. Unnervingly, when his onyx eyes moved, iridescent color crossed them like light striking black mother‑­of‑­pearl. “Why would I stay at an inn instead of here, with my betrothed?”

Unease curdled my stomach. I started shaking my head and didn’t stop. “That’s just a story I tell to get guys off my back.”

“You said ‘I’m already betrothed’ and ‘to the demon Daziel.’ ” He smiled, incisors sharp like a carnivore’s. “We are madly in love.”

A horrible thought burbled up. If this demon’s name really was Daziel, I might have accidentally summoned him. Which could be very bad.

Millennia ago, humans and demons warred. Demons consumed human vitality, and humans bound demons for their power. Demons were pure magic, while humans could only manipulate magic. Spellcasters used bound demons to power letterform magic instead of using neshem crystals as we did today. The demon wars led to the empty cities in the ­wilderness—​­and a treaty renewed every twenty years.

Summoning a demon probably wasn’t illegal by itself, though what did I ­know—​­it could be against the treaty. It was definitely illegal to bind demons. “You’re not bound to me or anything, are you?”

The demon tilted his head; one of his dark curls fell across his forehead. “Isn’t a betrothal a type of bind?”

“I release you,” I said once hurriedly, then twice more to make sure. “I release you. I release you.” I opened the door to the hallway. “You’re free! I’m so sorry.”

He stared at me. The tiny salamander stared at me. “I was joking. I ­meant—​­because it’s a vow? Vows bind you together?”

“Demons joke?” That was almost as startling as anything else. I glanced out the door. What if I lured him outside, like a pesky fly, then ran back inside and closed the door?

He frowned. “Where are you going?”

“Just—​­a nighttime stroll.” I took a few steps. “Maybe you want to come with me?”

For a moment I didn’t think he’d fall for it, but then he flowed to his feet and followed me over the room’s threshold and into the hall. I backed up to the stairwell. He took another step too, and another. Wow. Okay, this was working. I smiled, tentative relief growing, and he began to smile back.

Then I lurched forward and past him in a mad dash toward my rooms. I slammed the door so hard the clap reverberated up my arms and in my ears.

But I’d done it, the demon’s surprised expression etched into my mind.

Letting out short, fast breaths of relief, I turned the lock. It’d worked. I’d vanquished a demon.

I turned around and saw the demon sitting on the couch.

My mouth dropped open. “You’re kidding me.”

He looked irritated. “That was also rude.”

“It wasn’t—­” I swallowed my words. I wasn’t getting into a fight about courtesy. “Look. I’m sure I’m ­very—​­flattered—​­by your attention, but there’s been a misunderstanding. You’re not my betrothed. I don’t want a betrothed! Like, thank you for coming out here, I appreciate you taking the time, but if you could ­just . . . go, that’d be great.”

His tone and expression were perfectly pleasant, as though this was a normal situation. “We are betrothed.”

Surely this demon didn’t actually think we were engaged?

Okay. If there was a demon in my rooms who wouldn’t leave, I needed to leave. I could go to Madame Hadar, the guardienne. If she didn’t know banishment spells, she should at least know who to contact. I wouldn’t be thrilled to approach ­her—​­her nephew had asked me out, and admitting I’d lied about a demon betrothed wouldn’t look ­great—​­but needs must.

Or maybe Gilli and Jelan were home by now. I wasn’t used to asking others for ­help—​­I was used to being the oldest sister, the one in ­charge—​­but this problem was too big for me alone.

I headed back to the door.

“I’m not following you this time.” He sounded worried and sulky, and his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

“Fine.” I felt a little better, a little more in control. It was hard to fear a pouting boy, no matter his species. “But I know better than to stay in my rooms with a demon.” I grabbed my keys and headed out.

Sure enough, the demon Daziel followed, scowling as I knocked on Gilli’s door. “Why are ­you—­”

It swung open. A petite, pretty girl stood there in white loungewear. She’d threaded ribbons through her pigtails and tied them in a bow at the top of her head.

“Naomi, hi,” Gilli said with a sweet smile. When we’d first met during move‑­in, I thought her earnestness might grate on me, but she turned out to be inescapably endearing. “What’s up? Want to come in?”

“Thanks.” I felt an awkward shyness. Though I liked Gilli and Jelan, we’d only known each other a month, and we hadn’t spent as much time together as me and Leah; mostly, we were either in separate duos or a group. “I’m having a bit of a night.”

Inside, Jelan sat in an armchair. She wore half her hair shaved and the rest kept in a tight coiled braid. I’d only ever seen her in black, save her red School of Engineering blazer. While Gilli’s family seemed to have some ­money—​­her mother was a navigator, a coveted position aboard ­ships—​­I suspected Jelan needed every last bit of her scholarship.

“What’s ­going—­” Gilli began, then froze, gaping.

“Hello,” Daziel said.

Gilli shrieked. Jelan grabbed a protective bowl from the bookcase. Speaking in a low, steady tone, she began turning it up and over, as though capturing something inside.

“This is Daziel,” I said.

“I’m Naomi’s betrothed,” Daziel said brightly.

“What?” Gilli said, which was a fair reaction, because it was also mine. Then her face transformed, like a theatergoer’s when the farm boy was revealed to be the prince. “Oh my god. Your demon betrothed.”

Jelan hesitated in her casting.

“He’s not,” I protested. “You guys know it’s a fake excuse.”

“Right,” Gilli said uncertainly, looking back and forth between us. “But . . . he is a demon. Who says he’s your betrothed. And you say you have a demon betrothed.”

“I’m lying! We’re both lying! We’re not betrothed!”

“We are betrothed,” Daziel said cheerfully.

The girls exchanged bewildered glances. Neither Gilli nor Jelan were likely to have practical knowledge of demons. Gilli’s family lived right outside Talum, while Jelan came from the capital city of Maurino, ­Ena-​­Cinnai’s southern neighbor. Cities were heavily warded against ­mazzikin—​­small ­spirits—​­and usually avoided by wild demons, like Daziel, who preferred space and nature. High demons occasionally visited cities for society entertainments or treaty negotiations, but ordinary folk had nothing to do with them. Besides, high demons knew how to behave in human ­society—​­they might be more powerful than their kindred, but they were also more predictable, and so not as alarming.

“Can I crash with you tonight?” I asked Gilli. “I can’t figure out how to banish him.”

“Have you tried, um, blowing a shofar and spitting?” Gilli asked.

“The shofar, yeah, but not spitting.”

Daziel looked astonished. “Are you going to spit on me?”

“No?” Gilli responded timidly. Which, also fair. It was one thing to read about spitting on a demon and quite another to spit on a very real one.

“I won’t spit if you leave,” I said. “Which you should, because even if you’re allowed in my rooms, it can’t be proper for you to be in Gilli’s uninvited.”

He frowned, but he couldn’t dispute that, not if he cared about hospitality. “You won’t stay here forever. I can wait at home.”

I almost choked. At home? Meaning my rooms? Presumptuous. “I might stay here tonight, though.”

He scowled, looking as petty as my sister Adina. This felt weirdly ­reassuring—​­the more he reminded me of a teenage boy and the less of a strange, magical creature, the more ­sure-​­footed I felt. “Since you’re so insistent on avoiding me, even though I came all the way out here to be with ­you—​­we could strike a bargain.”

This didn’t assuage my wariness. “What kind of bargain?”

“I don’t think you’re supposed to strike bargains with demons,” Gilli whispered. Jelan shook her head.

He smiled, all sharp teeth and black eyes. Not so human after all. He held out a round red fruit: a pomegranate, which he definitely hadn’t been holding a moment before. “Accept this gift. Then I’ll leave.”

I loved pomegranates. They were high on my list of favorite fruits. But there were a lot of stories about people eating fruit, and I couldn’t remember any ending positively.

“Am I missing something?” I asked my friends. “Because on the surface, this sounds good.” I narrowed my eyes at Daziel. “Is the pomegranate bespelled? Do I have to eat it?”

“It’d be a waste of a perfectly good pomegranate if you didn’t,” Daziel said with some asperity. “But no. And it’s not bespelled. It’s not magical. It’s a pomegranate.”

I glanced at Jelan, for she was one of the smartest people I’d met. “How good are demons at lying?”

“Very good.”

“A rude and baseless stereotype,” Daziel scoffed. “Will you accept it?”

I hesitated. “You’ll leave if I do?”

He nodded.

I took the fruit.

Daziel smiled. And vanished.

Sheer relief descended. It hadn’t been a trick. I hadn’t made a terrible call, dooming myself and my friends. He’d kept his word and left.

“Wow,” Gilli said faintly. She leaned over, her nose close to the pomegranate as she examined it, the lavender bow in her hair fluttering. “Do we eat it?”

“No,” Jelan said.

“No,” I agreed.

“I was just asking.” Gilli made a face, then turned earnest. “Want to stay here tonight?”

I nodded fervently. “Please.”

A few hours later, right before losing consciousness on Gilli’s couch, I reached up to check on my amulet, as I often did, then down to touch the red string tied around my wrist, the one my grandmother had given me before I left home. The one offering protection from demons. The one old story spinners said would fall off when you were about to meet your husband.

It was gone.

The post Read The First Two Chapters From ‘A Practical Guide to Dating a Demon’ by Hannah Reynolds appeared first on The Nerd Daily.

Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Love Me Tomorrow by Emiko Jean, which releases on February 3rd 2026.

What if your true love could write to you from the future?

Seventeen-year-old Emma Nakamura-Thatcher doesn’t believe in love, not after her parents’ bitter divorce. So when she attends the festival of Tanabata, her wish is simple: proof that love is real and can last.

Emma thinks little of her wish. . . . until she finds a note from someone claiming to be her greatest love writing to her from the future. It has to be a prank, right? But as the notes pour in, each revealing secrets only she knows, Emma is forced to accept the impossible: This is really happening. Someone is actually reaching out to her from across time.

But who? Ezra, the musical prodigy who makes her pulse race? Theo, the literal boy next door who’s known her since childhood? Or Colin, the overly confident, overly handsome, overly rich kid she meets while cleaning his mega-mansion?

As Emma races to uncover the identity of the letter writer, she’ll discover that love is more than real—it’s the most powerful force in the universe. And it’s been waiting for her all along.

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The post Read An Excerpt From ‘Love Me Tomorrow’ by Emiko Jean appeared first on The Nerd Daily.