HTP Summer Reads Blog Tour (Inkyard Press & YA Edition) Promo Post: Breaking Time by Sasha Alsberg

Romance, Celtic mythology, and adventure swirl together in this time travel fantasy by #1 New York Times bestselling author, booktuber, and popular Outlander social media influencer Sasha Alsberg.

Fate brought them together. Time will tear them apart.

When a mysterious Scotsman suddenly appears in the middle of the road, Klara thinks the biggest problem is whether she hit him with her car. But, as impossible as it sounds, Callum has stepped out of another time, and his arrival marks the beginning of a deadly adventure.

Klara soon learns she is the last Pillar of Time—an anchor point in the timeline of the world. After being unable to protect the previous Pillar, Callum believes he’s fated to protect her. But now a dark force is hunting the Pillars—and Klara and Callum are the only two standing in the way. They’ll have to learn to trust each other and work together…but they'll need to protect their hearts from one another if they're going to survive.

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Book Depository  |  Google Play  |  IndieBound

Excerpted from BREAKING TIME by Sasha Alsberg, © 2022 by Sasha Alsberg, used with permission from Inkyard Press/HarperCollins.

Callum

1568

“Thomas!” Callum yelled as he left the pub. The wall of crisp night air dizzied him, causing him to stumble over cobblestones that seemed to shift beneath his feet. Drunken laughter muff led as the door slammed shut behind him. 

“Where the hell are ye?” he shouted. His voice echoed through the deserted streets. 

No answer came. 

Lanterns flickered along the main road, setting the heavy fog aglow. In a wee town like Rosemere, the slightest whispers could be heard a mile away. They carried farther than that, Callum knew; the windows around him were shuttered, but candles burned low just inside. How many prying eyes watched from behind the slats? How many would speak of his friend, the disgraced fighter, in hushed voices at tomorrow’s market, over bread bought with the coin they’d won betting on him mere weeks earlier?

Callum clenched his fists. The whole pub had shouted and jeered while Thomas got pummeled that night. Sounds still rang in Callum’s ears: the thud of fist and flesh, the sickening crunch of bone. It was the third time this month that Thomas had lost—only the third time, in two years of fighting.

Brice would be angry.

Master, keeper, devil, father. Brice MacDonald was all of these things to Callum and Thomas. Whatever Brice’s wrath tonight, Callum could not let Thomas face it alone. Not when Thomas had looked after Callum for so long, raised him up from a nipper as well as a real older brother would.

But he would not abandon Thomas like his mother had abandoned him.

The thought sobered Callum. He called again, lowering his voice to a taunt.

“Thomas! You owe me three shillings!” Thomas could usually be drawn out with a jab.

Callum paused, straining his ears for a response but was met with unease instead. An owl watched from its perch atop the baker’s roof, golden eyes unblinking against the dark night sky. The shining orbs fixed on him.

He tore his gaze from the bird and walked on, moving away from the firelight and into shadow.

Even more worrisome than Brice was the fact that Thomas had given Callum his most treasured item earlier that night: his notebook, small sheaths of vellum bound in leather. When he first began carrying it around, Thomas claimed to have stolen it from the apothecary when he went in for a poultice. 

He had kept it on him, always, and had never let Callum lay eyes on what was inside. Yet he had pressed it into Callum’s hand, just before the match tonight. He said something to Callum when he did, but his words were inaudible within the roar of the pub. Then after, he disappeared from the pub without even a goodbye.

Now Callum was wandering the streets, alone.

It was unlike Thomas to behave so strangely, to lose so badly. The Thomas he knew—boyish and rowdy, tough as leather but never mean—had fallen away with the autumn leaves these past months. Instead of spending evenings at The Black Hart Inn, weaving stories he’d learned as a child of selkies and sailors for red-cheeked barmaids until the sun rose, Thomas began to disappear for days, weeks at a time—stretches too long for Callum to explain to Brice. He took a beating or two for it, too. When Thomas returned, he was sullen, sometimes violent, and consumed by a strangeness Callum had no words to describe. His eyes stared but did not see, as distant as stars burning in his skull. If he spoke at all, he told tales of the demons that terrified them as children: like the Sluagh, spirits of the dead who wandered in flocks, flying around the sky like soaring reapers and stealing souls, flesh hanging off them like blackened rags. Or the bean-nighe, banshees, messengers from the Otherworld and omens of death, who lingered in lonely streams, washing the clothes of doomed men. Normally Callum heard of such dark creatures within the stories of heroes, but Thomas’s stories didn’t end in life…but death. He fixated on that fact, as if it were coming for him.

I saw her, he’d said of the bean-nighe. I refuse to die. 

It worried Callum, but just as his worry morphed into confrontation, Thomas would come back to himself. This was enough to comfort Callum as he watched Thomas return to tales of ancient heroes and kings. Maybe he accepted his relief too soon since the nights of those stories were fewer these days, and more often Thomas’s speech would turn dark again. He would speak of strange visions, of men who leaped from one world to the next.

They’re coming, Cal, you’ll see. It’s as simple as stepping through a veil.

Who’s coming, Thomas? What veil? Callum asked, and Thomas would laugh.

It was no tale that Callum knew. He’d warned Thomas not to tell it. He didn’t like the wary looks it earned him. It was one thing to be a bard who told these stories for a living, but it was another thing to speak like a madman of evil spirits and fairies as if they were tangible things away from the lyrics of a song or the pages of a book.

Callum reached the end of the main road—the turn for Kelpie’s Close. If you wanted trouble, you found it in Kelpie’s. The narrow backstreet edged Rosemere like a blade pressed against the town’s throat.

A chill clung to his skin. Here, there were no lanterns to light the way, his only guide sparse slivers of moonlight. The wind picked up suddenly, lifting his hair and reaching under his woolen cloak. He tried to shake off visions of the Sluagh hovering above him, raking their cold fingers down his neck.

“It’s as dark as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat,” he mumbled.

Callum reached for the dirk tucked under his arm and found the carved handle concealed under layers of wool, feeling a sting of guilt. It was Thomas’s knife. Callum had slipped it away from him before the match, worried about what his friend might do in the crowded pub if he got enough drink in him. He tapped it, drawing enough strength to plunge into the darkness.

“Scunner!” he cursed, meaning it. “Where are you?”

A cry pierced the quiet.

Callum’s heart pounded as he followed the sound farther down the alley. He pulled the dirk from under his arm, certain now that he’d need to use it.

“Thomas?”

Unease, cold and metallic, crept up his spine. The alley appeared empty—strange, for this time of night—but the silence was thick, alive with a feeling Callum couldn’t name. He pushed on, deeper into the gloom. “Thomas?”

Another strangled cry, ahead.

Callum broke into a run.

A single lantern flickered a short distance away, casting a wan glow over a lone figure slumped against the wall. A sweep of red hair, bright even in the dim alley.

“Thomas, ye bastard, do ye ken what—”

The insult lodged in his throat. Thomas lay on the ground, his legs splayed at sickening angles. Blood seeped through his shirt, blooming like ink on paper. Callum rushed to his friend and knelt beside him. He dropped the dirk and pressed his hands against the deep slice that marred his friend’s torso. A knife wound.

“Dinnae fash, Thomas, dinnae fash,” Callum repeated, voice tight and panicked. He glanced up, searching for friend or foe, and found no one. “We’ll be back to the pub before Anderson kens we havna paid our tab.” 

Thomas stared up at him with glassy blue eyes. With each shuddering breath, more blood spilled through Callum’s fingers. He ripped the cloth stock from his neck and pressed the fabric onto the wound. It did little to stem the flow of blood. Within a few heartbeats, the cloth was soaked through, red and dripping.

If he pressed any harder, would it be doing more harm than good? Should he call for help, though it might draw the attacker? Callum hadn’t a clue. He wished suddenly, ferociously, that he’d had a proper mother, one whose wisdom he could call upon to calmly guide his hands. However, Thomas was the only family he had.

His only family was dying.

Thomas opened his mouth, but instead of words, a wet cough came out, splattering red across his pale face.

“Dinnae move, Thomas,” Callum shushed him. His uncertainty gave way to desperation, burst from his throat. “Help! Help us!”

His words dissolved into the night air, leaving behind only a tightness at the center of his chest. If he hadn’t taken Thomas’s dirk, he would have been able to defend himself, he wouldn’t be dying in Callum’s arms—

Thomas gasped, but it seemed as if no air reached his lungs.

Lowering his head, Callum gripped Thomas’s hands, though his own were shaking. “I will find the man who did this, I swear—”

Then the world flipped sideways. A blow had hit Callum like a runaway carriage, throwing him against the alley wall opposite Thomas.

Pain exploded along his ribs. Grasping the mossy wall for purchase, he struggled to his feet and wiped blood from his eyes, scouring the darkness for his attacker—and found no one.

“Show your face,” he growled.

A cruel whisper cut through the quiet. “Are you certain?”

The man emerged from the shadows as if he had been one with them. He wore a dark black cloak, in stark contrast to his unkempt, pale hair. Deep set in his face, a pair of amber eyes seemed to emit their own light. Callum’s gaze was drawn to a glinting shape in the man’s hand.

A dagger, dripping with blood.

Thomas’s blood.

Callum’s heart pounded like a war drum in his ears.

The man sighed. “Move along. Unless you’d like to meet the same fate as your compani—”

Callum lunged forward, cutting off the man’s speech with a guttural cry, striking with the speed of a viper.

The man ducked. He whirled around as Callum charged again. He overreached with the arc of his knife, and Callum used the moment to surge upward with a punch. His fist took the assailant in the chin—

And the force knocked Callum back.

He stared. A blow like that would have laid out the toughest fighter, yet the man stood and smiled, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand.

“I’m going to have fun with you,” the stranger whispered. “I like a man with a bit of fight in him. It’s more fun to play with your prey, don’t you think?”

Callum didn’t see the blow coming, only felt the pain searing across his temple as he was thrown to the ground again. 

He lifted his head, vision blurring. He blinked it clear, took in his friend’s ashen face. The sight flooded Callum with rage.

Whoever said to never fight with anger fueling your fists was a fool. Thomas’s best fights had been powered by emotion. Callum wasn’t fighting for money now. Or for Brice. He was fighting for Thomas. Because Thomas was—

“Stay down, little man,” the attacker’s voice hissed.

Callum dragged himself to his feet. His body, corded with muscle from a lifetime of training, screamed for him to stop. Instead he stood, swaying.

“I dinnae believe I’m going to Heaven,” Callum said, raising his fists once more, drawing strength from the familiar ache that radiated through his arms. “But I cannae wait to bring you to Hell with me.”

Lunging forward again, Callum poured everything he had into a single strike. He swung, landing the punch more out of luck than skill, half blinded by blood and dirt.

The man merely flinched, then caught Callum easily by the throat. A grin curled over his face.

How could that be possible?

“My, my, you are a feisty one,” he hissed.

The man lashed out, and pain flared along Callum’s torso. He released Callum and stepped back, red-tinged silver shining in his fist.

Callum touched his side, and his fingers came away wet with blood. He watched as crimson spread across his shirt. He tried to take a step, only to crumple to the ground beside Thomas, whose head rested limp against his chest.

Callum had never feared death, but now as he looked into its eyes, terror seized him. 

“Many thanks for the entertainment,” the man said.

To Callum’s horror, he bent low, holding a vial to the spreading pool of Thomas’s blood. He was gathering it.

“If you’ll excuse me, there’s one last Pillar I must find.”

Pillar?

The unearthly amber eyes melted into darkness as his opponent backed away and turned, disappearing into the shadows once more. Softly hissed words echoed in the alley. Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh, Àiteachan dìomhair, fosgailte dhomh…

The words the man spoke were Gaelic, but Callum’s fading mind couldn’t make out their meaning. A dark, mist-like substance rose from the ground and curled around the man’s feet, nearly indistinguishable from the dim of night. Like a sudden fog had rolled in.

Callum sputtered a curse, lacking the strength to spit. He tried to lift himself, but with each breath, pain flared in his side like a web of fire.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he croaked. Tears fell freely down his face, mingling with blood and sweat. He pressed his forehead against his friend’s. Grief washed over him at the still-warm press of his skin.

Thomas was gone, and Callum would soon follow.

A shiver raked his body. His eyes drifted shut.

Take me already, he pleaded to the darkness.

And the darkness answered.

No, not the darkness—Thomas’s voice, a memory now, though it was solid as stone.

“Get up, scunner.”

The warmth of the words turned electric, spreading through Callum’s body like wildfire. His eyes shot open and he gasped, breathing in a shock of cold air still sharp with the smell of blood. His fingers found the dirk he’d dropped earlier.

Grief and agony and pain and rage lifted Callum onto his feet, thrumming in him as he charged after Thomas’s murderer, knife raised and eager for flesh. He grabbed blindly, finally grasping a handful of fabric—the man’s cloak. Turning, the man’s eyes widened, making two white rings of surprise in the dark. Callum’s hand grabbed the man’s neck and aimed his dirk at the pale slash of his throat.

Suddenly, they froze. Callum could not move. His hand remained around the man’s neck, the tip of the dirk pressed against his vein. Light flowed around them. It’s not time for sunrise, he thought. Dimly, he noticed markings along the man’s collarbone. Knots carved into his skin.

The man cried out—not in pain, but in anger—but then, the cry was stifled by a rush of silence, so thick Callum thought he might drown in it. His stomach turned violently as the ground seemed to drop out from under him, forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut. He was falling, flying, falling.

I must be dead in the alley. The man must have killed me. This must be death.

A bright glow burned against his lids. He closed his eyes tighter and welcomed whatever might follow, only hoping he’d find Thomas there. A wall of light had formed above, descending as if the sun were pulling him through the sky. His body rose into its searing embrace.

He waited for the long drop to the ground, but it never came.

Callum kept soaring.

Not just through the street.

Not to death’s embrace. 

But somewhere else.

Leaping to another world, like the man in Thomas’s story, Callum thought.

So he leaped.

About the Author

Sasha Alsberg is the #1 New York Times bestselling coauthor of Zenith, the first book in The Androma Saga. When Sasha is not writing or obsessing over Scotland, she is galavanting across social media with her two dogs, Fraser & Fiona. Sasha lives in London, England.

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HTP Winter Reads Blog Tour (Inkyard Press/YA) Promo Post: Killing Time by Brenna Ehrlich

Killing Time follows a true-crime obsessed teenage girl who sets out to uncover a killer when her favorite teacher is murdered. With a dual POV that sends the reader back twenty years, this engrossing and twisty thriller is perfect for fans of Courtney Summers and Karen McManus.

Summer in Ferry, Connecticut has always meant long, lazy days at the beach and wild nights partying in the abandoned mansions on the edge of town. Until now, that is.

Natalie Temple’s favorite teacher has been murdered, and there’s no way this true-crime obsessed girl is going to sit back and let the rumor mill churn out lie after lie. Not if she has anything to say about it – even if she has to hide her investigation from her disapproving mom and team up with a new boy in town with a mysterious smile and a talent for making fake IDs.

But the more Natalie uncovers, the more she realizes some secrets were never meant to be told.

With two interwoven mysteries, Killing Time is a deathly warning to a generation of murderinos: what happens when the stories we’re chasing finally catch up with us?

Buy Links:

Amazon  |  Apple Books  |  Barnes & Noble  |  Books-A-Million

Bookshop.org  |  Book Depository  |  Google Play  |  IndieBound  |  kobo

 

CHAPTER TWO

Natalie didn’t ask her mom if she wanted to come to Lynn Halsey’s memorial, which was just as well because, ap­parently, Helen did not want to go. When Natalie came down for breakfast that morning, she found a note under the orange juice saying that Helen was heading to dojo in the next town over to train for a while—which meant she was either stressed, angry, or both. (Helen said a while back she had started doing karate for self-defense, not that Natalie was aware of anything she’d need to defend her­self against in Ferry.)

Natalie balled up the note and threw it on the floor, equal parts relieved and pissed off by her mother’s absence, but she quickly forgot all about it when she saw the enve­lope leaning against the box of cinnamon cereal her mom had left sitting out for her. It was your standard business envelope—plain, white—and it had only one word neatly typed across the front: Natalie.

Plopping down on a rickety kitchen chair, Natalie pulled her feet up onto the seat and ripped the envelope open, ex­pecting, perhaps, some spending money from her mom—a small contrition for avoiding the memorial—but instead finding a piece of computer paper with a single message typed out on it: Stay out of it. I’m warning you. Her heart did a cold, little leap like it always did when the first body was found in one of her books, then confusion set in. She blinked, scanning the words again, flipping the paper over to see if she’d missed something—a name, an address, any­thing. But that was it. Just those two ominous sentences. She shivered despite the heat of the kitchen, which was barely mitigated by the lazily oscillating ceiling fan. Her mom was too cheap for AC.

Cereal forgotten, Natalie pushed away from the table and scanned the room as if the toaster or the microwave might suddenly fill her in on where, exactly, the letter had come from. The kitchen seemed eerily quiet in the diffuse morning light, the only sound the birds that spent the day gossiping at the feeder in the backyard. Natalie pulled out her phone, typing off a quick message to her mom.

Did you leave me a note?

It seemed the mostly likely scenario, since the envelope had been on their kitchen table, but a vague threat wasn’t exactly Helen’s style. No, her mom was more direct than all that, much to her daughter’s annoyance. And then there was the it she was supposed to be staying out of. She could guess what that was: Mrs. Halsey’s murder was the only thing that had happened in Ferry for decades, as far as she was concerned. But someone would have to know about her podcast to suggest that she stay out of anything, and no one really knew about that aside from Katie and the inter­net randos. They had one all the way in Mount Carroll, Illinois (wherever that was). Could one of them have turned stalker? Broken into her house to… What? Warn her not to discuss a very local crime with her audience of roughly three people who had probably clicked on her podcast by mistake?

Three bubbles appeared immediately on her phone screen. Natalie scoffed. Her mom was supposed to be spar­ring. Did she keep her cell phone tucked into her black belt?

Yes, honey, I’m at the dojo. Be back around 4.

Natalie snorted. Well after the memorial. No, another one, she typed, her fingers shaking slightly. This was all too bizarre. In an envelope?

There was one with the paper that I brought in for you. More dots, as if her mom were trying for casual. Why? Who is it from? Katie?

Natalie rolled her eyes. Helen would have implanted a tracking device in her daughter’s neck if she could, like those chips they have for cats and dogs—watched her roam the town on her trusty path from school to Katie’s to home, called the cops if she veered off course. It was a wonder she hadn’t just opened the envelope herself. There wasn’t time to fume, though, now that there was a mysterious, threatening letter with her name on it. Which Natalie was aware sounded like a sentence from a bad teenage soap opera. That didn’t negate its existence, though.

She sank back into her chair, staring at the words march­ing across the page. Stay out of it. I’m warning you. It could be Katie playing a bad joke, but that didn’t seem likely, as Katie could never keep a secret and would have spilled that morning, when they were texting about the memo­rial. Feeling silly, Natalie sniffed at the paper. Nothing. As if it had just materialized on the table, origin-free. She considered calling the police, but that would mean tell­ing them about her podcast, which would mean telling her mom about her podcast, which would mean never seeing the sun again. Instead, she shoved the note into her back­pack—not bothering to put away the juice and cereal—and trundled outside to her bike and Mrs. Halsey’s memo­rial. She would let it all stew, she decided. Maybe an answer would come to her while she was biking to the high school. She always thought better when she was in motion, legs pump­ing and lungs full of clean air.

It was as hot if not hotter than yesterday, and beads of sweat rolled down Natalie’s forehead into her eyes as she crested the hill toward the school that had been her de facto prison for the last four years—the only bright spot being a woman who would no longer walk its halls. The only teacher who didn’t hold her eccentricities at arm’s length.

The Halsey house wasn’t on Natalie’s route, but she could feel its presence a few streets over—could imagine the yel­low police tape and silence—and a tremor traveled over her neck like phantom fingers.

The True Crime Club had only lasted for one year, of­ficially; after Jessica graduated and her parents effectively bought her way into Columbia, Katie and Natalie were the only members, meaning that the club was no longer valid in the school’s eyes. (No yearbook picture, which was good since Natalie didn’t relish explaining that to her mom. She used to lie and say she was staying after school to study until, well, it all went to hell when she said what she said.) Still, Mrs. Halsey kept up their meetings, critiqu­ing the relative merit of different podcasts, documentaries, and true-crime books through the lens of story. She was a fan of gripping, well-researched accounts of criminal in­vestigations, like Michelle McNamara’s inquiry into the Golden State Killer, but felt a decided disdain for podcasts like this really popular one called My Murder Obsession, which was basically just two guys discussing their favorite murder mysteries. She thought the name was bad enough, but she couldn’t stand the gleeful, error-riddled way the hosts talked about crime. She was a stickler for accuracy—and empathy. “If you can’t get the facts straight, you don’t deserve the story,” she used to say.

As she coasted past Sammy’s Shack and the flinty sea, Natalie wondered what Mrs. Halsey would think of the note on her kitchen table: Stay out of it. Her legs pumped harder, sweat running down to her eyes as she squinted into the sun, her breath getting ragged. Lynn Halsey was the only person she wanted to talk to right now, and she couldn’t because she was dead. The thought brought sudden, angry tears to her eyes. She was dead, and there was nothing Nat­alie could do about it. Who was the letter writer to tell her stay out of it? How to care? Maybe her mom had written the note. Maybe she had found out about her podcast somehow and wanted to punish her. Helen hated Lynn Halsey; Nata­lie knew that. Tears flooded her eyes as she pulled into the school parking lot, dropping the toes of her black shoes to the ground to steady herself as her vision swam.

The last time she had spoken to her teacher was at the diner midway through senior year. She had been crying—or trying not to, rather. Her shift had ended, and she was crammed in a booth where her mother couldn’t see her—couldn’t send her home and straight to her room. The night before had been bad. The kind of bad that made your stomach heavy and your mouth flood with acid when you thought about it. She and Katie had been celebrating get­ting into the colleges of their choice by having a clandes­tine marathon of the worst true-crime movies on offer. Straight-to-streaming shit. Cheesy cable fare. Trash. Hel­en’s rules were pretty clear when it came to her daughter’s interests: fine, she could study it in school, but true crime as entertainment was completely off-limits. Sure, she got away with the occasional horror movie or novel, but true stories were, for some untold reason, strictly verboten.

Which was why she and Katie had waited until Helen went to a Garden Club cocktail night to indulge. Helen, not being the biggest drinker, had come home in the mid­dle of a truly terrible early-thousands clunker called Teach­er’s Pet—all about a TA who had an affair with his student, then killed her—and had lost her shit. She’d gone so far as to threaten to move to college with Natalie and live in her dorm room, which seemed like an empty threat if you didn’t know Helen, who wouldn’t let Natalie sleep over at Katie’s until she was thirteen.

“You okay, Natalie?” Mrs. Halsey asked, sliding into the booth across from her, holding a to-go bag of burgers and fries. She was wearing her leather jacket and had her hair up in a blue paisley scarf, her cheeks pink from the early spring chill; she brought with her the smell of the omni­present daffodils that blanketed Ferry this time of year.

Natalie shook her head mutely, picking at a plate of cold fries she had pilfered from the cook. People in town knew her mother was strict, but she wasn’t quite sure she wanted her role model to know that Helen had had a meltdown over a Lifetime Channel movie.

“I dunno,” she muttered, chastising herself internally for her lack of eloquence. She always tried to speak as in­telligently as possible in front of her favorite teacher, but right now she was too wrung-out to care. Her mother’s overprotectiveness was a shroud, stifling and heavy. And what was so ironic was Natalie had gotten into true crime because of her mom in the first place—she’d found a box of old books in the attic when she was twelve about the Manson murders, the Night Stalker, all the big ones. She had read them under the covers until all hours, equal parts scared and thrilled. She loved it when the killers were caught, the intricate work it took to track them down. That is, until her mom found out and burned all the books in the yard with the autumn leaves. She wouldn’t even tell Natalie where they’d come from in the first place.

“Did something happen with Katie? A friend?” Mrs. Halsey pressed, her voice so gentle and caring that Natalie caved.

“My mom flipped out on me last night,” she choked out, studying the table. “I was watching some stupid true-crime movie, and she just…lost it.” Natalie dug her chipped nails into the red vinyl of the booth and let it all spill out. “She’s just so controlling. Like, why does she care what I watch? I’m eighteen. I’m an adult, basically. And I’m good!” She raised her eyes to look at her teacher, who was studying Natalie with a furrowed brow. “I don’t break curfew. I have, like, no social life. I don’t drink. So why can’t I just…read and watch and do what I want? Who am I hurting?”

Mrs. Halsey gave a sad smile. “I understand, Natalie. It’s hard being eighteen. Almost independent, but not quite. But, I promise, it’ll get easier. You might even miss your mom worrying about you.”

Natalie grunted and folded her arms. “I doubt it.”

Mrs. Halsey laughed, then steepled her hands on the diner table. “I’m confused, though, Natalie. Why would a movie upset your mom so much when you’re in a true-crime club at school?”

Natalie swallowed hard. In her fit of rage, she’d forgot­ten all about forging her mother’s signature all those years ago to join Mrs. Halsey’s after-school group. She had for­gotten the countless lies she’d told. Or maybe she was just subconsciously tired of it all.

“You’re in what?” Helen appeared behind her like the ghoul from that horror movie—the one that just slowly wanders after its prey until it wears it down and eats it. Natalie didn’t turn around. Instead, she gritted her teeth and dug her nails even deeper into the booth, anchoring herself to the spot. She couldn’t even sit with her favor­ite teacher for five minutes without her mom butting in. Without her ruining everything.

“You didn’t know about this?” Mrs. Halsey asked Helen, as if Natalie weren’t there, which Natalie found hard to believe, considering anger was radiating off her like a bad aura. Why did everyone treat her like a child? Like she couldn’t make her own choices without consulting her mother first? Why didn’t they see her?

Helen shook her head, her eyes locked on Natalie’s teacher, a twin rage coursing through her. The pencil she used to take orders snapped in her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice the pieces as they clattered to the floor and rolled to rest under the booth.

“I’m sorry, Helen,” Mrs. Halsey sputtered, getting to her feet, looking between mother and daughter, both prac­tically vibrating with indignation. “I thought you knew about the club.” She raised a conciliatory hand. “And, re­ally, it’s all educational. We talk about story and methodol­ogy and…” The words died on her lips as Natalie’s mother shook her head again.

“I appreciate all you’ve done for Natalie, Lynn, but we have rules,” Helen said in a voice befitting an android. “This stuff is not entertainment. If she wants to go to school and learn the proper way to engage with it, then fine. But no clubs. No movies. No bullshit.”

Mrs. Halsey cut in. “I would hardly call our club bull—” Natalie couldn’t help smiling, which didn’t make matters any better. Her mom gave a look filled with such pure menace she dropped her eyes to her feet.

“I don’t care,” Helen snapped, smoothing her apron as if eradicating the wrinkles would fix everything. As if she could control the world with her nervous hands. “My kid, my rules. Now, I think you should leave.”

Mrs. Halsey opened her mouth, shooting Natalie an in­scrutable look. She took a step toward the door.

“Please, don’t go,” Natalie asked in a small voice before she knew the words were coming out of her mouth. “You don’t have to listen to her. Please.”

With her hands tucked into her jacket pockets and her hair coming free from her scarf, the teacher suddenly looked younger than she was. She was probably the same age as her mom, thirty-eight, but Helen’s face was much harder. Likely because she’d had Natalie so young, because she’d been worrying for eighteen years. “I’m sorry, Nata­lie.” She glanced at her bag of food but made no move to pick it up. “I think I should go…”

Natalie got to her feet then, leveled her eyes at her teacher, watching her one tether to everything she cared about cut her free, let her go. “You never cared about me,” she said finally, seething and holding Mrs. Halsey’s eyes for a long moment before retreating to the kitchen so she wouldn’t have to see her mentor go, regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. She turned back to stop her, to apolo­gize, but her teacher was already gone.

Mrs. Halsey deserved more than that. More than her mom’s disdain and her own parting words. She deserved to be remembered. To be avenged. And no anonymous note writer could tell Natalie otherwise. An idea that prompted a mix of excitement and shame deep down in her stomach germinated in Natalie’s head as she pushed through those familiar swinging doors and entered the bizarre world that is school during summer.

 

Excerpted from Killing Time by Brenna Ehrlich, Copyright © 2022 by Brenna Ehrlich. Published by Inkyard Press.

 

About the Author

Photo Credit: Matt Gajewski

Brenna Ehrlich is a journalist, YA author, and editor who has worked everywhere from MTV News to Rolling Stone. She resides in New Jersey with her husband Morgan and their two cats, Nimbus and Hazel. She enjoys horror movies and romcoms in equal measure.

 

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HTP Winter Blog Tour (Inkyard Press/YA Edition) Promo Post: The Iron Sword by Julie Kagawa

As Evenfall nears, the stakes grow ever higher for those in Faery…

Banished from the Winter Court for daring to fall in love, Prince Ash achieved the impossible and journeyed to the End of the World to earn a soul and keep his vow to always stand beside Queen Meghan of the Iron Fey.

Now he faces even more incomprehensible odds. Their son, King Keirran of the Forgotten, is missing. Something more ancient than the courts of Faery and more evil than anything Ash has faced in a millennium is rising as Evenfall approaches. And if Ash and his allies cannot stop it, the chaos that has begun to divide the world will shatter it for eternity.

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Excerpted from THE IRON SWORD by Julie Kagawa © 2022 by Julie Kagawa. Used with permission by HarperCollins/Inkyard Press.

1.

The Missing King

I’ve lived a long life.

Not as long as some in Faery. Robin Goodfellow, for example, is older than me by several hundred years (though you wouldn’t know it by the way he acts). King Oberon, Queen Titania, and Queen Mab are older still, ancient beings with the power to rival anything in the Nevernever. I’m not as old or as powerful as the kings and queens of Faery, but even by fey standards, I’ve lived a goodly while. I’m known in the Nevernever; my name is recognized and even feared, by some. I’ve been to the farthest reaches of Faery. I have seen things no one else has. Nightmares, dragons, the End of the World. I’ve passed impossible tests, triumphed in unwinnable challenges, and killed unbeatable monsters.

None of it prepared me for being a father.

Meghan stared at Glitch, her face pale in the sickly light of the wyldwood. At the Iron faery who had just turned both our worlds upside down with his announcement.

Touchstone is no more. Prince Keirran, King of the Forgotten, has vanished.

“Explain, Glitch,” Meghan demanded. Her voice was calm, steely, though I caught the tremor beneath. “What do you mean, Keirran has vanished? What has happened to Touchstone?”

“Your Majesty.” Glitch bowed his head, the lightning in his hair flickering a subdued purple. “Forgive me, I only know what the messenger told us. That Touchstone has disappeared, and Prince Keirran is gone. I wish I could tell you more.”

Keirran. Fear twisted my insides. Not for me, but for the son who, despite all his assurances, couldn’t seem to keep himself out of trouble. Even before he was born, he had a prophecy hanging over his head that proclaimed him either a savior or a destroyer, and the entire Nevernever watched to see which he would become. For years, Meghan and I raised him with that knowledge, trying not to let it influence us, but knowing that one day, we would have to face the consequences of Keirran’s decision.

The prophecy finally came to a head when a powerful new foe rose up to threaten all of Faery. The Lady, the first queen of the Nevernever, furious that Faery had moved on without her, gathered the Forgotten to her side and waged war on all the courts. She promised them a new world, a world where humans would fear and worship the fey again, and where no faery would Fade away from being forgotten. She demanded the courts be dissolved, and that the rulers of Faery step down and acknowledge her as the true and only queen of the Nevernever. Naturally, the other rulers refused, and the war with the Forgotten began.

At that moment, Keirran made his choice, and it was Destroyer. He betrayed his court, turned his back on his family, and joined the Lady in her quest to conquer the Nevernever. And even though I had known it could happen, even though the prophecy had foretold it, it was still a devastating blow for both Meghan and myself. Keirran was stubborn, idealistic, and once he set his mind to something there was no changing it, but I hadn’t thought him capable of betraying his entire court.

Meghan took a quiet breath. I could sense the struggle within; the desire to know what had happened to our son, balanced against the duties and obligations of the Iron Queen. Faery wasn’t safe. We had just returned from the wyldwood, after battling a vicious new monster that nearly killed us all. I still ached, muscles battered and bruised, from the power of the creature’s attacks. There had been five of us: myself, the Iron Queen, Robin Goodfellow, an Iron faery named Coaleater and a Forgotten called Nyx, and even then we barely managed to bring down the creature. Only to discover the threat to the Nevernever was far from over. In fact, it was only beginning.

Meghan knew this. A shadow had fallen over Faery, the echo of a new prophecy hovering over it like a storm. The end has begun. Evenfall is coming. Faery and every living creature that exists under the sun are doomed.

I stepped close to Meghan and put my hands on her shoulders, feeling them tremble beneath my palms. Leaning in, I murmured, “I can find him, Meghan. If you need to return to Mag Tuiredh, I’ll take Puck and Grim, and we’ll go look for Keirran. Grim can lead us to Touchstone, and from there we’ll see what happened to the capital and where Keirran could have gone. You don’t have to come with us this time.”

“No.” She reached up and squeezed one of my hands. “I need to know what happened to Touchstone, why it suddenly vanished. If another one of those monsters is responsible for its destruction, you’ll need my help to take it down. Besides…” She paused, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “If something happened to Keirran, if one of those creatures got to him like they got to Puck, I want to know. I want to see it for myself. If both of us are there this time, maybe that will be enough to bring him back.”

My insides felt cold. The Monster we had fought and killed was unlike anything I had ever seen before: a physical manifestation of hate, rage, fear, and despair. It poisoned the land around it, tainting everything with dark glamour and negative emotions, and worst of all, it was able to bring out the shadow side of any living creature it touched. I had seen this firsthand with Puck, where he had been transformed into a faery consumed by jealous anger and vicious spite. The Robin Goodfellow of old. The Robin Goodfellow who was still furious with me for stealing away Meghan, who held a grudge for all the times I tried to kill him.

Not that I blamed him.

Fortunately, Puck had been able to fight through that darkness and return to his normal, carefree, irreverent self. But I knew what Meghan was thinking, and I shared her fear. Keirran had already shown himself capable of turning on and betraying everything he loved. Would we venture into the Between to find our son had turned into a soulless enemy once more?

I leaned close to Meghan, feeling her grip on my hand tighten. “We’ll find him,” I said quietly. “We’ll find him and whatever it takes, we’ll bring him home.”

She nodded once, then stepped away to gaze down at the still-kneeling Glitch. “You’ve done well,” she told the Iron lieutenant. “Return to Mag Tuiredh. Keep our people safe. I am going to search for Prince Keirran. I will return as soon as I am able.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Glitch said, though I knew he wanted to protest. The First Lieutenant never liked it when both rulers of Mag Tuiredh left the Iron Kingdom for unknown amounts of time. But he had been with Meghan long enough that he simply bowed his head and replied, “Good luck and safe travels to you both. I will keep the city safe until you return.”

Meghan turned, her gaze seeking the rest of the party behind us. Puck stood under a tree with his arms crossed, bright red hair making him stand out in the gloom. Beside him, a cloaked, hooded figure watched the proceedings silently, seeming to blend into the shadows. It took Meghan a moment to

locate her. “Nyx,” she said, “you are a Forgotten, and a member of Keirran’s court. Right now, it appears Touchstone has disappeared, and the Forgotten King has vanished. Can you part the Veil and take us into the Between?”

The silver-haired fey with the twilight skin and golden eyes raised her head, a steely expression on her face. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered. “If Keirran is in danger, I must find him right away. When do you wish to go?”

“Right now.” Meghan turned her gaze to the others, to Puck and Coaleater, watching intently. “This is an uncertain time for all of us,” she said. “Faery is under threat. Something is coming, and none of us know what it is or when it could arrive—only that it is close. The rulers and leaders of Faery must be made aware of this threat. Coaleater…” She glanced at the large Iron faery, who straightened as her gaze fell on him. “I know you want to help us find Keirran, but I need you to return to the Obsidian plains and warn Spikerail of what happened. He needs to be aware, and should the time come when we must call on the Iron herd, I want him to be prepared.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The big man bowed his head, and I saw the shadow of his real self behind him: a huge warhorse made of black iron and flickering flame. “The Iron herd will stand ready to aid you against all threats. You will have our support for as long as you need it.”

Meghan nodded gratefully, then turned to the red-haired fey beside him. “Puck?”

“Come on, princess.” Robin Goodfellow flashed his toothy smile. “You know where I stand. You don’t even have to ask.”

“I believe I will come as well.”

A fluffy gray cat sauntered into view, waving an exceptionally bushy tail. His golden eyes regarded us all with bored appraisal. “If Touchstone has disappeared, I would like to see it for myself,” Grimalkin said. “Someone with an ounce of intelligence should be there to make sense of things and point out the obvious. And to point you in the right direction should you become lost. Not that I doubt the Forgotten’s abilities, but you will need a guide should you happen to lose your way.”

The Iron Queen gave a decisive nod. “Then let us go,” she said. “I fear time is slipping away, and the longer we wait, the more difficult it will become to find Keirran. Nyx…” She gestured toward the Forgotten. “Whenever you are ready, take us into the Between.”

Nyx immediately stepped forward. Closing her eyes, she put out a hand, fingers spread wide, as if searching for something that could only be felt. “Keirran showed me how to enter the Between,” she murmured, taking a few steps forward. “He said that only the Forgotten remember how to do it, and that the Lady gave him the gift when she was alive. You have to find a spot where the Veil is thin.”

“Like a trod?” Puck asked, referring to the magical paths that led into the Nevernever from the mortal realm.

“Similar,” Nyx murmured, still walking steadily forward with her hand up. We trailed the Forgotten as she continued to search. “The Veil is like a mist,” she went on, “constantly moving and changing. Those weak spots you find might not be there when you return to them. But, if you search long enough, you should be able to find… There.”

She stopped. Paused a moment. And then, as I had seen

Keirran do only once or twice before, pushed her fingers into the fabric of reality and drew it back like a curtain. A narrow gash appeared where she parted the Veil, and beyond that tear was darkness. A few tendrils of mist curled out of the hole and writhed away into nothing.

Standing at the mouth of the gash into the void, Nyx shook her head. “The Between,” she murmured. “It feels…different. Angrier than it was before. That’s not good.” She opened her eyes and looked back at us. I saw concern on her face, but it was overshadowed by a somber resolution. “Guard your emotions,” she warned. “Calm your mind, and your feelings. The Between can manifest physical representations of strong emotions. So, if you are not careful, we might be facing your worst fears, or the darkest parts of your anger.”

I took a furtive breath to quiet the tangle of emotions, searching for the cold, empty calm of the Winter prince. It didn’t come as easily as it did in the past. Before Meghan and Keirran, when I only had myself to worry about, I feared very little. I wasn’t afraid of venturing into the unknown. Whatever came at me, whatever monster, nightmare or horrific abomination I would face, the worst that could happen was that they would kill me. And I was exceedingly hard to kill. Fear for my own life had rarely been a concern.

Things were different now. I had a family. I had a wife, and a son; two people that meant more to me than anything, in any world. If they were in danger, my entire being was consumed with wanting to protect them, to utterly destroy whatever evil they faced so it could never threaten them again. I could feel that anger in me now, rising up to dominate my thoughts, and breathed deep to find my center. If Keirran was out there, we would find him, and I would cut down anything that stood in our way. Simple as that.

Puck gave a loud, noisy sigh and glanced at me. “Well, ice-boy,” he said, “here we go again. Another adventure through the worst Faery has to offer. Oh, wait, you’ve never been through the actual Between before, have you?” He grinned, green eyes shining with mischief as he stepped toward the gateway. “You’re in for all sorts of fun surprises.”

About the Author

Born in Sacramento, CA, Julie Kagawa moved to Hawaii at the age of nine. There she learned many things; how to bodyboard, that teachers scream when you put centipedes in their desks, and that writing stories in math class is a great way to kill time. Her teachers were glad to see her graduate.

Julie now lives is Louisville, KY with her husband and furkids. She is the international and NYT bestselling author of The Iron Fey series. Visit her at juliekagawa.com.

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