Wednesday Review: Rupetta by N.A. Sulway

Title: Rupetta

Author: N.A. Sulway

Publisher: Tartarus Press

Publication Date: 2013

Genre: Fantasy (with a dash of steampunk and romance)

Price: $4.99 (ebook), $19.00 (trade paperback)

Where to Purchase: Amazon   |   Publisher's Website

Reviewed by: Julia Dvorin

Hello fellow Heroines of Fantasy readers! Julia here again, this time with a review of Rupetta by N.A. Sulway. Nike Sulway is an Australian author and Rupetta only came to my attention because it won the 2013 TiptreeAward, which is an annual award given to the SFF work that best expands or explores our understanding of gender. (Ancillary Justice, which I reviewed back in June, was also a finalist for the 2013 Tiptree.)

Rupetta is the story of a centuries-old clockwork automaton whose mechanical heart must be “wound” through the touch and the psychic bond of a “Wynder”, ideally (but not always) a female descendant of the original maker. Her existence, and more specifically her immortality, sparks a religious and political movement in which she is elevated to a deity, and which is expressed by its followers in the “Rupettan four-fold law” (which reminded me somewhat of Asimov’s Three Laws of Robotics). Rupetta’s story is told in two plotlines which become increasingly intertwined: one as a ruminative history told by Rupetta herself to her love, and one which follows the story of Henri, the Obanite Historian-in-training who will become that love. 

Sulway’s world is interesting, with scholarly orders of Obanite “Penitents” who study history and whose highest goal is to replace their organic hearts with clockwork ones so that they too can become (almost) immortal, and a complex religious/political history full of heretics and secrets which get uncovered and slowly come into focus throughout the book. There is a tension between those who want humans and their lives to become more mechanical and orderly (like the clockwork Rupetta), and those who still believe in messy, organic ways of living close to the earth and the making of things by hand (this tension reminded me strongly of the central conflict between groups in Heather McDougal’s book Songs for a Machine Age, so if you liked that you’d probably like this too, and vice versa). Henri, one of the central narrators, is studying to become an Obanite Historian, but for her thesis she is researching the “Salt Lane Heretics”, a pair of women revolutionaries who years ago started a school for children that prioritized interacting with nature and taught through old-fashioned techniques of gardening, cooking, and farmsteading. The Salt Lane Heretics were shut down by the ruling powers (though it’s never exactly explained how or when) and years before Henri arrives on the scene, their stuff is squirreled away in untidy boxes and heaps just in case it might some day be of interest to any future historians. However, until Henri comes along the implication is that (like much of women’s history in our own world) it’s of such minor importance or interest that no one has bothered to do anything with it and even sorting the stuff into archival preservation standards is more of a waste-of-time punishment than actual Historical work. But of course what Henri begins to uncover in the archives and in her research becomes more and more interesting—and then dangerous—as she gets farther into it. (Disclaimer: I am a sucker for books about academics, especially academics who realize ‘hey, this whole system is flawed and hiding stuff’, so these were some of the most vivid parts of the book for me.)

I understand why this book was intriguing to the Tiptree Award committee. It is full of complex, strong women characters who drive the plot and express the central themes, but it also takes the somewhat familiar idea of a sentient “android” who struggles with emotions and comparisons to/effects on humanity, and expresses it in a way that feels particularly feminine. Made by a woman in a way that includes traditionally “feminine” craft forms like sewing and weaving, and given female form, Rupetta is a feeling being, though sometimes those feelings express themselves in a way that make it clear she is not human. It also contrasts and addresses the tensions between the traditionally male, emotionally-abstracted and intellectualized “life of the mind” and the traditionally female, embodied and emotionally-rich “life of the hands”. 

This book also spends a lot of time playing around with themes of religious fundamentalism and the ways in which politics and religion intertwine and shape culture in sometimes unexpected ways over time, but ultimately for me even though these themes are interesting ones, this interplay was not the novel’s strong point. The strong point for me was the insightful and beautifully written character development and romance(s) between the characters, especially since many of those romance elements were centered on female-female relationships and this is something I don’t think we get enough of in fantasy fiction (though this is changing). In general, I also really admired the author’s writing throughout the book—her use of language is really lovely.

On the maybe “not so great” side, at least for me as a reader: there’s a lot of what feels like a refusal of the author to directly clue the reader in to the world’s history and current religion/politics (instead, like many an SFF book, we are left to glean what hints we can through mentions dropped here and there). When that coyness in worldbuilding is mixed with a narrative that jumps around in time and plot intrigues that start to get much more complex as the book progresses, it wound up being a little frustrating to me. I appreciate tight POV, a little mystery and slow reveals, but I would have appreciated even more a few well-placed infodumps I could refer back to as needed.

In summary: you will like this book if you like gorgeous prose, a little steampunk and lesbian romance in your fantasy, and if you enjoy some thoughtful exploration of issues of immortality, religious history, and tech-vs-organic tensions.

Fright Fest: The Summoning

One of the darker scenes from High Maga, "The Summoning" relates the first attempt by Rishona, San'iloman of the Syrnte, to summon the Naether Demons out of the Underworld.

Warning: A handful of my readers have found this scene too much to stomach. It is a graphic account not only of the evil that can be drawn up from the Underworld, but of the evil that humans can commit against each other. You've been warned. Proceed at your own risk. 

The Summoning

Donatya led Merina toward the circle. The servant hummed an absent tune, white owl cradled between her swollen breasts, gaze unfocussed. She walked on unsteady feet, supported at the elbow by Donatya’s gentle touch as she knelt before Rishona.     

The San’iloman took the owl in a flutter of wings, calmed it, stroked it, kissed the miniature head, and pressed its shivering body over her heart. Accepting the obsidian blade from Donatya, the San’iloman closed her eyes, and murmured a prayer of sacrifice. In a single motion, she swept the knife and released the owl. Merina looked up as the bird fluttered away on silent wings. A gasp escaped her lips. Her hands came to her throat and clutched at a fresh river of blood. The San’iloman took hold of the servant and held her close.

“I am sorry, sweet Merina,” she murmured. “This had to be done. Today the Gods will write your name in the books of the immortals, for you have made a great sacrifice for the glory of the Syrnte.” 

Merina’s blood spilled dark upon Rishona’s ivory dress. She beat helplessly against the firm hold of the queen, squirming like a rabbit ensnared, passing one hand over her belly in desperate, rapid strokes as her knees slipped against damp earth.

Donatya retreated to the edge of the circle.

Achme talam nu. Bechnem ahraht neme. Salahm machne du.

The rim ignited in a high blue flame. A muffled scream sounded from beneath the mountain, and a tremor passed through the earth. Mechnes’s heart accelerated. He sucked in his breath and signaled the men to ready their arms.

Mechahne

Mechahne achnam

Talam nu ahram

Merina seized the ivory gown of her mistress in a soundless plea for mercy. 

Rishona paused and set her black eyes on the frantic servant. She bent low, stroked Merina’s hair, murmured in her ear. The servant’s struggles diminished, then ceased. Rishona wiped Merina’s bloodstained cheeks and placed a comforting hand upon her swollen belly. Her lips met the servant’s in a tender kiss. Then she laid Merina on the wet ground, where the pregnant woman twitched as gurgling whimpers escaped her lips. 

Talam nu ahram

Merina

An inky shadow bloomed beneath them. The trees shivered. The earth moaned. Rishona stood and retreated across the periphery of the circle, pace calm, slender back erect. The wall of flame left no mark upon her. She turned to observe her dying servant, and the world grew silent.

Merina’s body convulsed. Her eyes closed, and the tension left her limbs. Mechnes held his breath, hands gripping the hilt of his sword, eyes darting between the circle and his men, who watched with weapons drawn and shields raised. It was here, upon the threshold of death for Merina and her unborn child, that the Naether Demon had to find its way to the world of the living. Mechnes had waited long for this moment. All their dreams of conquering Moisehén depended on it. Yet as the ground beneath them groaned and shifted once again, a cold knot took hold of his belly. He found himself hoping the creature would not appear. 

A hollow scream shattered the silence. Inside the circle, the ground twisted, flowed into a vortex of soil and rock, dragging the slave’s limp body down toward the heart of the mountain. Merina disappeared amid unearthly howls and the sounds of tearing flesh. The earth exploded upward, bathing Mechnes and his men in a shower of dirt and gravel. Inside the ring of fire, a creature swayed on long glowing limbs, its predatory eyes lost in gaping hollows, its mouth an open pit dripping with blackened saliva. One ebony-clawed limb grasped Merina’s corpse by the ankle. The slave’s belly had been ripped open, her ribcage torn apart. 

Merolim

Matue

Rishona lifted her palms in a gesture of supplication, speaking a smooth cadence of motherly love and reassurance. 

Hem alouim natue

The creature roared and lunged at her, hitting the wall of fire with an agonized shriek. Mechnes rushed toward Rishona’s side, but stopped short when she raised her hand in warning. The Naether Demon stumbled backwards and rocked on oversized limbs, the murky pits of its eyes steady on the San’iloman as it drew Merina’s corpse into a glowing embrace. Its head jerked around, seeming to focus on each of Mechnes’s men before turning toward the sky, the forest, the ground at its feet. It dragged one long claw through the upturned earth, gathered the loam and crumbled the rotting leaves in its pulsing grasp. Then it returned its empty gaze to Rishona.

Merolim, Matue. She stepped into the ring of fire. Hem alouim natue. 

Merina’s corpse slipped from the Naether Demon’s grasp. Shuffling forward, the beast pressed its flat muzzle against the palm of Rishona’s hand. Her breasts rose with a sudden intake of breath, a smile graced her lips. 

Natue¸ she murmured. Alouim natue. 

The Naether Demon nuzzled the places where Merina’s blood had soaked the ivory dress. A deep shudder passed through it, melting into a constant echoing purr. It lowered itself on lengthy limbs and released the weight of its body to the ground, reclining at her feet, resting its naked head against her soiled skirt, mouth yawning then closing again. Rishona stroked its glowing skin, a quiet hum upon her lips. When at last the creature closed its eyes, she looked at Mechnes, her expression one of triumph, passion, and joy.

“It is ours,” she said.

~*~

High Maga by Karin Rita Gastreich

War strikes at the heart of women’s magic in Moisehén. Eolyn’s fledgling community of magas is destroyed; its members killed, captured or scattered. Devastated yet undaunted, Eolyn seeks to escape the occupied province and deliver to King Akmael a weapon that might secure their victory. But even a High Maga cannot survive this enemy alone. Aided by the enigmatic Mage Corey, Eolyn battles the darkest forces of the Underworld, only to discover she is a mere path to the magic that most ignites their hunger.

“War propels the book forward, and the characters are at their best when the events engulfing them are at their worst.” –Publishers Weekly

Purchase your copy today:

Amazon

Barnes and Noble

Kobo

Soon to be released in audio book!

Fright Fest Friday Fiction

Hi all, Julia here. It's Fright Fest Friday, and my turn to provide a bit of October macabre for Heroines of Fantasy. Wait, did someone say ghoulish? You want ghoulish? I got your ghoulish right here. This is a spooky sample from Ice Will Reveal, where both the reader and one of the main characters meet wraiths (aka ghouls, or as I like to fondly refer to them, zombies, even though they are technically their own variant) for the first time. It'll get much, much worse for Our Heroes after this...bwah hah ha ha!



Scouting was by no means Jarrod's specialty, but he tried to keep quiet, crunching through the snow from tree to tree in an attempt at giving himself cover. The sounds continued, then stopped, then began again, growing louder the farther away from his companions he went. Crackles, crunches, yelps, rustlings--what in Ahnweh's mercy could be out here, in the winter-locked mountains, so close to all that ravenous death? It was difficult to hear over the pounding of his heart.

Off the pathway the slope steepened, and even with his snow boots on he had to concentrate and balance carefully to keep from skidding down it like a runaway sled. The trees thinned off to his left; he headed there, hoping to see something.

When he finally slipped and squeaked his way over to the last tree, what he saw stole his breath and squeezed his heart with fear.

He stood on top of what must once have been a high riverbank. A hundred feet below was a chaotic tangle of beasts and people, fighting on the frozen ground. He saw the ummeks immediately, handfuls of deadly furred forms darting this way and that in blurs of snapping teeth. But who were they attacking?

There were perhaps two dozen people, but something was not right about them: limbs misshapen or missing, clothing tattered and too thin for the cold, grey and withered skin showing through the tatters. More than that, there was an unsettling strangeness to the way the people moved. Some were stiffly clumsy, hardly jointed; some were horribly quick and sinuous, as if their muscles no longer anchored tightly to the bones.

But this horror was as nothing compared to the truth that dawned on him next: the ummeks did not just attack the people. The people attacked the ummeks. With bare hands.

The ummeks dropped as soon as they were touched, crumpling to the ground with high-pitched yelps. Jarrod could see at least a half-dozen furred bodies lying still upon the ice. Most unnerving, the withered grey people were silent, except for the occasional grunt or moan when an ummek struck. He watched in growing horror as the number of ummeks dwindled and he could see the withered people more clearly. Despite the distance, he could tell that some of the people were shorter and wider than the others, and even though he had never seen a pureblood, there was no mistaking the heavy brows, broad noses and squared jaws of the Norenoni.

Jarrod's mind reeled; it was at least several breaths before he thought to duck back behind a tree. He stood with his back pressed hard against the bark and tried to bring his thoughts--and his breath--back in line.

These were the wraiths from Mother Corandonn's truevision.

But this was no army--there were perhaps only twenty of them, and certainly not all were Norenoni. And they had no weapons that he could see.

He couldn’t decide if it would be best to speed back to his companions with the news or watch longer and risk discovery. Then he heard the crunch of something coming through the snow from the trees not far off to his right, and the decision was removed from his hands.

He drew his sword--the scrape of metal on scabbard, too loud!--and crouched down low behind the tree trunk, wishing it were bigger, wishing he were smaller. He chanced a quick look around the tree, but couldn't see anything.

The crunching grew louder, and he nearly exploded from the tension of waiting without knowing what was coming--then it receded, down toward the river below. It sounded like something scrambled down the high riverbank--something big. Was there a path? Keeping low, Jarrod peered around the tree.

Goddess! What is that? He blinked and squinted.

Below him, another, even stranger figure had joined the others: a rider upon a mount. But the mount was no horse. It was unlike any animal he'd ever seen. It was vaguely ummek-like--four-legged and grey-furred, with a long tail and triangular head. But it was bigger than any ummek, bigger than most horses, and its proportions were those of neither wolf nor horse. Its head was huge, with a large underslung jaw filled with sharp fangs that its lips could not quite cover, and tiny up-pointed ears. The head sat at the end of a long, flexible neck, reptilian in appearance despite its thick fur. The body was squat, with most of its height coming from its long, thin legs. The legs ended in oversized paws, not hooves, each sporting four giant curved claws easily as long as a dagger blade.

The beast wore no proper saddle or stirrups; the rider was lashed to its back with a collection of ropes and rags. No bridle or reins either--the rider clutched the coarse fur at the base of its neck, more for balance than for control.

The rider was hooded and swathed in layers of ragged cloth, but one thing was clear--the rider had no legs. That explained the lashing, but only added to the mystery of how the rider controlled the grotesque beast.

He waited to see if the wraiths would attack this new presence as they had the ummeks, and indeed, they converged on the strange rider as soon as they saw it. But they stopped in a loose circle around the rider and steed. As Jarrod watched in amazement, each one approached the rider in turn and held up a hand. The rider leaned down and clasped each proffered hand, lingering a moment, then moved on to the next. Those touched withdrew and stood quietly a few feet away. When the rider had touched all the wraiths, it straightened up again and turned its steed in a circle in order to look in all directions.

As its hooded gaze swung toward him, Jarrod hurriedly ducked back behind the tree, his heart racing. Could it see him? He listened, hard, but heard nothing at this distance. Should he look again? Should he stay or go?

The tension and the stillness were too much for him. Sword in hand, he scrambled back up the slope with all the speed he could muster, silently cursing every crunch and squeak his own clumsy boots made. He was almost back up to the path when a noise behind him made him whirl in time to see the first wraith racing up the slope with arms outstretched.

Review: A Crack In Everything

Title: A Crack in Everything
Author: Ruth Frances Long
Genre: fantasy
Price: $8.97 (ebook) / $8.55 (paperback)
Publisher: The O’Brien Press
ISBN:  978-1-84717-635-6
Point of Sale: publisher’s website Amazon
Reviewed by: Chris Gerrib

I recently attended Shamrokon, the 2014 European SF convention, held in Dublin Ireland.  While I was there, Ruth Frances Long held a launch party for her novel A Crack in Everything.  Unfortunately for her, most people attending were just interested in the cupcakes, but she did sell me a copy of her book.  I’ve finished that book and greatly enjoyed it.

Isabel “Izzy” Gregory is a typical Irish teenager, living in Dundrum, a southern suburb of Dublin.  She does have a minor problem with electronics – it’s not infrequent that she touches an electronic device and it explodes – but other than that she’s solidly normal.  Or so she thinks.  While out and about in downtown Dublin, Izzy comes across an angel, a fae, and discovers that there’s a whole other city – Dubh Linn –interweaved into the city that humans see.  Izzy also discovers that some of the stories she was told as a child are real, and other concepts, such as angels being good, are not entirely accurate.

The story then becomes one of Izzy trying to figure out how to survive and use powers she didn’t know she had, while the fae Jinx, a werewolf-like being, has to figure out how to deal with Izzy and the various backroom deals and double-crosses of his world.  I have to admit I had a problem keeping all the various non-humans straight, which I think was in part intentional.

Dublin, the real city, plays a key supporting role in the story, and at several points I found myself digging out my tourist map of the city to see where the events were happening.  Having seen the city and then reading the book greatly improved my overall experience, but I think it would be enjoyable even if you never get to Dublin.

I highly recommend A Crack in Everything.  O’Brien is an Irish publisher, so my best recommendation for US purchasers is to buy direct from the publisher.  It appears to be the only way to get the ebook, while Amazon can get you the paperback.

Boo! It's a Fright Fest!

This month, we're offering some scary samplings of our contributors' work in honor of Halloween. This excerpt is from my second novel, The Northern Queen. In this passage, our heroes have been separated on divergent missions. Erich and Rheynard, while searching for two companions who've been captured by a tribe of Vonazol Free Plainsmen, encounter an experience that many, myself included, might find frightening. Enjoy!

~Kim Vandervort

The men angled toward the tunnels, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. When they came within a few lengths of the cavern mouths they fell behind an unoccupied tent and read the movements of the guards, searching for patterns they could use to advantage. The Plainsmen’s method soon clarified: two guards led a cluster of slaves out of the tunnels. Once the slaves had cleared, the guards fell in behind, leaving those tunnels unguarded. At least, from the outside. From what the men could judge, guards had already escorted three groups of slaves to their duties with the smithy and in the sewing cavern. This left six remaining guards; if the pattern held true, that meant three more groups of slaves before the tunnels would be clear enough to approach.


“Do you think they hold Kalt and Jarayah inside those tunnels?” asked Rheynard as they waited for the guards to lead the next group into the sunlight.

“Short of searching every tent or behind herd animals, I can not see another likely place.”

Rheynard drew his long knife and nodded. “Then we try there first.”

The sun was high overhead by the time the last guards fell in behind the final group of slaves. The men waited until they had moved out of earshot and any stray Plainsmen had passed by before drawing their swords and dashing for the tunnel. The cool air struck their faces in a welcome blow after so much time crouched in the sun; unfortunately, the near darkness also blinded them. However, they could not afford time to adjust their senses to the changed environment. They hugged the walls and pressed on, hoping an enemy would not fall upon them.

They did not travel far before they came upon a lit torch marking a three-way fork in the tunnels. Erich took a deep breath of stale air and tried not to think about the Vequen and their labyrinthine passages in which a man could lose himself for the rest of his days.

“Tunnels,” muttered Rheynard. “Why must there always be tunnels?”

Clearly he, too remembered their short, claustrophobic captivity within the caverns of the Vequen.

“What now?” asked Erich.

Rheynard took the torch from the sconce and walked a few steps into each passageway. He also sniffed the air of each and cocked his head, listening. Finally he came back to face Erich. “The left, I think.”

Erich frowned. “How did you decide upon that way?”

“We now stand roughly on the other side of the mountain from where we camped. This center passage probably leads to the archers’ ledges, while the path to the right leads down. To the slave quarters, most likely. That leaves the left.”

Erich clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done.” He took the torch and started for the tunnel. “Let us discover what we can about these people.”

The short passage ended at the foot of a stair carved into the stone and polished over time by the tread of many feet. A flickering orange glow betrayed torchlight somewhere around the curve of the spiral stair. And torches betrayed people.

Erich held the torch higher to catch the corners, but could find no other passage. The men reluctantly started up the stairs. As they climbed, the hair on the back of Erich’s neck rose. He felt uneasy, as though they were being watched, yet they had not encountered another soul. In fact, the absence of danger worried him more than the idea of facing one enemy after another in a continuous barrage. At least with a stream of enemies he knew the odds and how to work them.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye. He stopped, turned—but saw only solid rock. A trick of the light, he told himself, shaking his head. He glanced at Rheynard on the stair behind him, but his friend only gave him a curious look. He continued up the steps.

Then he saw it again—only this time he was more certain of his sight: the wall of solid rock had blurred, shifted, then sharpened in focus before his eyes. He held out his arm to hold back his companion. “Rheynard. Did you see—”

A hand shot from the solid rock and gripped his sword arm at the wrist. He cried out in shock, then pain as jolts of fire radiated beneath his skin from where the hand touched. He could not hold his grip; his fingers loosened of their own accord and his sword clattered to the ground.

Rheynard raised his sword high to amputate the disembodied arm, then bellowed a cry of pain when another arm shot from the rock behind him to grab and pin his arm high overhead. His body jerked as the same jolts of fire coursed through him, only easing when his sword fell. Once both weapons had been lost, the mate for each arm materialized and together, both arms worked to pull the two men through the cavern wall. They struggled against their unseen attackers, and were rewarded only with additional jolts of fire for their efforts. Finally, as though drawn beneath the water’s surface to drown, Erich took a deep breath and sank backwards into stone.

Fright Fest~Week 1

Happy Halloween! Here is my offering for Heroines of Fantasy's~Fright Fest. A little possession, anyone? From A Time Never Lived:

     “Myrie!” Quin’s voice went no further than the still, calm air around him. Water on his skin. Warm jam. Almost soothing. Almost pleasant.
     “She cannot hear you.”
      Quin startled, spinning one way, then the other. “Who—?”
     “They want her, not you. You may go with the others if you wish.”
     The soft, diffused voice came from inside the same strange bubble. “No,” he told it. “Not without her.”
     “You cannot help her. And if those who wait choose to keep her, there is nothing you or I can do to prevent it.”
     “There has to be. Please! Help me!”
     The voice laughed softly, sweetly. “How do you know that I can?”
     “You are one of them.”
     “Am I?” A woman’s voice, now less diffused than it had been. “It has been a very, very long time since any of your kind braved this city. Longer still since one of hers dwelt here. How is it she is here, I wonder?”
     Myrie’s image flashed in his mind’s eye, moments stolen from his brain and displayed one after another after another. The intimacy being pulled from private places shamed him. He tried to look away, but the images continued.
     “Your heart takes you to impossible places.” A form coalesced before him. Yes, female. Young, or so she seemed. Quin squinted, trying to pull her image out of the disturbance in the air before him. Beyond the spectral woman, Myrie lifted off her feet. The mist swirled, turning her higher. Quin lunged. Insubstantial as the entity seemed, he bounced off it and to the ground.
     “Please don’t let them hurt her!”
     “They wish to keep her, love her, not hurt her.”
     “They can’t!” he shrieked, his voice rising like flame from his mouth. “Please! I will do anything you ask in return.”     
      The sudden stillness of the air unnerved Quin more than the cold wind had. Heavy and thick like a humid, high-summer day in Bosbana, it formed a bubble around him that he could not see or touch but somehow feel. The apparitions in the mist had separated him from Myrie, though he could still see her, arms raised and face skyward.
     The entity drew back, her form beginning to coalesce. Quin scrambled to his feet. The mist swirling around Myrie picked up speed. Her body twirled slowly within it.
     “Anything?” No longer giddy and girlish, the voice was decidedly mature. “Will you brave the fire?”
     Quin remembered those words. Hulath had said them, in the Library tower.
     “Yes.”
     Her presence swelled. It warmed him like a bath. “Then carry me out of Vodi. Let me live inside of you for a time, and I will save her.”
     “Done,” he said. “On my honor, I swear it.”
     “How noble love makes a man.” The entity laughed softly. “How foolish.”
     Something like a needle pierced the skin in the corner of his eye. Quin stumbled backward. “Ah!” He grabbed his head. The pinprick burned, spread, flowed through his body.
     “Let me through,” the voice now in his head commanded. “Do not fight me or I cannot save her!”
     Quin quieted; he bore the burning, the discomfort. His vision blurred. He saw the square as if he were looking down a long tunnel. At the end of it, Myrie. He struggled to maintain his balance. The cobbles under his feet at the ends of his ridiculously long legs were too far away. His arms flailed at his sides.
     “Ease,” the voice said. “I will do what I promised.”
     Quin obeyed. He could feel the entity inside him, behind his eyes, in his heart, her body stretched out within his as if he were the glove and she the hand.
     Just ahead, Myrie still twirled. Around her, singing joyfully, a dozen distinct human figures danced in a circle. Quin’s occupied body moved forward into the gathering. They startled silent, parted for him to pass. Myrie’s spreading form coalesced.
     Fool child! What have you done?
     I bargained for our freedom. Let the dragondaughter go.
     Never! She will be one with us.
     You forget whose city this is. You forget your place.
     If not for you, we would not be here. We want her. We will have her.
     This body has agreed to house me, to carry me out of Vodi in exchange for their freedom; his, and hers. 
     Quin felt time stop, a collective breath drawn.
     Out of Vodi? How is this possible? A stern voice broke from the chorus of voices. Quin’s eyes moved to find a hawkish nose and angry eyes far too close to his own. His entity held their ground.
     I cannot leave Vodi. You cannot. But he can, if you let him. We will not get this chance again. It is the first in thousands of years.
     It will never work! They will seek retribution, and it will be worse than what they have already done.
     Do you speak for all, Rashul? Do you speak for anyone but yourself?
     The Therk desecrated the temple! The Northman stole the dray. That cannot be allowed. They must be punished. Not even you can alter the curse.     The chorus of spectral figures stood silent, stood still. The hair on Quin’s body prickled. His eyes never blinked.
     We are ever-trapped, the one she called Rashul told her. The curse is a desert viper biting its own tail.
     Quin’s lip twitched into a smirk.
     The curse has already been altered, she said. They have escaped while you rejoiced over this dragondaughter, proving it can be done! Let the Therk have whatever bauble he took. The dray is of no consequence. This is our chance to undo what was done, for good and for all. Let her go. I will brave the fire as required. We will all be free.     A rush of warm air rose up, blew him in circles. Cold air chased it; sea air dispersed it. The mist curled backwards, up the steps, down streets and alleys, into buildings. A rumbled boom hit low in his belly. Then, silence.
    Dusk tinted the sky pink on the horizon. Above, stars were stepping forward into night. Quin straightened. Myrie stood before him, eyes bleary, cheeks crimson. Her fever raged in heat waves rising. He lifted her off her feet. She flopped in his arms, light as a doll. Quin’s strength surged. He shifted her in his arms, nestled her head against his shoulder. Kissing her brow, he lingered there, breathing her in. His heart tumbled in his chest. Relief threatened to overwhelm him.
     “It is time to leave Vodi,” that voice spoke now inside his head, deep there, where he had been only moments before.
     “And you are coming with me.”
     “As agreed.”
     “How? Where are you?”
     “I am the sparkle in your eye, the extra step you take when all others tire. Leave the how and the where to me, and I will leave all else to you. Tell no one I am with you. We shall be one another’s secret.”
     “No one would believe me anyway,” he murmured. “It feels…strange. Like a buzzing under my skin.”
     “You will become accustomed to me.”
     Myrie stirred against his chest. Quin’s arms tightened around her, hefted her higher. He left the domed temple, the square, the city that once again waited. Now, he knew what they waited for.

~Terri-Lynne DeFino

The Ghost of the Wide-Eyed Hollow

I bet we all share a similar memory from childhood: a dark night, a crackling fire. Maybe it's cold outside and we're in front of the fireplace. Maybe it's a warm and we're under the stars. There is fun and laughter and hopefully some marshmallows or hot dogs a-roasting. We sit with our cousins or siblings or friends from school. Where are our parents? We don't know and we don't care, because all we need is each other.

Then someone says, "Let's tell scary stories!"

And everyone jumps wholeheartedly into the game.

When I was growing up, scary stories were shared mostly among family, siblings and cousins. We told the same stories over and over. No one seemed to get tired of them, or to find a story any less scary the fifth time around. The Ghost of the Wide-Eyed Hollow is a good example. As many times as I heard it, I can't for the life of me remember the plot. But I do remember the unofficial contest we had as to who could say the tag-line the best.

"I am the GHOST of the Wide-Eyed Holloooooooooow!"

What is it about the dark side that fascinates us from the very earliest years?

My own journey with the dark side has been on-and-off. I loved scary stories and Grimm's Fairy Tales when I was a child. I read almost all of Anne Rice's vampire novels in high school and college. I, too, am an admirer the master Stephen King, though I'm not as faithful a follower as other readers I know.

Sometime after college, I drifted away from horror. Maybe the mainstream got too gory and violent for me. Maybe I had overdosed on vampires and such in my youth. Whatever the reason, I stopped reading horror. When I became an author, I was not interested in writing it.

Or so I thought.

Then a couple months back, a reader on Goodreads wrote in a review of High Maga that she could not finish the novel because of a horrific human sacrifice scene in one of the early chapters.

That was when it dawned on me that human sacrifice is kind of....well, dark. 

So I guess that High Maga has put me squarely in the realm of dark fantasy, though I would still insist that compared to other authors I've read, my stories are a lighter shade of gray.

If you are at all faint of heart, averse to the dark side, tired of the twisted, or otherwise not in the mood for scary, then now is the time to warn you to stay away from Heroines of Fantasy during the month of October.

Why?

Because FRIGHT FEST is coming!

At least twice a week we will feature twisted tales by our reviewers and contributors. We start this Friday with a story of possession by Terri-Lynne DeFino. From there, it will get spookier and ever more unsettling.

Not a problem, you say? You're up for a walk on the dark side?

Then welcome, my friend. Help yourself to the. . .[ahem] refreshments on the table. Claim a seat - Wait, not that one! It's alive. Ah yes, the couch will do just fine. Brush the cobwebs away if they're a bother.

Settled in? Good. Don't fall asleep! The shadows are on their way.

If  you survive our virtual haunted house during the weeks to come, then you simply must participate in the grand finale on October 31st, when we will gather one last time to build an original scary story of horrific proportions. Everyone is invited. Join us if you dare.

Of course, if you prefer to hide, that's okay. We just might find you anyway.

Muahahahahahhahaha!