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Sparrow retired from the battlefield at the height of her powers and couldn’t be persuaded to change her mind. She was done with fighting, armies, blood, death, and taking orders. Now, she ran a salon at the edge of Florelia, Tira City’s entertainment district.
When the Faerie King takes his tour of the human realm, he becomes—of course—a viral hit. The first posts and videos stream out from Shanghai, just after the New Year. He’s seen waiting patiently in line at a popular dumpling stall.
The city of Nan Rhok stands on the ridge of a great mountain, where a gullet of steaming water flows from volcanic hot springs. The ridge is narrow and the mountain chill, so the city hews close to the spring, building high its granite towers. The name of Nan Rhok is known for many leagues.
A decade since the Fivefold Church conquered the mile-high godpines and hanged their priests, settlements picked at the trunks like termites. Each godpine’s felling had shivered faraway cities to their foundations: small wonder that whole kingdoms hungered for lumber now. Or perhaps folk just liked the thought of chopping up a god for outhouses and chicken coops. Ander Carmora hated the noise—endless sawmills, axes, oxen.
I didn’t die when I fell into the candy river, you know. That mean girl didn’t die when she got flushed down the fake novelty toilet. Neither did the other one, the one who ate so much jelly that they rolled her away to pump her stomach. I think she set the record for the highest ever blood glucose level, but she’s alive. We write sometimes.
Everyone believes they’ll be the one to crack the curse. It’s that very belief that assures their doom. Arrogance has always been one of the currencies of the brilliant. Students, especially those from the Society of Myriad Mysteries, are rich with it; they spend it without knowing, in the arch of a skeptic’s eyebrow or the scoff of hearty denial. These luminous youths have not been taught to be misers with such a precious resource.
You are what blooms between my thoughts. Relentless, like the roots of a poplar, or the mold swelling from neglected corners of a home echoing with silent disharmony. You slink through my star-ridden veins, haunt my magma gut, occupy the warmth I carry for the denizens that trawl my skin. I cannot shake you, cannot fathom a sunrise without picturing you basking in its crimson glow.
Driving alone through the Sahara blew Sarah-Beth’s mind. She woke up in the back of the Jeep, smoked a joint, popped a Black Beauty, and revved her engine full of thoughts and plans. She’d imagined driving with her head empty, like she’d thought the desert would be, but everything was full: palm trees, all sorts of scrub brush she couldn’t identify.
The reign of King Musa III had no place for things of the fantastical. He, unlike the previous kings, frowned against the thought of people who wielded the ability to veer situations with their hands. These types of people were wizards; grizzled and old, with vast years of experience at their disposal. King Musa III considered them dangerous, and that their primeval deeds would stain his reign.
“You can’t bid more than we agreed on. Please don’t get swept into it,” Jules said as we exited the BART on Market Street, the sun beating down at us. He shed a denim jacket while I suffered in my hoodie, which had made sense in Oakland, less so here. “You can’t believe what I saw when I temped at one of these divine auctions. I’m talking golden cattle, firstborn children, the smell of their grandma’s cookies.”
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