The forest was alive with every one of Wren’s nightmares. Trees beckoned with branches like witch’s fingers. Reptilian skin rustled through the leaves underfoot. Unseen birds complained.
The darkness around her shifted as though it were something tangible.
Wren stumbled over a gnarled root that had crawled out of the loam. She caught herself
The creature snarled in the darkness, a thunderous sound in the humid, alien forest.
Kosuke pressed his back against the rough bark of the towering tree and drew a slow, deep breath, releasing it softly. The air smelled like wet dirt and pine, moist and dank, along with a vague coppery scent like blood.
“What a perfectly splendid location to attempt new and exciting crime!” Finneas Churchwarden—private investigator—straightened his blue argyle bow-tie. “Don’t you agree, Leon?”
“It’s Lionel, sir.”
“That’s what I meant.” Churchwarden jabbed his clay pipe between his teeth, chewing on the stem as he spoke. “Come, beloved colleague. Let us do the work
I have never seen a vegetable like this in all my days. Is it a vegetable? A fruit? So purple! Oblong with a fibrous green stem. And there’s a crate of them on the tavern’s loading dock.
Tobias probably traded for them. He always does this—trades junk to some tinker out of
I’ve spent too much time in the underworld.
Atticus scowled at his reflection in one of The Drake’s shiny hull plates. Dark shadows drooped beneath his eyes, and his skin had taken on a bluish tint. Too many months breathing the fog in the netherwoods.
He hitched the burlap sack higher on his should
The Veil between worlds smells like overripe fruit, a deep purple scent. Cloying. Decaying. Bruised.
The sanitized atmospheres of living worlds lack the depth and complexity of abandoned realms. They never smell like the Veil, suffused with the scintillating aroma of death.
I breathe it deeply.
Invigorating.
Its heavens, ever-clouded. Its ground
Florence’s knuckles creaked as she clutched the bottle of phoenix ash.
What if it’s not enough? She bit her lip. The medicine is almost as rare as the ash.
Threadbare skirts rustled around her legs as she ducked through the rough-hewn doorframe of the Emberstone Tavern. Her stomach clenched in hunger as the rich
Captain Tiberius Q. Overton sneered in disgust. The tavern smelled like the inside of a whiskey barrel—the cheap kind of whiskey the deckhands drank. He shouldered through the flock of nattering peasants, who warmed themselves at the meteor smoldering in the central hearth.
The tawny, glowing emberstone put out a remarkable amount
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