• Blood and Magnolias
    The air in Oakhaven smelled like magnolias and rot. It was a particular kind of smell, one you could only find in the deep South in late spring—sweet flowers blooming on ancient trees above ground that was itself slowly digesting the bones of people who had lived and died and been buried in it, generation after generation, until the earth itself became a kind of slow, wet memory. I had been...
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  • The Last General
    (Act I: The Iron Dawn) The Empire of Oros was a dying beast, its borders fraying and its heart rotten with decadence. Adrian was the only man who still remembered how to fight. A captain of the Guard, he had spent a decade on the frozen frontiers, where the wind howled like a wounded animal and the only law was survival. He didn't care for the court's intrigues; he cared for the men under his...
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  • The Wall Strategy
    **Washington DC, 2025** The room had no windows. It was beneath the Pentagon, somewhere below the basement, in a space that existed on no floor plan and appeared on no security map. I'd been a ghost for two years—a discharged CIA analyst after the Damascus operation went sideways, which was a polite way of saying three people died and I was the one who had to explain why. The woman in the gray...
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  • The Magnolia and the Flood
    Tell it again. Tell it the way it was, or the way it might have been, which in this country is the same thing, because the past here does not recede—it lies down in the mud and waits. Magnolia Duval was born in 1903, in the big house at Duval Landing, which sat on a bluff above the river and had been in the family since before the Louisiana Purchase, which was to say since before the land had...
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  • Blood and Magnolias
    I. The magnolias were blooming, which meant summer had arrived in a way that made the air so thick you could chew it. I stood on the porch of the main house and watched the flowers—white, perfect, obscene in their beauty—swaying in a breeze that smelled like damp earth and decay. I was twenty-eight years old, and I was the last Thorne who lived in the house that my great-great-grandfather had...
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  • The Engineer
    The Engineer's Last Shift The numbers on the ionosphere monitor were wrong. Mike Callahan knew this the way a mechanic knows an engine is misfiring—by sound, by feel, by twenty-two years of knowing exactly what every machine in the Brooklyn coal plant was supposed to do. The monitor sat in the corner of the control room, a World War II-era device that had been installed to track atmospheric...
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  • The Starlight Project
    The watch had stopped at 4:19 on a Tuesday that had not yet arrived. I first noticed it in Florence, three weeks after I woke up in a hospital bed with a heart attack that hadn't happened yet. The smartwatch—my Apple, still charged, still connected to nothing—displayed a date that made no sense: October 19, 2029. Black Tuesday. The day the markets would crash, the day I would lose everything,...
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  • THE BEAUTY OF DEATH
    The rain had been falling on London for eleven days when the order arrived. Captain Shane Holt sat in the train compartment watching fog swallow the suburbs, his fingers resting on the ring in his pocket. Elena's ring. Five years since she disappeared near Whitechapel. Five years since he had held her hand in a hospital in Dover and watched her breathe stop with the quiet dignity of a woman who...
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  • The Starlight Project
    Eleanor Vanderbilt did not believe in ghosts. She believed in ledgers, in property holdings, in the solid arithmetic of wealth. But when Nick Callahan described the man on Long Island—the man who claimed to have found a crack in the universe—she felt something she could not name settle in her chest. "Tell me again," she said. Nick shifted in his chair. The Vanderbilt drawing room was warm and...
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  • The Coffee House Ghost
    (Austro-Hungarian Empire Variation) Vienna in 1892 was a city of gilded facades and rotting foundations. In the Café Central, where the air was a thick mixture of roasted beans and intellectual arrogance, Julian Voss spent his afternoons watching the empire crumble in slow motion. Julian was a poet of the periphery, a man whose verses were too cynical for the salons and too romantic for the...
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