Something that is genuinely interesting about how we consume entertainment in this day and age, is how there are specific… channels if you will, that cater to our every need. For instance, if you’re a horror movie and show fan, there are full on streaming services that provide you with your gory fix, and that’s just one example of many. Since there are so many other services and businesses out there offering exactly what you want, because everyone in every industry has come to realize the value of focusing on a specific genre and type of story, and that includes publishing, as evidenced by today’s announcement.
​
For earlier Entangled Publishing let the world know that they are launching Red Tower Books. A specific division of their business that will be dedicated to feminist and empowered perspectives, giving readers that want that and crave it so… the perfect place to come and find it. And of course, there are some big names coming along for this ride and to give you an idea of what is on the agenda for Red Tower Books and what wondrous authors it will be host to, here are all the details on this wonderful news… courtesy of Entangled Publishing and Red Tower Books.

'Entangled Publishing announced today the launch of Red Tower Books, a New Adult commercial-fiction imprint focused on romantic fantasy and science fiction genres. Red Tower Books will champion feminist and empowered perspectives in the fantasy and science fiction space, while also enfolding in what Entangled Publishing does best…romance. The goal of the new imprint is to offer explosive, cinematic new stories and develop strong author brands in the vein of Leigh Bardugo, Tracy Deonn, and Sarah J. Maas.
 
“Red Tower Books is dedicated to delivering standout fantasy and sci-fi romance from some of the most talented writers of today,” says Molly Majumder, editorial director for Red Tower. “I’m excited to combine my love and knowledge of the genre with Entangled’s creative marketing strategies to bring these incredible stories to a wide audience of readers.”
 
Along with Molly Majumder, the 100% women-owned publishing company’s new imprint will be led by publishing veterans – CEO and publisher Liz Pelletier, VP of Operations Stacy Cantor Abrams, and VP of Marketing Meredith Johnson.
 
The imprint’s first release, scheduled for May 2, 2023, is the highly anticipated Fourth Wing by Rebecca Yarros, an epic fantasy set at a brutal and elite war college for dragon riders, which boasts an announced first print run of 350,000. In a series of heated preempts and auctions, Fourth Wing has already sold into more than a dozen countries. Yarros says, “I’m delighted and honored to be published by Red Tower Books and to be a part of such a dynamic community of writers. I can’t wait for readers to visit the magical world in Fourth Wing and delve into the works of the other immensely talented authors on the list.”
 
Currently, there are seven titles slated for 2023, each with an exclusive first print run of hardcovers with special effects such as sprayed or stenciled edges, foil, or embossing. These limited-edition books will be a signature of the imprint sure to become collectibles on every reader’s shelf.

The subsequent releases will publish beginning in July 2023, with Starbringer from #1 New York Times bestselling author Tracy Wolff (Crave series) and Nina Croft (Breakout), The Wren in the Holly Library by USA Today bestselling author K.A. Linde (The Wright series), Bloodguard by international award-winning author Cecy Robson (Weird Girls series), and The Last One by New York Times bestselling author Rachel Howzell Hall (These Toxic Things).
 
Tracy Wolff, whose title Starbringer is a snarky LGBTQ+ sci-fi in the vein of Firefly meets the Breakfast Club and has an impressive announced first printing of 500,000, says about the line, “Red Tower is a powerful new force in fantasy romance, and I am thrilled to have my first sci-fi romance, Starbringer, as part of their incredible launch.”

Books will be distributed globally by Macmillan in New York, and their VP of Client Services, Liz Tzetzo, adds, “Macmillan is excited to partner with Entangled on their new imprint Red Tower Books. With Entangled’s strong track record for breakout successes and highly innovative marketing, we know that Red Tower will be a huge success.”
 
For more information, please visit: www.entangledpublishing.com and follow @redtowerbooks on Instagram. For subsidiary rights: nicole@alliancesubrights.com
 
ABOUT ENTANGLED PUBLISHING: Established in 2011, Entangled Publishing is a 100% women-owned publisher with 2,800+ adult, New Adult, and young adult romance ebooks and print books sure to delight any reader. Entangled’s titles are distributed globally by Macmillan in New York, one of the largest book distributors in the world.'

On the anniversary of his wife’s death, Sam Anderson visited her grave.
 
It was a crisp spring morning in Nevada, with dew on the grass and fog rolling through the cemetery. In one hand, Sam carried a bouquet of flowers. In the other, he gripped his son’s hand. Ryan was eleven years old and strong-willed and introverted, like his mother. After her death, he had withdrawn, spending even more time alone, playing with LEGOs, reading, and generally avoiding life.
 
Counseling had yielded little help for Ryan. At home, Sam had searched for a way to get through to his only son, but he had to admit: he wasn’t half the parent his wife had been. Most days, he felt like he was simply reacting to his children, making it up as he went, working on a mystery without any clues.
 
He hoped the visit to Sarah’s grave this morning would be the start of turning that around.
 
Sam’s daughter, Adeline, gripped Ryan’s other hand. She was nineteen years old, and to all outward appearances seemed to have coped better with her mother’s passing. But Sam wondered if Adeline was just a better actor than Ryan or himself. He worried about that too, about her bottling it all up and carrying the burden of unaddressed grief.
 
Last night, he had seen a glimpse of her hidden rage. Adeline was still furious with him over the evening’s argument. So angry she wouldn’t even hold his hand or look at him. Hence, Ryan walking between them.
 
But she had agreed to be there that morning, and Sam was thankful for that.
 
They walked in silence through the cemetery much like they had floated through life since Sarah’s death: hand-in-hand, trying to find their way through it all.
 
Fog drifted in front of the headstones like a curtain being drawn and opened. Across the cemetery, sprinkler heads rose and began deploying water. The cemetery likely cost a fortune to irrigate out in the Nevada desert, but of all the problems Absolom City had, money wasn’t one.
 
At the edge of the grass, Sam thought he saw a figure watching them. He turned his head, and yes, there was a man there. He wore a dark uniform, though Sam couldn’t make it out from this distance. Fog floated in front of the man, and when Sam looked again, he was gone.
 
Ryan must have felt his father slow down.
 
“What is it, Dad?”
 
“Nothing,” he muttered, resuming their pace, tugging on his son’s hand.
 
Near Sarah’s grave, Sam spotted a man and a woman standing on the other side of the cemetery. They were also wearing dark uniforms. Sam’s first instinct was that they were here for a burial service. But they didn’t move deeper into the maze of graves. They stood there, staring at Sam and his family.
 
He set the flowers at the base of Sarah’s headstone and tried to put the figures out of his mind.
 
Mentally, he had rehearsed the lines he wanted to say a hundred times. And as he spoke the first words into that foggy April morning, they sounded just like that to him: rehearsed and passionless.
 
“I’d like to say something.”
 
Adeline’s gaze shifted away from him. Ryan stared at his shoes.
 
Sam decided right then to drop the speech and say the first thing that came to his mind. That thing was a memory. “I want to tell you what your mom said to me one of the last times I saw her.”
 
Adeline’s head turned quickly. Ryan looked up.
 
“She told me that it would make her very sad if she was what kept me from being happy after she was gone. I think she meant that for all of us. She was selfless like that—in life and even after.”
 
Adeline closed her eyes and raised her fingers to her eyelids. A warm wind blew across the three of them. A tear leaked from the edge of Adeline’s right eye and lingered there, soaking itself in mascara, and slowly began painting its way down her cheek as if an invisible hand was drawing warpaint on her face.
 
It was the first tear Sam had seen her shed in years. “The second thing she told me is something I think about a lot: time heals all wounds. But it won’t work if you don’t give time a chance. That was her point: we just have to accept that sometimes things are going to be hard for a while. If we’re strong enough—if we hold on long enough—things will get  better. Every year, this hurt we feel is going to get a little better. I promise you.”
 
He reached out and pulled Ryan into a hug, and Adeline closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Sam, and buried her face in his shoulder. He felt the warmth of her tears soaking through his shirt.
 
A buzzing overhead caught his attention. It was a drone. Not one, but three of them.
 
A computerized voice called through the fog.
 
“Dr. Samuel Anderson, please step away from the others.”
 
Sam glanced around the cemetery. What was happening here?
 
“Dr. Samuel Anderson, this is your second warning. Step away and put your hands on your head.”
 
“What?” Sam called out.
 
Adeline looked up. “Dad, what’s going on?”
 
The three drones were hovering above them now. The computerized voice called again.
 
“Adeline Anderson, step away and put your hands on your head.”
 
Sam realized the suited figures he had seen earlier were surrounding them now. There were seven in all, wearing Absolom City Police uniforms, standing with their hands on their belts within easy reach of the handcuffs and stun batons hanging there.
 
The drone called again.
 
“Dr. Samuel Anderson, this is your final warning. You have five seconds to separate yourself from the others and place your hands on your head.”
 
“Dad…” Adeline’s voice was ragged and panicked. “It’s okay,” he whispered as he turned and scanned the police officers, searching for the person in charge to address. “I’d like to talk to—”
 
The sharp pain in his neck was like a bee sting. He reached up and felt a circular piece of metal the size of a coin dug into his skin. He was trying to pry it loose when his vision blurred. His legs went weak, and he fell headfirst into the soft grass.
 
The last thing Sam saw before the darkness swallowed him was the engraved letters on his wife’s headstone.

Excerpted from ‘Lost in Time’, by A.G. Riddle. Head of Zeus, 2022. Reprinted with permission.

An insider's look at Hollywood and how movies and television shows are made.

In Batman's Batman, Michael E. Uslan, executive producer of the Batman movie franchise, offers an insider's look at Hollywood and the process of how movies and television shows go from the drawing board to your screens.

Continuing the delightful tale of his adventures begun in The Boy Who Loved Batman, Uslan draws on both his successful and less successful attempts to bring ideas to the screen, offering a helpful, honest, and breezily told guide to producing films. From passion to promotion, from the initial pitch to selecting the best partners and packaging, Uslan reveals the 13 qualities essential to would-be producers.

A lively memoir and a valuable glimpse inside Hollywood rarely seen by the public, Batman's Batman is sure to please fans of Michael Uslan and the Batman franchise, but will also prove to be an invaluable resource for any aspiring producers, as he guides readers through the Land of Bilk and Money.

​Michael E. Uslan is Originator and Executive Producer of the Batman movie franchise, spanning from 1989’s BATMAN to 2022’s THE BATMAN, including THE JOKER, the DARK KNIGHT trilogy, the Justice League series. His work has been awarded with Oscar, Emmy, People’s Choice and Annie Awards. He was the first instructor to teach an accredited course on comic book folklore at any university and continues to teach as a Professor of Practice at Indiana University Media School. He is also the author of The Boy Who Loved Batman (IUP, 2019), which will become a Broadway play in Fall, 2022 with the Nederlander Organization.
 
For Genius Brands, Michael oversees The Stan Lee Universe and legacy of characters created by Stan post-Marvel. He was appointed to Joe Biden’s task force of entertainment industry executives regarding gun violence and movies/television, and has served as a judge for the Asian Film Awards (Asia’s Oscars). He has also served on boards for Discovery Channel Global Education Partnership; the Association of Film Commissioners International; Wild Brain Animation Studio; Center for Excellence in Education; Youth Grants Panel, National Endowment for the Humanities; New Jersey Film Commission; Thomas Edison/Black Maria Film Festival; and Asbury Park Music & Film Festival.  A lifelong comics collector, he was born in Bayonne, NJ and now lives in both New Jersey and Los Angeles with his wife, Nancy.

Normally in the book world, variant covers and other such treats are a rarity. For the content between the art is the king and creating multiple versions of said cover, just seems superfluous at best. But… there can sometimes be exceptions to that unspoken rule. For when the book in question, is based off of a wildly popular comic book series, where variant covers are just as important as the art on the pages… well then liberties can be taken with the cover and for proof that this is the case, then look no further than today’s announcement from AMC Networks.

For earlier today, they unveiled the Limited-Edition cover for The Art of the Walking Dead Universe, and they revealed who helped to create this alternate cover to what is shaping up to be quite the impressive collection of TWD related imagery. And well, here are all the details on that new cover and some sample images of it for you to peruse as well as we count down the days to the release of this magnificent collection of artworks inspired by a world of living death, courtesy of AMC Networks.

AMC Networks released today renowned artists Yanick Paquette, Nathan Fairbairn and John J. Hill’s limited-edition variant cover for The Art of AMC’s The Walking Dead Universe. The cover uniquely brings together characters from all three of The Walking Dead series, also featuring the three-circle symbol that has been seen throughout the shows and represents the three different civilizations within the Universe.

The AMC Networks exclusive edition is only available at the TWDUshop.com and can be pre-ordered now while supplies last. The hardcover will retail for $80.

“We’re excited to share this custom art by Yanick, Nathan and John as our official limited-edition cover,” says Mike Zagari, Head of AMC Networks Publishing. “We knew the cover needed to special, and their work has exceeded our expectations, creating a truly memorable edition for our passionate fans.”
Added Yanick: “It has been an equal part challenge and joy to draw these beloved characters. My first contribution to The Walking Dead Universe!”

Marking AMC Networks’ first venture into book publishing, The Art of AMC’s The Walking Dead Universe is an in-depth compilation of behind-the-scenes pre-production and production art from all three of AMC’s iconic The Walking Dead series and will feature never-before-seen original sketches, concept art, storyboards, special product illustrations, and more from the shows inspired by Robert Kirkman’s comic book turned pop-culture phenomenon.  Published by Skybound and produced by AMC Networks Publishing, this hardcover book, available at comic shops on September 29 and everywhere books are sold on October 5, also features an introduction by Chief Content Officer of The Walking Dead Universe Scott M. Gimple.

The Art of AMC’s The Walking Dead Universe standard edition can be pre-ordered right now everywhere books are sold, in both print and digital formats, and at TWDUshop.com and the Skybound Store.

Paquette is an Eisner Award-nominated, Shuster Award-winner and #1 New York Times best-selling comics artist. He has worked on DC Comics’ Batman, Swamp Thing, Wonder Woman: Earth One and more. Fairbairn is an Eisner-nominated and Shuster-winning colorist and writer whose work has frequently topped the New York Times Best Sellers list.  Hill is a creative director/designer/producer and has developed merchandise and books for properties such as Harley Quinn, God Country, John Carpenter’s The Thing, Aliens and much more.

Please enjoy an excerpt from ‘Sons of Rome’ by A.J. Smith. Which is available for pre-order, here.
 
The void sky was a shimmering black, with pinpoints of light, playing across my vision. In the realm of form, the landscape was filled with stone and wood, packed together as buildings, streets and walls. Beyond the glass, in the realm of void, the world was more elegant. The hold of the Silver Dawn was visible only as a faint net, forming boundaries and structures. But only the most significant buildings had actual form in the spirit world. Everything else I could see was pale blue, flowing like sand dunes or rolling waves. Spirits flew through the air, as sparkling birds; or scuttled across the ground, as small, woodland animals, each with a distinct energy, unknowable to the mortal men and women of the Eastron from across the sea. There was a profound sense of peace, as if the troubles of the world could not reach me.
​
“Highness, let us not stay here too long,” said the man at my side.

I looked down at him. “Does the peace of the void disagree with you?”

“It disturbs me,” he replied. “Because I know it isn’t real. I prefer the realm of form.”

His name was James Silver Born, called Silver Jack, and he’d come with me only because he refused to leave my side. He didn’t like the void, and distrusted spirits. We were both Winterlords of First Port and our people claimed kingship over the Eastron from across the sea. Our power radiated in the void, shining as globes of wyrd across our limbs and framing our heads. Jack’s wyrd was strongest in his arms and over his heart. Mine was a vibrant nimbus across my whole body, flaring at the head and torso.

“We will speak to the Lord of the Quarter,” I stated.

He hung his head. Silver Jack was short for a Winterlord, barely reaching six feet in height, and far shorter than me. But he was a cunning little bastard, and had been my closest adviser since I left First Port. I’d survived an assassin’s blade at the Severed Hand, and my father, the Always King, had insisted I be accompanied at all times. I’d disregarded the multitudes of hulking duellists who’d volunteered, and the knights of Falcon’s Watch, and chosen a middle-aged man named Jack. He hadn’t even volunteered. He’d been drunk in the Eagle House, waiting for one of his many reprimands. When I found him, he’d muttered that he was a terrible duellist and would rather drink his own piss than follow a prince around. It was broadly the answer I was looking for.

“We’ll be missed,” said Silver Jack. “People will worry.”

“David will worry,” I replied. “And you. And you worry about everything.”

“What about the seven Dark Brethren who are following you, highness?
”
I sighed, my calm significantly eroded. It was easy to forget who I was in the void. It was the only time I wasn’t constantly required to be Prince Oliver Dawn Claw, Protector of First Port. One day I would be the Always King. I would be the seventh since Sebastian Dawn Claw arrived from across the sea and founded the Kingdom of the Four Claws. It was the kind of burden that was impossible to walk away from.

“Why aren’t you wearing your armour?” asked Silver Jack.

I looked down at my blue tunic and laced black trousers, tucked into heavy, leather riding boots. I had a short sword at my side, but was otherwise not equipped for combat. My broadsword and armour were in the Golden Keep, casually discarded on a coach. I didn’t like wearing them. Partially because they signalled my station, but mostly because they made my large frame even larger. People were always afraid of me, but with my armour and a sword, I rarely saw a pair of eyes that was not pointed at the ground.

“The Lord of the Quarter,” I repeated, ignoring his question.

He screwed up his face, but resisted further nagging. He followed me across the soft grass of the void, towards a tall tree, with tangled branches stretching out like gnarled hands. Small spirits scuttled away from us, as if repelled by our powerful wyrd. But larger ones – mostly birds of prey – remained imperiously on their perches. On the highest branch, flaring its wings at my approach, was a huge eagle, with gold and silver feathers and ageless eyes of deep bronze. It was the Dawn Claw, totem spirit of the Winterlords.

Ninety years ago, when my great grandfather, King Hector, abandoned the Silver Dawn for First Port, he left the totem behind. The bureaucracy that remained became the Silver Parliament, and vowed to always protect and revere the mighty eagle. Opinion was divided on how faithfully they had kept their vow. Many Winterlords, my father included, believed that the parliament was unnecessary, and the Kingdom of the Four Claws should once again be under the absolute rule of the Always King. He used to muse that, one day, a man of the Dawn Claw would again be the Forever King.

I took a knee. “My Lord of the Quarter. I am Prince Oliver and I bear your name. I pay you my respects and ask for your wisdom.”

The huge spirit took wing and gracefully glided to the ground. Its majestic feathers ruffled in the gentle breeze, and all nearby spirits paused to marvel at its presence. It was the greatest spirit the Eastron had ever found, and the symbol of all that allowed the Winterlords to rule. It craned its neck downwards to regard me. I was tall and bulky, even for a Winterlord, but the huge eagle made me feel like a child. I would be a worm in its enormous, hooked beak, but I sensed warmth and recognition.
The glass has broken. Soon the sword will fall. Then the sea will rise. The Old Bitch of the Sea has been vanquished. The Night Wing has been corrupted. The Kindly One is ignored. But my voice can still be heard.

The spirit did not speak. Its thoughts vibrated into meaning and entered my head as words and emotions. I shared a glance with Silver Jack, confirming that he had also heard the words and felt the emotions. The Dawn Claw knew that the realm of form was teetering on the edge of something, and it struggled to make us understand. It wanted us to act, but its emotions felt like huge, churning clouds, with no definite form or direction. Perhaps I was just too simple to comprehend the thoughts of so mighty a spirit.

You will be king. You must be king. Or all is lost.

“We should leave,” said Silver Jack. “I think its angry.”

“Angry?” I queried, backing away. “I’d have said it was scared. Maybe sad.”

The Dawn Claw let us leave, but we did so only slowly, muttering to each other about what the spirit wanted us to know. It flared its wings, becoming even larger, and curling its huge talons into the shimmering grass of the void.

“I will visit you again,” I said, by way of a farewell.

We turned from the tree and left the presence of our totem. My time in the void was coming to an end. The glass was a thin barrier, but it held back a world of responsibility and a sea of questions I didn’t want to answer. Unfortunately, the Dawn Claw had offered no advice as to how best to deal with the Silver Parliament. And yet its cryptic words would linger.

Excerpted from The Sword Falls, by A.J. Smith. Head of Zeus, 2021. Reprinted with permission.

​The endurance of the living dead as a whole, never ceases to amaze me. This disturbing creature and all of its various iterations have been around for well over eighty years and the modern zombie as we know it, the flesh-eating kind that is, have been around for just about fifty. But only in the last ten years or so, has this iconic monster truly enjoyed its renaissance.
 
After all, the zombie is literally everywhere. You’ll find them in comics, on television and finding a fun zombie flick is as easy as popping the word into the search bar on Netflix. However, this kind of popularity has its draw backs, because in some ways the zombie has lost a bit of its power and ability to scare by becoming iconic enough to appear on a lunch box. Which is why I’m always grateful when I discover any kind of living dead media that manages to bring back the raw terror these creatures instill in all of us, and recently I came across a piece of work that meets that criteria by way of the wonderful anthology novel, Nights of the Living Dead.
 
This magnificent compilation of short stories, takes us back into the world that George A. Romero envisioned back in 1968, by giving us an in depth look at how the rest of mankind dealt with the beginning of the end of the world, and I use the word magnificent when it comes to this book because it has managed to do the impossible… it scared the living hell out of me. There are some incredibly disturbing and powerful stories to be found in this compilation, since it features tales from some supremely creative heavyweights such as Jonathan Maberry, Jay Bonansinga and Brian Keene.
 
But truly, the centerpiece of this anthology, is the sheer fact that it features a story from The Godfather of the Dead himself, George A. Romero. Yes, you read that right, Romero revisited the world he created one last time and let me tell you his story is an utter joy to read through and through. It’s terrifying, it’s powerful and it’s poignant simply due to the fact that this anthology was released shortly before his death and there’s something deeply profound about the fact he was able to write a story in the universe he created and share his dream and vision with so many incredible writers. And to top it off, this tale would serve as the humble beginnings of what would turn out to be the finale of this saga by way of the novel The Living Dead, which was co-written/finished by Daniel Kraus after George’s untimely passing.
 
But all that aside, make no mistake about it. This is a frightening book. On several occasions, I had to put it down to clear the disturbing images out of my head and I only made the mistake of reading it before bedtime once since it had a profound effect on the tranquility of my sleep. Which means that this book is a must own for any zombie fan and quite frankly, any fan of horror for that matter as well. Because this is the zombie genre returning to its roots and it makes these unholy abominations the powerful force we remember them to be and I do hope this book inspires future anthologies that are equally as eager to unleash the living dead’s true fury upon mankind and make us hesitant to see what that noise was outside in the middle of the night.

Please enjoy an excerpt from ‘Sons of Rome’ by Simon Turney and Gordon Doherty. Which is available for purchase, today.
 
My earliest memory is of a storm, a relentless tempest that battered my birth town of Naissus. It gathered at dusk as I lay in my bed. Through the cracks in the shutters I watched the black clouds clawing across the dusk sky as if to tear down the day. Night arrived and the winds grew fiercer, howling like a pack of lost wolves, the rain lashing like a torturer’s whip. When the thunder came, I trembled like the timbers of our modest home.
 
I shivered under my blanket, watching as the shutters strained against the storm’s wrath. Then with a furious gust, they were blown open. The icy gale searched through my room, tearing the blanket from me as the rain flayed the floorboards. I gawped at the open window, then glanced to the door leading downstairs and to safety. My parents often told me I was bold – too bold – and reckless. And so it was that night, for I found myself slipping from my bed, stepping towards the flapping shutters, shielding my eyes from the forked lightning that tore the dark asunder.
 
Chill rain soaked my nightshirt as I grasped the sill then stretched to stand on my toes. I felt the breath catch in my throat when I saw what the storm had done to the town: the swollen river had burst its banks and now murky water tumbled through the streets in dark torrents. The pained lowing of trapped cattle sounded from nearby, and the broken corpses of others bobbed and tumbled through the deluge. I saw crying families huddled atop tumbled wagons and market stalls. Across the narrow streets I saw faces gazing out from broken shutters, eyes wide with panic.
 
Every soul in this ancient market town cowered. Even the imperial garrison on the walls ran, hoisting their shields and taking shelter in the turrets. But I saw something that has stayed with me to the end: a lone, silhouetted figure standing tall and motionless on the battlements, as if bemused by the storm’s wrath. A legionary. He wore a sodden crimson cloak and rested his weight on his spear. While his comrades sought shelter, he remained. The squall raged around him, the rain battering on his helm and lashing over his face and shoulders. The lightning came once again and I saw his youthful features, gazing from his post and off into the northern countryside, unblinking. Through each clap of thunder, every streak of lightning, he did not flinch. I noticed his spear hand, and how white his knuckles were. He reminded me of the tall statue of Mars by the northern gates. The God of War stood like that too, spear grasped firmly.
 
That was when I noticed that there was something else in the clenched fist of the legionary’s other hand. I could not see what it was that he held, but when I saw him lift it, whisper to and kiss it, I knew it was his source of strength as much as the spear. The reckless streak in me took hold again and I strained to get a better look, leaning further and further from the window until the rain soaked my face and my flaxen hair was plastered to my forehead. The legionary uncoiled his fingers at last. The thing sparkled in his palm. A Christian Chi-Rho, I realised – an amulet just like the one my mother wore. My strained gaze flicked from the spear to the amulet and back again. One a symbol of Mars and the other of the Christ-God. It made me wonder: on a battlefield – like those my legionary father oft fought upon back in those days – which would be more powerful?
 
Just then, a cry sounded from the Temple of Jove, downhill from my home where the rushing waters were deepest. People waded from the temple in panic, splashing from the grand marble entrance, into the flood. A groan of timber and thick crack of masonry rang out, before a column crumbled to the endless rush of churning water. The screaming of one man was cut short as the capital of the column dashed him like ripe fruit, the crimson stain of his blood washing into the flood.
 
I stared at the spot, horrified but unable to look away. At that moment, the wind whipped up as if to tear the town from the land and it pulled me from my precarious perch on the sill too. I toppled forward, a boyish cry forming in my lungs.
 
But hands snatched me back from the window, bolting the shutters closed once more. Mother.
 
‘Constantine!’ she cried, going on to berate me for my foolishness. Soon though, her tone softened. As she held me to her rose-scented bosom, drying me with a rag, I traced a finger over the silver amulet dangling from her neck – just like the soldier’s. It was more common for the women of Naissus to be seen worshipping the Christian God, which made the legionary’s choice even more intriguing. The men, and particularly the garrison, tended to follow the old gods. Indeed, Father kept a small shrine to Mars in our home.
 
‘You told me Christians do not make war,’ I said. ‘But outside, I saw a man on the walls, a soldier...’
 
She stopped drying me and held me at arm’s length. Her eyes, azure like mine, affixed me. I thought I had spoken out of turn until she sighed and said: ‘Men are men, be they Christians or otherwise, and men make war.’
 
I frowned. Father had often told me that I would grow to one day be a soldier like him. I had listened in awe to his prayers to Mars. Likewise, I had been spellbound by Mother’s Christian tales. ‘What brings a man to war?’ I asked, then my frown deepened. ‘What brings a man to choose his god?’
 
She smiled weakly and brushed a droplet of water from my cheek with her thumb. ‘That is for each of us to find out, Constantine. Our choices in this life define us. That is the journey we each must make.’
 
She kissed me and laid me down. Soon, the storm faded and I drifted off to sleep. My dreams were riven with the image of the legionary on the walls and one echoing question: where might my journey take me?
 
Excerpted from ‘Sons of Rome’, by Graham Doherty and Simon Turney. Head of Zeus, 2021. Reprinted with permission.

Please enjoy the first chapter of ‘The Children of D’Hara’ by Terry Goodkind. Which is set for release on 2/4/2021.
 
“I have come to accept your surrender.” Richard’s brow drew down as he leaned an elbow on the padded leather arm of the massive chair he was in. He was more perplexed than troubled. The rotund man was wearing formal white robes ornately embroidered in gold designs that added an air of dignity to his pear shape. He stood patiently at the head of a line of supplicants stretching back into the distance of the enormous, vaulted room. Windows high up to the side let in streamers of hazy afternoon light that gave the vast room an almost spiritual quality. Fat black marble columns, variegated with red and gold veins, rose up in a tight row to each side of the long room. Gilded capitals atop the columns supported balconies where large crowds watched the proceedings along with the people on the main floor in the shadows behind the columns.
 
At the head of the room, behind Richard and Kahlan sitting in stately chairs at a heavy table on a raised platform, a ring of leaded- glass windows surrounded a two-story-high, carved white marble medallion depicting the long lineage of the House of Rahl. It was an impressive seat of power. Growing up in the woods of Hartland, Richard could never have imagined such a place, much less imagined himself sitting at the head of it.
 
Nearby, palace officials and their aides stood ready to assist with anything needed. Heavily armed men of the First File, between Richard and Kahlan and the rest of the roomful of people, did their best to remain inconspicuous, mostly staying out of the way toward the sides. Behind Richard and Kahlan, in front of the massive marble medallion, six Mord-Sith stood at ease.
 
Five of the Mord-Sith wore their white leather outfits. One, Vika, was wearing red. Richard had requested that they all wear white for the occasion so as to appear less menacing, it being a time of peace, after all. Vika had said that she was there to protect the Lord Rahl and if she looked menacing, all the better. Richard had long ago learned that life was easier if he let Mord-Sith have their way with petty issues. He knew that if it was vital, they would follow his orders. To the death if need be.
 
The people to each side on the main floor and up in the balconies, everyone from farmers to nobility, all fell silent as they waited to hear what the Lord Rahl would say in response to such an outlandish demand. The heavyset man in gold-embroidered white robes waited as well.
 
Beneath an elaborate white cloak pushed open in front by his substantial girth, silver chains around his neck just below the folds of false chins held a variety of small ornaments that reminded Richard of symbols of rank that army officers wore on their uniforms for formal occasions.
 
Richard remembered seeing similarly dressed people in an open tent down in the market at the base of the enormous plateau that supported the sprawling People’s Palace. The people down in the market and tent city had been gathering for weeks to have a chance to witness the kind of event that had never taken place in their life- times—or to profit from it.
 
“My surrender,” Richard repeated in a quiet voice into the hushed air. “My surrender of what?”
 
“Your world.”
 
Some of the nearby soldiers and court attendants chuckled. When they did, many of the people watching joined in to giggle with them. Or, at least they did until they saw that Richard was not amused.
 
His gaze flicked to Kahlan, seated beside him behind the table where supplicants could place maps, contracts, and other documents for their review. Besides the white dress of the Mother Confessor, he saw Kahlan was wearing her Confessor face. Her long hair gleamed in the light coming from the ring of windows behind them. He couldn’t imagine a good spirit looking any more striking.
 
Her beautiful features revealed nothing of what she might be thinking. Despite how unreadable and dispassionate she may have appeared to others, Richard could read the fire in that calm expression. Were she a wolf, her ruff would be standing up.
 
Richard leaned toward her, wanting to know why she seemed to be seething. She finally broke eye contact with the man and leaned toward Richard to speak in a confidential tone.
 
“This man is from Estoria. The medals and awards around his neck mark him as the consul general.” She stole a brief look at the man. “I think I may have met him once or twice, long ago when he was less important.”
 
“What’s Estoria?”
 
“It’s one of the minor lands in the Midlands that I oversaw as Mother Confessor. For the most part the people there earn their living as professional diplomats for hire. The consul general would be the equivalent of a king.”
 
Richard frowned. “You mean they are diplomatic mercenaries?”
 
She nodded. “Strange as it sounds, there are those who need a diplomat to champion their cause. When they do have such a need, they will often hire an Estorian. Estorians sometimes argued the position of a patron before me on the council.”
 
Richard was still frowning. “Who would have need of such services?”
 
“You’d be surprised. Anyone from a wealthy individual having a dispute with a ruler to a kingdom on the verge of war. Skilled diplomacy can in some cases resolve a dispute, or at least stall armed conflict indefinitely while talks drag on and on. Estoria is considered neutral ground, so they often host the different sides in complicated negotiations. Putting up such important guests and their entourage is part of how the people there earn a living. The consul general will often host elaborate banquets for each side of the negotiations. At separate times, of course.
 
“Estorians have a long history as professional diplomats. They live to negotiate. They are very good at it. It is often said that an Estorian would try to negotiate with the Keeper of the underworld himself to try to come to an agreement on a later departure from life. That’s what they do—they negotiate.”
 
“So what has you so upset?”
 
Kahlan gave him a look, as if she couldn’t believe how dense he was being. “Don’t you see? Estorians negotiate. They don’t ever make demands. It’s not in their blood.”
 
Richard finally understood what had her hackles up. This man was certainly making a demand, and apparently such a thing was completely out of their nature.
 
He turned his attention back to the diplomat standing before the gate through the railing not far in front of them. A pair of guards in intimidating dark leather breastplates over chain mail stood at the railing to each side of the low gate to admit supplicants with documen- tation for review or anyone else Richard or Kahlan might gesture to come closer.
 
Inside the railing to either side were the phalanxes of palace officials in white or pale blue robes. They dealt with a diversity of matters within the People’s Palace and even D’Hara at large. They seemed to relish minutiae. Once a person had come before Richard and Kahlan to state their case, make a technical request, or ask for guidance, they were often directed to one of the variety of officials who could handle the details of their concern.
 
A number of the people waiting in the long line of supplicants were representatives of distant lands who had come, usually dressed in ceremonial attire, not to ask for anything but simply to swear their loyalty to the newly formed D’Haran Empire. They all wanted to look their best at the banquets planned for later. Peace greased the wheels of trade. Being a willing and cooperative part of the empire made trade with all parts of the empire easier.
 
The man in the gold-embroidered robes showed no emotion as he waited for Richard’s formal surrender.
 
“What are the proposed terms?” Richard asked out of curiosity, expecting some kind of diplomatic proposal that would turn out to be much less ominous-sounding and reveal what was really behind such an odd demand.
 
“There are no terms. The surrender must be unconditional.”
 
Richard arched an eyebrow. That didn’t sound like his idea of a diplomatic negotiation.
 
He sat up straighter. “What is your name?”
 
The man blinked, as if the question had been unexpected and totally irrelevant. For some reason he had difficulty looking directly at Richard. He averted his eyes whenever possible.
 
“My name has no bearing here and is unimportant in the matter before you,” he said, confirming the bewildered expression on his face.
 
“Important or not, I would like to know your name.”
 
Long bracelets dangled from the man’s thick wrists as he spread his plump hands. His droopy eyes searched absently left and right, as if he didn’t know what to do about the unexpected request. “I am only here with instructions to accept your surrender on behalf of my patron.”
 
“Who is this patron?”
 
“The goddess.”
 
Richard was taken aback. He had heard of goddesses only in mythology. He didn’t think goddesses, in mythology anyway, hired professional diplomats.
 
“We are gathered here to address the issues of those who come before us. This ‘goddess’ is not here. You are.” The patience left Richard’s voice. “Give me your name.”
 
The man hesitated, avoiding looking directly at Richard. He picked up a long lock of gray hair that had fallen forward over his dark eyes and placed it back down over the bald top of his head. He licked his finger and then smoothed the lock down to paste it in place.
 
“If it will help ensure that you comply with the demand of the goddess, my name is Nolodondri, but I am known by Nolo.”
 
“Tell me, Nolo, why has this goddess not come in person to request the surrender of the D’Haran Empire?”
 
The man lifted the freshly licked finger to make a correction. “Not your empire, Lord Rahl, your world. And it is not a request. It is a command.”
 
“Ah. My world. I stand corrected. And it is a command, not a request. Duly noted.” Richard rolled his hand. “So you worship this goddess, do you?”
 
Nolo’s brow twitched. “No, not exactly.”
 
“What does that mean?”
 
“Would the sky expect the veneration of the ants on the ground beneath it?”
 
“Well then, why would this goddess send an ant to do her bidding instead of coming herself to make such a monumentally important demand?”
 
Nolo bowed his head slightly. “The goddess does not bother with petty tasks such as the surrender of worlds, so she directed me to come here to command compliance with her wishes.”
 
Out of the corner of his eye, Richard could see Kahlan’s aura darkening.
 
“You say that this was her ‘command’—that I surrender my world?”
 
Nolo bowed his head deeper, as if Richard were dense. “Yes, of course. I thought that I had made that clear.”
 
Cassia’s white leather creaked as she leaned in from behind Richard’s right shoulder to whisper to him. “Please, Lord Rahl,” she said as she pulled her single blond braid forward over her shoulder as if holding her own leash, “I’m begging you. Let me kill him.”
 
Berdine, also in white leather, leaned in beside Cassia. “Lord Rahl, you left me here, unable to protect you, for ages. I think I deserve to be the one to kill him.”
 
“Maybe we can decide that later,” Richard said to them with a small smile. “For now, let me handle this?”
 
Both rolled their eyes as they straightened, but they released their Agiels, letting the weapons hang from their wrists on fine gold chains, always at the ready.

Flight 753 lands at JFK International Airport, and while taxiing to its gate, the plane goes dark. Without having any idea of what could have gone wrong inside the massive 777, first responders are shocked when they find that everyone on the plane is dead. The only clues that CDC employees Doctor Goodweather and Dr. Martinez, (Eph and Nora) are able to find is that the plane's interior is covered in some sort of ammonia  substance that can only be seen using a black light, along with a coffin, half filled with soil and nothing else. A pawn broker from Spanish Harlem is more than happy to enlighten the two doctors with what they are facing, telling them that the bodies from flight 753 should be burned before night fall. This of course is not done in time and now the streets are overrun with the birth of a new virus, the Strigoi (vampire) strain.

The morning following their battle for survival against the Master, Eph, Setrakian and Fet plan their next steps to destroying this virus and its primary carrier. With Master Sardu beaten, but not destroyed the crew decide to head back to the sewers where the fight had started. They need to find and destroy the Master's central point of power, his coffin. But once again, this has been taken from its previous resting point and moved to somewhere safe. Revealing more about his past, Abraham Setrakian recalls more about his time in the concentration camps and what the hands of a young carpenter created before they were shattered by the guards after completing his new master piece, a oversized wooden coffin.   

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Kelly Goodweather is in high spirits, if you can call it that, after being changed by the Master to bring him her husband. ‘It is the nature of the undead to torment the living’, Setrakian notes when the undead return home after waking in the morgue the previous night. Kelly is now on the hunt, since she is charged with finding where her ex husband is holed up with his crew of hunters, along with her only child, Zack so that she can bring him back to the Master to be changed. Zack, who is being put in the middle of his parents once again finds solace in his father’s words and will do as he is told, but will not ever be able to betray his mother, even in death.                     
The Fall, the second entry in The Strain trilogy will take you into the depths of the vampire virus that has already swept through New York and is now threatening the entire world. Still following the characters from the first book, Dr. Eph Goodweather and Dr. Nora Martinez, we come to find out they have left the CDC and are now vampire hunters.  Vasiliy Fet, a local exterminator in the city joins the fight along with the old pawn broker and Strigoi hunter extraordinaire Abraham Setrakian. This crew works well together and with the current leadership and knowledge that Setrakian brings to the table, they are anything but pushovers in the fight for survival.

Another group of hunters has joined the fight in New York, and they are run by the Ancients. They are Vampires that not only want to end the current attack on humanity, but also want to end the reign of Sardu. Recruiting some of the locals, they enlist the help of former gang member Gus Elizalde to join them in their fight. Gus, now a tenured vampire hunter takes to the streets and finds a couple more of his old cabrones that are looking for action and much more importantly money to join in the battle between dark and light. Former Mexican wrestling legend, the Silver Angel joins with Gus in his fight and proves to be much more valuable than previously thought, even if he wears an old silly silver mask while dispatching the vampire menace.  

If you read and enjoyed The Strain, you will love where The Fall takes you. Watching as the Ancients need to team up with their only feared human hunter, Setrakian, they also back him as the only book that has a chance to destroy their race is put on the auction block during the uprising.  Knowing that they cannot beat the Master alone, they have to trust that the old man is willing to help them before destroying them as well.  Fet and Setrakian also join into a father son bond during their time together, and keep Eph at arm’s length, knowing that he may not be up to the challenge up ahead. Once again the family dynamic is the backbone to the story, and so much love between the group is shown, even when something goes drastically wrong. The book is also not too focused on current technology, but it does feature a plan that has been unleashed that could compromise the world’s Nuclear Power stations. Stay Scared.