In Avalon Moon, a local man has gone missing and then is soon found dead in a highland meadow, side-by-side with an unknown woman. When another man and woman go missing and a female deputy is found murdered, Gabriel Tanner, editor of Runion’s weekly newspaper, and Plumer Reeves, a reclusive local hawkshaw working for the niece of the first dead man, suspect a monster is hunting in their western North Carolina mountains. Two extraordinary young women, the Avalon community’s Ariel Anderson and Lonesome Mountain’s Livvy Goforth, join Tanner and Reeves to lead the attempt to discover and stop the killer.
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Praise for Avalon Moon:
“With wolves across the river and murder in the high meadow, Avalon Moon knows exactly how to raise the hair on your neck. Move it to the top of your book queue.” ~ BestThrillers.com
“A deliciously gothic tale stitched into a brutal murder mystery. As a serial killer stalks the mountains of North Carolina, Cody’s precise language shifts effortlessly like light through the trees – from lush gothic poetry to gritty Appalachian realism. Facing ancient gods and hungry beasts in the deep woods, the reader can’t help but dread a darker truth: evil is only ever a breath away.” ~ Andrew K. Clark, author of Where Dark Things Grow
“A crime novel featuring a new entry to the list of Most Bone-Chilling Fictional Serial Killers ever committed to paper. Or to e-book. Whatever. The influence of Poe and Hawthorne, at their bone-chilling creepiest, can be felt egging on the unfolding of the story, one eerie development after another. A taut, skillfully crafted thriller.” ~ Whiskey Leavins, author of Low Angle Shot
“Avalon Moon relies on vivid, inviting storytelling and precise language to lure you in, and once you’re caught in Cody’s prodigious literary talents, it’s hard to escape. . . . A book you’ll think about long after you’ve finished the story on the page.” ~ Bobby Mathews, author of Magic City Blues
“The Appalachian town of Runion is threatened by a serial killer, wolves, and ghosts—literal and figurative—in Michael Amos Cody’s propulsive new novel, Avalon Moon. The tension and constant sense of danger kept me turning the pages, but the heart of the book is the large cast of believable characters. All are rendered with insight, compassion, and humor, and they continued to linger in my thoughts long after the novel’s satisfying conclusion.” ~ Peter McDade, author of King Cal
Book Details:
Genre: Psychological Horror, Thriller
Published by: Madville Publishing Publication Date: May 19, 2026 Number of Pages: 340 ISBN: 9781963695670 (ISBN10: 1963695674)
“Editor of and chief contributor to a country weekly” never made my top ten list of things I wanted to be when I grew up. For the longest time, I had only one item on that list—Rock Star! I toyed with adding a second item, maybe being just a hit-making songwriter, but the songwriting I did throughout the 1980s was so closely bound up with the Rock Star! idea that I couldn’t pull the two apart. If I didn’t become the next Bruce Springsteen, which I didn’t, I was unlikely to become the next Bob McDill—ditto on the didn’t.
So, with the Rock Star! phase of my life gone grumbling into my dreams, I left Nashville in the hot gut of August 1990, retreated, tail between legs, to Runion, my hometown in the North Carolina mountains, and the following January entered Runion State University, where I double-majored in English and Journalism. I took a part-time job as student reporter and all-around grunt for Sheldon Dean’s Runion Recorder. A couple years after I graduated, Sheldon decided he was tired of writing and offered me a full-time position as editor, keeping only the title of “General Manager” for himself. I accepted. And so it came to pass that on a cold evening in early March, on the darker side of twilight, I drove toward the Lonesome Mountain end of Genesis Road, planning to swing around the back way into Runion. On regular mornings going to work, or any other time I was in a hurry, I drove down to the French Broad end of Genesis and took the river road up a short hill and onto Main Street, but I was dreading two hours minimum of sitting in a meeting at the Madison County Cooperative Extension Office complex, housed in the recently renovated Old Mill on Mill Street, and taking notes for a regular report to appear in next week’s paper. The room would be stuffy with heat and humanity, and to be honest, I was lollygagging. This year’s March was looking like a lion-lamb version—in like a lion, out like a lamb. We expected to wake up the next morning to some serious snow and ice courtesy of Winter Storm Ulysses. The fields on my left and the woods on my right seemed to hold their breath in anticipation. I rolled to a stop at the T-intersection where Genesis Road dead-ends at Jewel Hill Road, with Lonesome Mountain ahead and to my left, dark against the sky. My new Honda hybrid sat quietly, and still not used to its workings, I thought it might have died but relaxed when no warning lights appeared. Even though the temperature was in the upper thirties, I opened my windows and—with no other traveler sitting at my bumper and politely honking, as our mountain folk do—sat at the intersection with my eyes closed and my skin alive to the chilly air. I heard a few of last summer’s still-tethered leaves shivering in the boughs overhead and something scurrying through the underbrush in the woods off to my right. I think I could’ve engaged the emergency brake and gone to sleep, but I opened my eyes, suddenly uneasy and unsure why. The headlights shown across Jewel Hill Road and lit the lower part of a hillside pasture beyond. A few head of cattle midway up the slope stood at the edge of the light and grazed on pale grass. Not one to be unnerved by a bovine presence in the twilight, I strained my senses to catch and identify what raised hairs along my forearms and around the back of my neck. To my left, a field rolled away in successive swells toward a wooded ridge standing blackly against the sky. Runion lay on the other side of that ridge, but somewhere between the town and me, yips and cries rose from the gathering dark. These joined together into an eerie howl of various voices that twisted around one another, broke apart, and swelled together again. Coyotes. When I was growing up in these mountains, coyotes existed only in old TV westerns. But they were voice-over actors only, strictly behind-the-scenes. They were soundtrack features. Technicians of ambiance. Nothing said a cowboy was alone in the darkening wilderness like the distant howl of a coyote. The cowboy would raise his eyes from the campfire and sit still and listen for a moment, alert to the wild. But it was never the coyote itself that frightened him. Maybe the coyote’s cry was a reminder of his loneliness and vulnerability—that if such a critter could be out there in the dark, then anything could be out there. But in recent years, coyotes had loped out of the faded glory of Hollywood’s western and into our world, maybe crossing the Mississippi around Memphis and moving steadily east across Tennessee until they reached Appalachia and Runion. They were seen trotting along the edges of regional four-lanes or lying dead on twisting mountain highways. They stole cats and small dogs just beyond the lights of back porches. That evening at the stop sign, they yipped and yapped and cried somewhere out on the verge of a Runion farmer’s field. Still, I thought, at least they aren’t wolves. Wolves, of course, were a different story. Send up the howl of a wolf into the night, and the cowboy would become focused on the beast, not on loneliness or vulnerability. The wolf’s howl menaced, threatened. Eyes might shine at the edge of the campfire’s light, followed by snarling close-ups. Then enter the legend of the wolf mixed with a man, and the beast achieved cinematic glory, jumping genres from westerns to horror, something coyotes could never quite pull off. When I pressed the accelerator, the Honda whispered to life, and I turned left toward town. If I sat there much longer, I would be late for the extension meeting, during which one item on the agenda just happened to be related to the beasts of my T-intersection musing. . . . *** Excerpt from Avalon Moon by Michael Amos Cody. Copyright 2026 by Michael Amos Cody. Reproduced with permission from Michael Amos Cody. All rights reserved.
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About Author Michael Amos Cody:
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Michael Amos Cody is author of the 2017 novel GABRIEL’S SONGBOOK and the 2021 collection A TWILIGHT REEL, winner of the Short Story category in the Feathered Quill Book Awards 2022. His 2025 literary suspense novel STREETS OF NASHVILLE won the Thriller category in the 2026 Independent Press Awards. His new novel, released in May 2026, is the psychological thriller AVALON MOON. Cody lives with wife Leesa in Jonesborough, Tennessee, and teaches early American literature and creative writing in the Department of Literature and Language at East Tennessee State University.
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A Beverly Hills psychological thriller about grief, female
rage, fractured identity, and revenge.
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Dark Ugly Places
by Ashley Mansour
Genre: Psychological Thriller, Domestic Suspense
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Some wounds don’t
heal. They fester. They whisper. They take over.
In Dark Ugly Places, trauma isn’t something you
survive — it’s something that survives you.
Thirty-four-year-old Nicola Holiday loses everything in a
hit-and-run: her husband dead, her body broken, her fourteen-year-old daughter
Emmy forever changed. With no one held accountable, she spirals into grief,
panic attacks, and financial ruin — awakening a hereditary darkness she’s spent
her life trying to outrun.
That darkness has a voice now. Her name is Martha, and she
aches for revenge.
As Nicola’s grip on reality loosens, Martha slips into
another life — one of wealth, glamour, and moral rot. When she crosses paths
with the wife of a famous actor, Nicola’s suspicions ignite.
Pulled between vengeance and annihilation, Nicola and Martha
collide with a woman whose secrets may be the key to everything — or the thing
that destroys them both.
Dark, provocative, and deeply unsettling — a haunting
psychological portrait of female rage, obsession, and the terrifying lengths
the mind will go to survive unbearable pain.
Because sometimes the most dangerous place isn’t the past.
It’s inside your own head.
“A suspenseful and relentless tale of troubled
Californians.”
– Kirkus Reviews
“A tense, viciously readable psychological thriller about
the violence that lurks beneath polished surfaces.”
– BookLife Reviews
“With fast-paced thrills and gripping psychological drama,
Ashley Mansour’s Dark Ugly Places serves up vengeance for morally complex
characters.” – Indiereader
In the dark, everything is murky, even the Los Angeles sky.
But the day of Nicola’s accident, I had a pretty clear view of
things. It tends to be that way—clear—when Nicola isn’t.
Nicola, Ben, and their daughter, Emmy, were walking holding
hands, something the three of them hadn’t done since Emmy was a little kid. I
felt the itch in Nicola’s palm, like she didn’t want to hold hands. But Emmy
insisted. She was between them, arms outstretched, making that little humming
sound she sometimes made when she was nervous or lost in thought. Ben walked on
slightly ahead, his head down, eyes focused on the phone in his hand. I could
almost hear his teeth grinding.
Up ahead, the road was clear. The sun covered everything in
butter-yellow light. Crows perched in the bare-barked trees and made long,
scratchy cries like a group of smokers laughing. They rustled leaves and
crossed the pavement before them. But the trees were still, like the air had
been sucked out of the city. Up ahead, the road was clear.
The three of them approached the corner, Emmy and Nicola
chatting aimlessly. Ben narrowed his eyes and squinted at the screen as if the
sky was too bright. He stepped out into the road first. Emmy, next. She skipped
slightly—braids flying—and pulled her mom’s arm.
Nicola looked up and saw one of the crows overhead, its beak
open, making a dreadful sound. When she looked back at the road, her gut pinged
with a horrible dread she couldn’t place.
Then she—we—saw it.
From the middle distance, something large and hurtled into
view, its body glinting in the sun. Emmy screamed. Nicola tried to pull her
back, but one by one, her fingers slipped out of her grasp.
It was too late.
Nicola’s body collided with the big, thing, and in the
next moment, she was airborne, tumbling through the air as if she had been
taken by a tornado. Her thoughts spiraled with her, spinning out of control.
I’m going to die.
I’m going to live.
Don’t let me die.
I’m going to die.
She kept spiraling, around and around, until I stopped her with
a simple suggestion: Breathe, Nicola. Breathe. We have this power, those of us
who live in the darkness.
The asphalt grated her spine. It must have hurt, but Nicola did
not cry. Perhaps because the air was too full of Emmy’s screams.
She rolled to her left, her left arm pinned against her chest
like a piece of limp fabric. Her left leg lay stretched out before her
perfectly straight, but dead. Cold. Frozen in place. She rolled to her side and
saw Emmy, blood coating half of her face as though she were wearing a mask.
Five feet away, Ben lay in the road unmoving, his body contorted, his face
turned away.
Overhead, the stretch of blue sky angled down Beverly Boulevard
and went on forever. Cars passed, some honking, others slowing to stop and help
or to get a better look. Nicola grunted and heaved herself along the ground,
her jaw gritting with pain. She reached for Emmy, reached for Ben.
The body of the car stirred. A door opened. A black
polished shoe emerged onto the asphalt as the driver leaned out, then
disappeared again as the door shut. I heard the engine as the car started and
rolled backwards, slow at first, then picking up speed until it was gone.
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Ashley Mansour writes dark, cinematic psychological suspense
and domestic suspense about dangerous relationships, buried truths, and the
chaos waiting beneath the surface of ordinary lives.
While searching for her missing boss, a
Wyoming Deputy Sheriff accidentally discovers a secret facility
and conspiracy of silence surrounding a series of mysterious deaths in
Deadhorse, Alaska.
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The Weight of Cold Things
by Lisa Towles
Genre: Psychological Thriller, Arctic Noir
Wyoming Deputy Sheriff Gree Gooding has one mission: find
her missing boss. The trail leads four thousand miles north—to Deadhorse,
Alaska, an oil-drilling outpost clinging to the edge of the Arctic Circle. A
place where daylight is rationed, where the cold can kill in minutes, and where
her husband AJ, a petroleum geologist, vanished six months ago.
The clues don’t just point to her boss’s disappearance. They reach back into
Gree’s own past— to the Wyoming ranch she left behind, to the family secrets
buried in its soil, and to the grief frozen like permafrost inside her.
When the investigation cinches around a decades-long cover-up — a black ops
program called Arc Dominion — Gree realizes someone’s been waiting for her.
Someone knew she’d follow the thread. This was never about a missing sheriff.
It’s about the conspiracy AJ died trying to expose — and whether she can finish
what he started.
The cold doesn’t forgive.
It doesn’t forget.
And it’s about to give up its dead.
For fans of Yellowstone and The X-Files — where neo-Western grit meets a
decades-long government conspiracy buried beneath the Arctic ice.
They gutted an iceberg with two sticks of dynamite, forty
years ago when the shabby construction camps rose on the iconic Dalton Highway.
Oil was struck in Prudhoe Bay in 1968, setting off an irreversible string of
events: an ecological nightmare, an eight-billion-dollar pipeline transporting
crude oil 800 miles south from the North Slope to Valdez, and passage for
seventy thousand oil workers to the most menacing outpost on earth: Deadhorse.
A stolen scrap of bread. Chronic insomnia. Drug abuse. One
worker snapped, nicking dynamite from the munitions depot, flailing his arms,
all the while forgetting how fast the detonating cord burns to the quick. The
shock wave bulleted shards of ice in every direction, thrusting the assailant
twelve feet in the air in a whirl of fire and black smoke. He became the first
prize, the Number One. His victim, the second man, escaped.
It took two days for the particles to clear the air, finally
revealing an exquisite, dome-like crevasse in the ice the depth of five
residential garages — one after the other in a long, hollow train. Except this
garage had no yard outside because nothing grew in this place but resentment.
No gas grill on a redwood deck, no family huddled in the adjacent house. Only
the unrelenting cold and ice: on the floor, walls, ceiling. He loved it that
way, the Caretaker, the exclusivity of his access and the singularity of his
dark secret.
That spring, the suited men came in droves sporting fine
clothing and city shoes to explain the gravity of their problem, which later
evolved into their pitch. Well, their problem had just solved itself, hadn’t
it? No one knew about this place and nobody but him would ever find it. Some
secrets were just not for sale.
Chapter 1
Present Day December 18 – Inglewood Ranch, Cody, WY
I could feel it in my bones, this unspeakable energy of
change. Not a buzz, it was more like a low hum I could almost hear when I
closed my eyes and got real still. I’d woken with it today, of all days, this
visceral knowing that despite the regularity of my errand, it would have a
disruptive impact on my life, such as it was. My work in Jackson, a five hour
drive from our family ranch in Cody, was an odd arrangement to begin with, and
the two-bedroom condo I rented near the Teton County Sheriff’s Office was
uninhabitable without AJ. Even still, there was something else in the air
today. Cholo, our ranch hand and my lifelong friend, sensed something too,
though it wasn’t his way to articulate his thoughts. Instead, he put cinnamon
in the coffee, his quiet way of offering comfort. I could smell it the whole
way in from the barn.
I’d gone out before first light, watching the fluff of gray
dawn cover my beloved Inglewood, hoping to shake the image of a recurring dream
and to brush AJ’s quarter horse, Rain. At first, it was to console him, knowing
horses had unique and profound ways of grieving. Lately, though, the cold vigil
seemed more about me. Rogue, the word had been coming to me since AJ’s death —
a blurry dream-hand opening to a tiny piece of paper on which a single word was
written. Was it him reaching out from his watery grave? What did it mean?
Cholo passed me a cup when I reached the kitchen, shutting
out the ten-degree wind chill behind me. I unzipped my coat and sipped quietly
just inside the door, letting the hot coffee slide down my throat, waiting for
whatever his face was preparing.
“Been three weeks now.”
I nodded, three weeks since Sheriff Peter Barrett
disappeared — my boss, mentor, now another silent ache in my heart.
“I heard about the fire,” he added. “How many is that now?”
“Does it matter?” I asked him. “Seven.”
“You think they’re connected. Don’t you?”
I shrugged, pretending. But any sane person would. “I’m not
an arson investigator. Bryce at the State Fire Marshal’s Office is looking into
it.”
“Really?”
I laughed. “Come on.
Bryce has a good team working for him. I know two of those guys.”
“They haven’t been out here since Thanksgiving.” Cholo
stared back, thick brows angled over large, black eyes.
“I know, okay? What do you want me to do? I’m not the
sheriff.” The words caught in my throat.
“You never know about people,” he said with that quiet
wisdom I’d never seen in anyone else, like he understood the longings in my
heart for answers that hadn’t yet come. Peter Barrett, Jackson’s most beloved
sheriff, vanished three weeks ago today.
Cholo was right about
Bryce, too. Interagency politics aside, I’d need to call and follow up on the
arson investigation they said they were running. Add it to the growing list.
He took a long sip, still watching me.
“Well, spit it out already,” I said.
“I can’t take you to the airport.”
“It’s alright, I’ll get an Uber.”
Cholo’s jaw was set
tight but his eyes were uncertain, like he was trying to think of an excuse but
couldn’t do it.
“What’s the big deal?”
“Woody’s gonna take you.”
“Woody!” My voice cracked like a whip. I set the cup on the
counter with a clunk and rezipped my coat. Ah…the cinnamon. Son of a bitch.
“He wants to talk to you.”
“Does he now?” I grabbed the warm mug for reinforcement and sucked
down the last three gulps. “Does he want to talk about how he stole two of our
horses, stole money from me? He robbed us, Cholo, all of us. And by doing so,
he broke something precious.” I didn’t like the sound of that word, precious.
Made it seem like Woody was important to me, and despite the intrusive logic of
that truth, there was no place for Woody here anymore.
“He says he’s sorry.”
“Not to me he didn’t. Besides, sorry’s just a word.” Already
mad at seven in the morning, great. I zipped my coat and turned my back to him,
facing the door. “A real apology is a change in behavior.” My eyes were wide as
I waited for him to take my challenge. To come to Woody’s rescue, explain how
the drugs made him do it or the excuse-of-the-day.
Still fuming, I left via Uber at 7:30 a.m. without another
word to either Cholo or my dad. Woody could kiss my ass as far as I was
concerned. I’d have to pay for my cold heart, of course. The world has a quiet
way of keeping score.
***
By 3:00 p.m., I was standing on the corner of Wave and
McClellan Streets in Monterey, California. Eleven hundred miles away in
historic Cannery Row, a sliver of sea was visible between the brownstones on
Lighthouse Avenue. The sun felt warm on my face and bare arms. Mid December in
California, I’ll be damned. A premonition, I couldn’t put my finger on it, made
me take notice, warning me to be careful. Something bad was coming.
Ash was right, I was loath to admit. There were holiday
decorations and tacky music everywhere, but it just didn’t feel like Christmas
in a hilltop penthouse overlooking the ocean, waves beneath me reflecting a
cloudy sky. The beauty of California’s coast was unmistakable, but in my heart,
Christmas was indelibly marked by snow.
“Is that you?” Cholo asked me later, answering his mobile on
the third ring.
“I guess. Some version of me, anyway.”
“What are you doing out there, Gree? You hate California.”
He knew, of course; we’d discussed it back and forth for
weeks. Why go now, why go at all? After being on and off the market for ten
years, my mother’s condo had finally found a buyer. I came here to sign papers,
to once again acknowledge the sting of her death and bring my feet one step
closer to the present. But that wasn’t what he was asking. Like all Cholo’s
questions, they were part real world and part spirit world. I knew what he
meant. I just wasn’t sure I was willing to answer yet.
“How’s Dad?” I deflected.
“He’s concerned about how it will look to the community, you
leaving town after Peter’s disappearance.”
“I don’t recall asking his opinion.” He was right, though.
It was too sudden, but it would be a short trip. Besides, everything was broken
right now anyway.
“No, but he’s always willing to share it, isn’t he?”
“Yeah,” I laughed.
“He’s splitting wood right now,” Cholo said.
“Great idea for a man who just had a heart attack.”
“Come on, it was a mild one. He didn’t even know he was
having it. Besides, it’s gonna be zero tonight. We’ll be using that wood.”
I guess I shouldn’t complain. The fact that they were
staying in the same house, after such a long standoff, was nothing short of
miraculous and I had nothing to do with it. Maybe the rock of resentment got
too heavy to haul around anymore. I was dying to know who thawed first, but I’d
never ask. You didn’t do things that way out here. Not in Wyoming, not in this
family.
“Could you make sure he’s got a jacket on? For God’s sake
keep an eye on him. If left to his own devices he’d chop wood in a—”
“Gretchen.”
It was my dad’s voice now, Ash Gooding, former Sheriff of
Park County, who to this day insists on calling me by my birth name instead of
the nickname my mother gave me.
“How’s sunny California?”
It was meant as an insult. Everyone in town got lots of
mileage from the fact that I wasn’t a native of Wyoming, even though I’d lived
there since I was five.
“It’s midnight, Wyoming time. What are you doing up this
late? Do you miss me that much?” I joked to an awkward silence. I rambled on
for a while, telling him about the dark orange sunset I’d seen from the balcony
after signing a four-inch stack of papers. Hadn’t they ever heard of digital
copies? Apparently, this mortgage company insisted on paper-everything. Ash
listened. I heard the clinking of ice in his glass. Would this be his third or
fourth by now? I decided not to mention the wood chopping.
“You didn’t tell her?” he mumbled to Cholo. “Mmm.”
“Tell me what?”
A murmur of conversation in the background. Maybe his hand
was covering the phone. And maybe this was what Cholo was hiding from me this
morning.
“Dad, what is it? Tell me.”
“I can’t. Gotta show you. Guess we’ll have to wait till you
get back.”
Sonofabitch. I knew my dad, and that meant no manipulation
or psychology would wriggle out of him whatever he was keeping from me. After
signing over ownership of what had been my mother’s dream home, I left the key
with the bankers and took with me a cedar box of my mother’s mementos, which I
would undoubtedly squirrel away somewhere and forget about for the next decade.
All the better, right? Avoidance, since AJ’s death six months ago, had become a
sort of new religion. Didn’t avoidance almost always turn to cancer somewhere
down the road?
When I got back, I didn’t bother going home first before
looking for Ash. He’d planted an evil seed of dread and apprehension, and he
knew it too. Maybe punishing me for something; he’s a Gemini after all. I flew
into Cody from San Francisco instead of Jackson, where I’d worked for the past
twelve years as deputy sheriff under Peter Barrett, one of the kindest men I’d
ever met. Why did I feel like Ash’s secret had something to do with him? The
buzzing in my bones this morning…maybe that was the warning. Jesus, no. Not
that. The vague comfort of the word missing was too hard to give up.
Three in the afternoon to Ash Gooding meant five o’clock
somewhere. There’s this ratty bar on the edge of town called Stagecoach, Ash’s
favorite. Drafty as hell with dusty floors, swivel stools, and random darts
scattered on the floor looking for their board, threatening tetanus. Weird part
about it was that the owner isn’t a wrinkled prune of a man but someone
belonging on the cast of Below Deck, a body intended for board shorts, tanned
legs and a white polo shirt hauling up ropes with three-ply triceps. He was
trying to be unassuming in a plain brown t-shirt stretched out at the neck,
pretending he didn’t care about his looks. His artificially whitened smile
betrayed the deception – laughing eyes with something sinister behind them, a
joke no one knew about but him.
“How’s it going?” the guy asked.
I exhaled. “G&T, please. Been a long day.”
“Coming up.”
When Runway Model set down the glass, I suddenly didn’t feel
like talking. The weight of air travel, of the milestone I’d crossed and
today’s sad anniversary, burned behind my eyes. They watered as I took the
first swallow. I turned on the stool to look around. Ha, I knew it.
“Ash,” I said, walking across the creaking floorboards.
“What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Drinking here alone, that’s what.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You can come to my house in Jackson and drink with me.
Wouldn’t that be nicer?”
He laughed. “Not necessarily. Besides, too long a drive.”
“Look, you can stay here and punish yourself for Mom’s death
all you like. I know what day it is.”
The slap of the men’s room door distracted us from the
tension. It was a sad old story with no ending. I smelled Cholo’s Irish Spring
soap behind me. I turned, my left arm involuntarily reaching for him, tugging
the frayed edge of his Carhartt jacket.
“Well.” I stood back a ways. “You two got real chummy in the
one day I left town.” They were looking sideways at each other in some silent
communication. Ranchers at a bar in the middle of the afternoon; it didn’t make
sense. “What’s the deal?”
Cholo nodded. “You’d better sit down.”
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Lisa Towles believes stories hold the world together – and
the best ones expose what we hide even from ourselves. She builds that belief
into her main characters – Mari Ellwyn, Angus Mariner, Kurt Farin – each one
drowning in dark secrets, running from unthinkable truths. The award-winning
author of 14 mystery thrillers, her books pull readers into worlds of global
espionage, fringe technology, and shadow governments. Her titles include Terror
Bay (NYC Big Book Award), Codex (BookFest First Place), The Ridders (American
Fiction Award), and her E&A Series thrillers Hot House and Salt Island both
reached Amazon Kindle #1 Bestseller. Her next thriller, The Weight of Cold
Things – described as Yellowstone meets The X-Files – publishes in August 2026.
When she’s not writing, she interviews authors on her Story Impact Podcast and
coaches writers on how to be visible and memorable to readers. Follow her to
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A forbidden secret… The Church’s fate in the balance… Will a pair of amateur sleuths expose a truth that could upend the Christian world?
Jesus’ resurrection is a cornerstone of Christian faith. But when a clue surfaces that hints at an alternate account, the ramifications stand to change Christianity forever. Jesuit priest Michael Dominic’s assignment to the Vatican’s legendary Secret Archives results in his discovery of a hidden papyrus: the unpublished writings of Mary Magdalene — a lost record buried in Rome’s deepest recesses. The forgotten relic’s heretical revelation threatens the Vatican’s very legitimacy, and pits Michael against ruthless and powerful enemies. Desperate, he reaches out to Hana Sinclair, an investigative reporter with a record of tackling contentious subjects. Together they defy the Church elite, and embark on a search through the shadows of history to unearth the truth. As the pressure builds to silence the pair, will the Vatican resort to the unthinkable in order to safeguard its wealth and power? Based on historical facts, this international thriller takes readers on a white-knuckle race through the holy sites of Europe. Get your copy of this award-winning tale and discover why Gary McAvoy’s devoted fans say, “I didn’t want this book to end!”
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Praise for The Magdalene Deception:
“A great thriller that weaves numerous storylines together effectively. Recommended to those who love a good thriller with historical implications, as well as the reader who enjoys Vatican and Catholic politics… McAvoy creates a wonderful story that never stops building throughout… [He] captures the secrecy and deep-rooted history of the Vatican and its politics throughout this piece, with a strong story and plot that moves in many directions. McAvoy pulls the reader in and keeps them guessing, while also refusing to place a damper on the action. Juggling modern and ancient Church issues, McAvoy does not lose his reader at any point, as his writing is so clear that the attentive reader will likely want more.” ~ MATT PECHEY, REEDSY DISCOVERY. “Exquisitely written and highly entertaining, The Magdalene Deception is an investigative mystery in a very similar vein to The DaVinci Code…The real quality to this book is the author himself – the writing is superb. There is an outstanding attention to detail in McAvoy, and the setpieces he weaves are vivid, colourful and authentic; this author treats his audience as intelligent and attentive, and this is always hugely beneficial to any writer. As well as being an evidently well-educated historian, McAvoy also knows his stuff in terms of modern-day information networking and the technology in present day use alongside ancient practices and customs…” ~ MATT McAVOY BOOK REVIEWS (UK)
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The Magdalene Deception Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Vatican Historical Thrillers
Published by: Literati Editions Publication Date: July 1, 2020 Number of Pages: 368 ISBN: 9780990837664 (ISBN10: 0990837661) Series: The Magdalene Chronicles, #1
The relentless siege of the last surviving Cathar fortress, perched strategically on the majestic peak of Montségur in the French Pyrenees, entered its tenth month. The massive army of crusaders dispatched from Rome, thirty thousand strong, were garbed in distinctive white tunics, their mantles emblazoned with the scarlet Latin cross. Knights commanders led hordes of common foot soldiers, some seeking personal salvation, others simply out for adventure and the promise of plunder. They had already devastated most of the Languedoc region of southern France in the years preceding. Tens of thousands of men, women, and children had been slain, regardless of age, sex or religious belief. Entire villages were burned, rich crops destroyed, and the fertile land which yielded them was poisoned in a cruel, single-minded quest to root out and extinguish a small and peaceful, yet influential mystic order known as the Cathars. The defeat of the impregnable Montségur remained the ultimate prize for the Church’s troops. Rumors of a vast treasure had reached the ears of every soldier, stirring up the passion with which these feared European mercenaries carried out their holy mission. As was the customary practice during a crusade, whatever pillage remained after the plundering—spolia opima, the richest spoils for supreme achievement—could be claimed by the victor. That temptation, bonded by the personal assurance of the pope that all sins would be forgiven and their paths to heaven assured, was enough to seduce anyone, nobleman or peasant, to take up cudgel, pike, or arrow in the name of God. In 1209, Pope Innocent III had ordered a Holy Crusade to crush the spirit and, if necessary, the life of each and every dissident in the Languedoc region bordering France and Spain. This independent principality had distinguished itself by fostering an artistic and intellectual populace well beyond that of most northern European societies at the time. The people of the Languedoc practiced a religious tolerance that encouraged spiritual and secular diversity. Schools teaching Greek, Hebrew and Arabic languages and the customs which accompanied them flourished, as did those espousing the Kabbalah, an occult form of Judaism that dated from the second century. Most settlers in the Languedoc viewed Christianity with the utmost repugnance; at the very least its practices were perceived as being more materialistic than godly in nature. The irreligious of the region passed over Christianity in large part due to the scandalous corruption exhibited by its local priests and bishops who, unable to influence the heathens within their provinces, came to prefer the rewards of commerce and land ownership over the tending of a meager flock. Consequently, the authorities in Rome felt compelled to deal with this unforgivable heresy once and for all, in towns such as Toulouse and Albi within the Languedoc area. Consigning his troops to their commanders, Pope Innocent III invoked a special benediction to all, lauding the divinity of their mission. Asked how they might distinguish their Christian brethren from the heretics, the crusaders were simply told, “Kill them all. God will spare His own.” And so the Albigensian Crusade began. The new moon cast no light over Montségur as night fell on the first day of March 1244, obscuring not only the hastened activities of its occupants, but the lingering threat conspiring outside its walls. A dense alpine fog had settled over the mountain, and the castle that straddled its inaccessible peak had withstood nearly a year of unceasing battle. Weakened by the tenacity of their predators and yielding to the hopelessness of their situation, Raymond de Péreille, Lord of Château du Montségur and leader of the remaining four hundred defenders, commanded his troops to lay down their arms, and descended the mountain to negotiate terms of their capitulation. Though offered lenient conditions in return for their surrender, de Péreille requested a fourteen-day truce, ostensibly to consider the terms, and handed over hostages as an assurance of good faith. Knowing there was no alternative for their captives—nearly half of whom were priest-knights, or parfaits, sworn to do God’s work—the commanders of the pope’s regiment agreed to the truce. Over the next two weeks, reprieved from the constant threat of attack they had been enduring for months, the inhabitants of Montségur resolved to fulfill their own destiny before relinquishing their fortress—and their lives—to the Inquisition. On the last day of the truce, as if guided collectively by a single will on a predestined course, the surviving members of the last Cathar settlement made special preparations for their departure. Four of the strongest and most loyal of the parfaits were led by Bishop Bertrand Marty, the senior abbé of the fortress, as they descended deep within the mountain down a long, stepped passageway carved into alternating layers of earth and limestone. The end of the passage appeared to be just that, as if the original tunnelers had simply stopped work and retreated without finishing the job. But, while the others held torches, Abbé Marty withdrew a large rusted key-like wedge from beneath his cassock, and thrust it into a hidden cavity near the low ceiling. The abbé manipulated the key for a few moments. A muffled sound of grating metal from beyond the stone wall echoed through the tunnel, and the seemingly impenetrable granite slid inward slightly, revealing a door. Aided by the parfaits, the door swung open into a small dank chamber filled with an enormous cache of riches—gold and silver in varied forms, gilded chalices and bejeweled crosses, an abundance of gems and precious stones, overflowing bags of coins from many lands. And, in a far corner removed from the bulk of the treasure itself, stood a wide granite pedestal on which rested an ornately carved wooden reliquary, crafted to hold the most holy of relics, next to which sat a large book wrapped in brown sackcloth. Standing before the legendary treasure of the Cathars—glittering and hypnotic in the dim torchlight—would prove seductive for most men. But the Albigensians held little regard for earthly goods, other than as a useful political means to achieve their spiritual destiny. Ignoring the abundant wealth spread before them, the abbé fetched the sackcloth while the other four parfaits hoisted the ancient reliquary to their shoulders, then they left the room and solemnly proceeded back up the granite stairway. In the thousand-year history of the Cathars, these would be the last of the order ever to see the treasure. But the most sacred relic of the Christian world would never, they vowed, fall into the unholy hands of the Inquisition. Emerging from the stone passage, Abbé Marty led the parfaits and their venerable cargo through the hundreds of waiting Cathars who had assembled outside, forming a candlelit gauntlet leading to the sanctuary. All were dressed in traditional black tunics, all wearing shoulder-length hair covered by round taqiyah caps as was the custom of the sect. Once inside, the parfaits lowered the reliquary onto the stone altar. The abbé removed the ancient book from the sackcloth and began the sacred Consolamentum, a ritual of consecration, while the four appointed guardians prepared themselves for their special mission. Armed with short blades and truncheons, the parfaits carefully secured the reliquary in the safety of a rope sling, then fastened taut harnesses around themselves. “Go with God, my sons,” Abbé Marty intoned as he gave them his blessing, “and in His name ensure this sacred reliquary be protected for generations to come.” The four men climbed over the precipice and, assisted by their brothers gripping the ropes tied to their harnesses, gently and silently rappelled hundreds of meters down the escarpment. Sympathizers waiting at the base of the mountain assisted the parfaits in liberating their holy treasure, guiding them away from the danger of other troops and hiding them and the reliquary deep in one of many nearby caves. Throughout the night, those remaining at Montségur celebrated their brotherhood, their holy calling, and their last hours alive. Descending the mountain the next morning, in a state of pure spiritual release from the material world, Abbé Marty led the last of the Cathars as they willingly marched into the blazing pyres awaiting them, martyrs to their cause. The holy reliquary of the Cathars has never since been found.
Chapter 1
Present Day
Rounding the northern wall of the Colosseum with a measured stride, a tall young man with longish black hair glanced at the Tag Heuer chronometer strapped to his left wrist. Noting the elapsed time of his eighth mile, he wiped away the sweat that was now stinging his eyes. Damn this Roman heat. Not even sunrise, and it’s already a scorcher. Approaching the wide crosswalks flanking the west side of the immense Colosseum, he wondered if this was the morning he would meet God. Dodging the murderous, unrestrained traffic circling the stadium became a daily act of supreme faith, as the blur of steel subcompacts, one after another, careened around the massive structure on their way, no doubt, to some less hostile place. Since his arrival here he had discovered that this was the way with Italian motorists in general, though Roman drivers excelled at the sport. Veteran observers could always tell the difference between natives and visitors: a local would cross the road seemingly ambivalent to the rush of oncoming traffic. Non-Romans, who could as likely be from Milan as from Boston or Paris, approached the threat of each curb-to-curb confrontation with a trepidation bordering on mortal terror. Crossing the broad Via dei Fori Imperiali, his route took him through the Suburra, the most ancient inhabited area of Rome and off the beaten path of most tourists. As a newcomer to a city whose normal pulse was barely evident beneath the confusing ambiguities of new and old, the runner felt most comfortable here in the Suburra, a semi-industrial working-class neighborhood, much like the one he only recently left in New York. In the summer, people got up early to tend their gardens before the real heat forced them indoors. The early morning air was thick with alternating scents of Chilean jasmine, honeysuckle and petrol fumes. He ran another ten kilometers, long blooms of sweat accentuating a lean, muscular frame beneath a gauzy white t-shirt as he burst into a sprint up the final few blocks, past the empty trattorias and shuttered shops whose merchants were just beginning their morning rituals. Slowing to a cool-down pace as he crossed the Sant’Angelo bridge spanning the Tiber River, he turned left up Via della Conciliazione as the massive dome of Saint Peter’s Basilica loomed suddenly ahead. Though it could be seen from almost anywhere in Rome, this approach always gave him the impression that the dome seemed to tip backwards, being swallowed up by the grand facade of the church the closer he got to it. “Buongiorno, padre.” Several female voices, almost in unison, broke the cobblestone pattern of his reverie. Father Michael Dominic looked up and smiled politely, lifting his hand in a slight wave as he swiftly passed a small cluster of nuns, some of whom he recognized as Vatican employees. The younger women blushed, leaning their hooded heads toward each other in hushed gossip as their eyes followed the handsome priest; the older women simply bobbed a chilly nod to the young cleric, dutifully herding their novitiates into obedient silence on their way to morning Mass. Though he had only been in Rome a couple of weeks, Michael Dominic’s youthful exuberance and keen intellect had become known quickly throughout the cloistered population of Vatican City, setting him apart from the more monastic attitudes prevalent since the Middle Ages. But despite the fusty parochialism and an atmosphere of suspended time he found within its walls, Dominic still felt the intoxication of privilege at having been assigned to Rome so early in his religious career. It had not been even two years since he lay prostrate at the altar of St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City, to be ordained by his family friend and mentor Cardinal Enrico Petrini. It was no secret to Vatican insiders that the eminent cardinal’s influence was chiefly responsible for Dominic’s swift rise to the marbled corridors of ecclesiastical power now surrounding him. The young priest’s scholarly achievements as a classical medievalist were essential to the work being done in the Vatican Library. But the progressive cardinal also was grateful for the vitality Dominic brought to his vocation, not to mention the charismatic ways in which he could get things accomplished in an otherwise plodding bureaucracy. Though Dominic could not account for his mentor’s vigorous inducement that he come to Rome—and knowing this particular prince of the Church so well, it was surely more than a familial gesture—he had trusted Enrico Petrini completely, and simply accepted the fact that this powerful man had believed in him strongly enough to give him an opportunity which he most certainly would not have had otherwise. Pacing slower now, Dominic drew in rhythmic gulps of searing air as he neared the Vatican. A block or so before reaching the gate, he stepped inside the Pergamino Caffè on the Piazza del Risorgimento. Later in the day the cramped room would be filled with tourists seeking postcards and gelato, but mornings found it crowded with locals, most nibbling on small, sticky cakes washed down with a demitasse of thick, sweet coffee. Across the room Dominic spotted Signora Palazzolo, the ample wife of the proprietor, whose wisps of white hair were already damp with perspiration. Seeing the priest approach, the older woman’s face broke into a broad, gap-toothed smile as she reached beneath the counter and withdrew a neatly folded black cassock that Dominic had dropped off earlier, which she handed to him with deliberate satisfaction. “Buongiorno, padre,” she said. “And will you take caffè this morning?” “Molto grazie, signora,” Dominic said, accepting the cassock graciously. “Not today. I’m already late as it is.” “Okay this time,” she said with a gently scolding tone, “but it is not healthy for a strong young man to skip his breakfast, especially after making his heart work so hard in this unforgiving heat.” Her hand reached up to wipe away the dampness as she spoke, coifing what little hair she had left in a vain attempt to make herself more attractive. Heading toward the back of the shop, Dominic slipped into the restroom, quickly washed his face and raked his hair into some semblance of order, then drew the cassock over his head and buttoned it to the starched white collar now encircling his neck. Emerging from the restroom minutes later and making for the door, he glanced back to see the signora waving to him, now with a different look on her face—one beaming with respect for the clergyman he had suddenly become, as if she herself had had a role in the transformation. Of the three official entrances to the Vatican, Porta Sant’Anna, or Saint Anne’s Gate, is the one generally used by employees, visitors and tradesmen, situated on the east side of the frontier just north of Saint Peter’s Square. Although duties of security come first, guards at all gates also are responsible for monitoring the encroachment of dishabille into the city. Dominic learned from an earlier orientation that casual attire of any sort worn by employees or official visitors was not permitted past the border. Jeans and T-shirts were barely tolerated on tourists, but the careless informality of shorts, sweatpants or other lounging attire on anyone else was strictly forbidden. An atmosphere of respect and reverence was to be observed at all times. Vatican City maintains an actual live-in population of fewer than a thousand souls, but each workday nearly five thousand people report for duty within the diminutive confines of its imposing walls—walls originally built to defend against the invading Saracens a thousand years before—and the Swiss Guards at each gate either recognize or authenticate every person coming or going by face and by name. One of the Guards whom Dominic had recognized from previous occasions, dressed in the less formal blue and black doublet and beret of the corps, waved him through with a courteous smile as Dominic reached for his ID card. “It is no longer necessary to present your credentials now that you are recognized at this gate, Father Dominic,” the solidly built young guard said in English. “But it is a good idea to keep it with you just in case.” “Grazie,” Dominic responded, continuing in Italian, “and it would be helpful to me if we could speak the local language. I haven’t used it fluently since I was younger, and I am outnumbered here by those who have an obvious preference. You know, ‘When in Rome….’” The guard’s smile faded instantly, replaced by a slight but obvious discomfort as he attempted to translate, then respond to Dominic’s rapid Italian. “Yes, it would be pleasure for me, padre,” the young soldier said in halting Italian, “but only if we speak slowly. German is native tongue of my own home, Zurich, and though I speak good English, my Italian learning have only just started; but I understand much more than I speak.” Dominic smiled at the younger man’s well-intended phrasing. “It’s a deal then. I’m Michael Dominic,” he said formally, offering a sweaty palm. “It is an honor meeting you, Father Michael. I am Corporal Dengler. Karl Dengler.” The guard’s face brightened at the unusual respect he was accorded, as he extended his own white-gloved hand in a firm grip. Recently recruited into the prestigious Pontificia Cohors Helvetica, the elite corps of papal security forces more commonly known as the Swiss Guard, Dengler had found that most people in the Vatican—indeed, most Romans—were inclined to keep to themselves. It was never this difficult to make friends in Switzerland, and he welcomed the opportunity to meet new people. He also knew, as did everyone by now, that this particular priest had a powerful ally close to the Holy Father. “An honor for me as well, Corporal,” Dominic said a bit more slowly, yet not enough to cause the young man further embarrassment. “And my apologies for soiling your glove.” “No problem,” Dengler said as he smiled. “With this heat it will be dry in no time. And if you ever want a running partner, let me know.” “I’ll take you up on that!” Michael said with a wave as he passed through the gate. Already the Vatican grounds were bustling with activity. Throngs of workers, shopkeepers and official visitors with global diversities of purpose made their way along the Via di Belvedere to the myriad offices, shops and museums—any indoor or shaded haven, in fact, that might offer escape from the heat of the rising sun. Another Swiss Guard stood commandingly in the center of the street—looking remarkably dry and cool, Dominic thought, despite the obvious burden of his red-plumed steel helmet and the traditional billowy gala uniform of orange, red and blue stripes—directing foot and vehicular traffic while smartly saluting the occasional dignitaries passing by. To any observer, Vatican City appears to be in a state of perpetual reconstruction. Comprising little more than a hundred acres, the ancient city state is in constant need of repair and maintenance. Architectural face-lifts, general structural reinforcement and contained expansion take place at most any time and in various stages, manifested in the skeletal maze of scaffolding surrounding portions of the basilica and adjoining buildings. Sampietrini, the uniquely skilled maintenance workers responsible for the upkeep of Saint Peter’s, are ever-present throughout the grottoes, corridors, and courtyards as they practice time-honored skills of the artisans who have gone before them, traditionally their fathers and their fathers’ fathers. It was quite probable, in fact, that a given sampietrino working on, say, a crumbling cornerstone of the basilica itself, could very well be shoring up work that was originally performed by his great-great-grandfather more than a century before him. Dominic walked to the end of the Belvedere, then turned right up the Stradone dei Giardini and alongside the buildings housing the Vatican Museums, until he reached the northern wall of the city. A priest learns early that his life will suffer many rituals, and in at least one secular aspect, Michael Dominic’s was no different. Every day he ended his morning run with a meditative walk along the inner walls surrounding the immaculately maintained papal gardens. The fact that many of the same trees that lined the paths have been rooted here for centuries—serving the contemplative needs of whichever pope might be ruling at the time—gave Dominic a more natural feeling of historical connectedness, in subtle contrast to other abundant yet more imposing, reminders of where he now happened to be living and working. “Ah! Good morning, Miguel.” It was a gentle breeze of a voice, yet Dominic recognized it clearly in the early, warm quiescence of the Vatican gardens. “Buongiorno, Cal!” Dominic said brightly. Brother Calvino Mendoza, prefect of the Vatican Archives and Dominic’s superior, was approaching the entrance to the building. Clad in the characteristic brown robe and leather sandals of his Franciscan order, Mendoza was a round, timorous man in his seventies—quite pleasant to work with, Dominic thought, if a little indiscreet in his obvious affection for men. “You are up early today,” Mendoza said in heavily-accented English, furtively appraising Dominic’s form beneath the cassock. “But then, defying the wicked heat and traffic of Rome is best done before sunrise, no?” “It is, yes,” Dominic laughed easily, his damp hair glistening in the sun as he shook his head in amusement, “but in another hour or so I expect the pavement to start buckling.” Dominic had come to enjoy Mendoza’s fey demeanor and playful flirting. Nearly everyone he had met here seemed overly stern and impassive to be really likable, and Dominic was naturally drawn to people he found more hospitable anyway. This gentle man had a quick mind for humor and was never, Dominic found, lacking for a proverb appropriate to the moment. It was also common for Mendoza to call many on his staff by the Portuguese equivalent of their name, maintaining an affectionate cultural touchstone to his native home of Brazil. As for the subtle intimations, Mendoza grasped early on that Dominic’s vow of chastity was not likely to be compromised, and particularly not by another man. “You’ll get used to it,” Mendoza nodded, smiling. “It is worse in the mornings, to be sure, but come late afternoon we are blessed by the ponentino, a cool wind off the Tyrrhenian Sea. “And besides,” he quipped, “’To slip upon a pavement is better than to slip with the tongue—so the fall of the wicked shall come speedily.’” He finished by glancing around the garden with mock suspicion, as if every word were prey to overcurious but unseen ears. “‘Ecclesiastes,’” Dominic responded. “And thanks for the admonition.” Pleased that the young priest indulged his occasional whimsy, Mendoza shuffled up the few steps of the entrance to the Archives. “Now, come Miguel, your days of orientation are over. Let’s get on with the real work,” he said dramatically, his arms nearly flapping as his large body moved up the steps into the Archives. “Today is a very special day.” “I’ll catch up with you shortly, Cal. I’ve got to take a quick shower first. But why is today so special?” From the top of the steps, Mendoza turned around to face Dominic and, like a child with a tantalizing secret, whispered with barely contained excitement, “The treasures we are about to exhume have not been seen by any living soul for several hundred years.” Clearly a man who enjoyed his work, Calvino Mendoza’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he lifted one heavy eyebrow in an arch, then spun as quickly as his heavy frame would allow and disappeared through the heavy wooden door. As Dominic walked back to his apartment at the Domus Santa Marta, the resident guesthouse just south of Saint Peter’s Basilica, two men in a golf cart were heading in his direction, both dressed in the familiar black and red garb of cardinals. The cart stopped directly in his path and one of the men stepped out, approaching him. “Father Dominic, I presume?” The heavyset man had a thick Balkan accent, with an intelligent face bearing an inscrutable mask of expression. “Yes, Eminence? How can I help you?” Dominic said. “I am Cardinal Sokolov, prefect of the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. I simply wanted to extend a hand of welcome on behalf of those of us who have been expecting you.” Dominic recognized the cardinal’s department, better known as the infamous Office of the Holy Inquisition before someone had come up with a less diabolical name. “Good to meet you, Your Eminence,” he said, surprised by the comment. “I didn’t realize anyone was actually expecting me, though.” “Oh, yes,” Sokolov said, holding Dominic’s hand in an uncomfortably firm grip as they shook. “Having Cardinal Petrini’s endorsement carries a great deal of influence here. But it also comes with certain expectations. First and foremost, keep to yourself. Do not expect to make many friends here. One is surrounded by vipers masquerading as pious souls. “Secondly, know that you are being watched at all times. Conduct yourself appropriately and you may survive your time here. There are many who were vying for your job as scrittore in the Secret Archives, and they will seek any opportunity to displace you. “Lastly,” the cardinal said scowling, his eyebrows a black bar across his fleshy face, “come to me directly if you witness or suspect anyone of illicit or unbecoming activities. Such careful scrutiny will be viewed with admiration by His Holiness, for whom I speak in this regard.” Dominic was dumbfounded by the audacity of the man’s welcome, hardly the tone he would have imagined and one that shed a darker light on his exhilaration at now working and living in the Vatican. “I will keep all that in mind, Eminence,” he said, forcibly pulling back his hand from the cardinal’s cloying grasp. Sokolov stood a moment longer appraising Dominic’s face, then turned and shuffled himself back into the golf cart, which pulled away with a mounting whine as it headed into the papal gardens. Troubled by the encounter, Dominic returned to his apartment, the fresh burdens expected of him weighing on his mind. What have I gotten myself into? he thought, stepping into the shower. *** Excerpt from The Magdalene Deception by Gary McAvoy. Copyright 2020 by Gary McAvoy. Reproduced with permission from Gary McAvoy. All rights reserved.
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About Author Gary McAvoy:
Gary McAvoy is an American novelist known for internationally bestselling thrillers that blend historical intrigue, religious scholarship, and modern suspense. A lifelong researcher of rare manuscripts and Church history, he draws on extensive archival study to craft narratives rooted in authentic detail. His work includes the Vatican Secret Archive Thrillers, the Magdalene Chronicles, and the Vatican Archaeology Thrillers. Before turning to fiction, McAvoy built a distinguished career as an entrepreneur, technology consultant, and collector of historical documents. He now writes full time from the Pacific Northwest, where he continues to explore the shadowed crossroads of faith, power, and history.
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(The Legacy of Lies Legal Thriller, #1)
Publication date: July 27th 2026
Genres: Adult, Thriller
Some families build empires. Others bury secrets beneath them.
Bill Simon thought marrying Sharon Green meant entering a powerful legal dynasty and finally proving he belonged. Fresh from his honeymoon and eager to succeed at his new firm, Green & DeWitt, Bill is handed a complex real estate transaction tied to the influential Green family empire.
What begins as routine due diligence quickly spirals into something far more dangerous.
Hidden behind layers of shell companies, offshore accounts, and falsified property records, Bill uncovers connections to cartel money, political corruption, and a network of powerful men determined to keep their secrets buried. The deeper he digs, the more he realizes the conspiracy may reach directly into his father-in-law’s inner circle—and possibly into his own marriage.
As Bill digs deeper, Sharon Green fights to protect her family’s public image while uncovering other sinister connections between her family and the drug cartel. As others question the legitimacy of her father’s enterprises, she tries to find answers about the empire she was born into.
As they uncover disturbing connections between her father and the Mexican drug lord,Sharon and Bill are trapped between loyalty and truth, ambition and survival.
And in a world where power protects its own, exposing the truth could cost them everything.
The heat wafted above the scrubland. Three trucks waited in line, engines idling low in the darkness.
Each truck had a driver and one passenger, and together their primary responsibility was to get the trucks over the border less than thirty miles away.
Rafa Medina kicked at the dried ground as he waited for confirmation to move. They were still on schedule, but barely.
Luis Cortes sat in the passenger seat of the second truck, window cracked. A folded manifest lay on his lap. Medina tapped his window twice. Luis glanced over and gave a short nod.
The third truck’s driver shifted in his seat. Medina caught the movement and shook his head once. He could accept fear. Panic only caused mistakes.
Medina felt the vibration in his pocket. The signal, at last. He raised his hand.
As the trucks shifted into gear, the whine of their engines intensified. The first truck rolled forward, followed by the second, and then the third. They stayed in tight formation as they turned onto the paved road heading north.
Medina jogged to his Jeep, climbed in, and maneuvered his vehicle in behind them.
He considered moving to the front of the line to take control, but before he could decide, gunfire echoed from the brush to his right. The lead truck swerved, glass spraying off to its side.
The truck regained its footing, tires screaming, as it came out of its fishtail.
The second shot came from the opposite side of the road, from cover behind a grouping of bushes.
The muzzle flashes were sequenced and controlled. Now was not the time for panic. He knew immediately it was a rival crew, one that had studied the route and wanted it.
The first truck accelerated, pushing past the shots.
When a new round of shots burst from the right, the second truck was directly in front of it and caught a barrage of automatic fire in the passenger side door.
As the bullets tore through the truck, Luis jerked sideways, his body snapping against the window as glass exploded outward. The driver screamed and hit the gas. The truck lurched forward, out of the danger zone.
As the trucks moved ahead, Medina pulled out his Glock and aimed toward the brush where he had spotted the muzzle flashes. From his slightly elevated position, he fired twice, forcing the shooters back. They withdrew, retreating into the darkness.
Their message had been delivered.
Medina didn’t chase. The trucks came first.
He ran to the second truck. Blood was everywhere.
The driver was shaking, hands locked on the wheel, eyes wide. Medina yanked the door open and pulled him out.
“We have ten minutes. Your truck won’t make it to the border. Transfer the cargo. I’ll take care of Luis.”
The driver nodded.
Medina climbed into the cab. Luis’s eyes were open, unfocused. He checked for a pulse. There was none. This simplified matters.
Medina scampered to the other side of the truck and grabbed Luis under the arms, dragging him from the cab.
Ten minutes. That was all they had.
He pulled the body into the brush. He worked with his hands and a tire iron he grabbed from the back of the truck, digging quickly, ignoring the ache in his shoulders.
Medina lowered the body into the ground, then shoveled dirt to cover it. The land closed over the shape easily, swallowing it. He didn’t mark the grave and offered no words.
He crossed himself and then wiped his hands on his pants.
The damaged truck was next. Medina drove it behind a clump of bushes. No one would notice it for months. No one would care.
This was no man’s land.
The other trucks waited.
Medina jogged back to the road and waved the trucks forward. They didn’t hesitate. The second truck’s payload had already been transferred.
Medina climbed back into his vehicle and pulled in behind them.
The convoy moved north, engines steady.
Dust flew from their tires and then settled behind them.
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About Author James Rosenberg:
James Rosenberg is a 3rd generation trial attorney with plenty of stories to tell.
Inspired not only by the courtroom stories his father and grandfather used to tell
him when he was a child, but also by the wild adventures he’s encountered through
his own experience as a lawyer. James is fascinated by the intricate, interpersonal
dynamics of every trial he’s endured. Whether it’s the raw emotion on display in
court, the tension in the air that builds until someone wins, or the impact that a
case’s decision has on the parties involved, James is always paying attention and
keeping tabs on what’s happening.
In his debut novel, “Legal Reserves”, James flexes his creative muscle outside of the
courtroom to share his stories, with a fictional twist, through the eyes of archetypes
he knows well.
A native of Pittsburgh and a graduate of Taylor Allderdice High School and the
University of Pittsburgh School of Law, James has been a trial attorney in Pittsburgh
for almost 30 years. He started writing legal thrillers as a stress reducer and finds
this creative outlet to be a fun and meaningful diversion from his day job.
When he’s not trying cases, he’s either dreaming up his next book idea, spending
time with his wife and three kids, or both.
To contact James email Rosenberg@marcus-shapira.com or follow him on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/RosenbergWrites/
Check out his website: www.JamesRosenbergAuthor.com
Please become part of my email list and get updates about my latest launches. https://subscribepage.io/fcVT4h
Struggling journalist Paige Remington leaves San Francisco for South Africa, determined to revive her failing career with a hard-hitting exposé on rhino poaching. Danger strikes almost immediately when poachers ambush Paige’s tour group. She survives only because she is rescued by Spencer, a man who claims to work for the FBI. He says he wants to save the rhinos and offers to help her with her story, but as he exposes her to a world she would never see on her own, she becomes embroiled in the brutal underworld of the rhino horn trade herself. Paige discovers that Spencer is not who he claims to be, and suspects he’s in the rhino poaching business himself. Caught between her ambition and her survival, Paige must decide whether to continue learning about the world of rhino poaching from Spencer and risk becoming the next casualty, or leave for home while she still can.
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Praise for Rhino Horn Underground:
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“Well, that was one heck of a wild ride! . . . Readers who love international crime thrillers and wildlife fiction will adore this book. Very highly recommended.” ~ Readers’ Favorite “Rhino Horn Underground is a bristling, brainy thriller that asks whether doing the right thing still counts when the path to it runs through the shadows.” ~ Literary Titan “A fascinating look at an ethically fraught topic, Rhino Horn Underground underscores the collision of traditional beliefs and modern realities…an action-packed thriller!” ~ Indies Today
Book Details:
Genre: Eco-Thriller
Published by: Panthera Publishing Publication Date: August 25, 2026 Number of Pages: 307 ISBN: 9781964620107 (ISBN10: 1964620104)
With the hot sun blazing above, I strain my eyes as hard as I can to look downward, but the blade pressed against my throat remains out of sight. My pulse is racing, and my breathing is so fast I can only gasp. Is that a trickle of blood I sense slowly making its way down my neck, or is it my imagination? Below and to my right, a hand holds a well-worn machete handle. That hand is attached to the muscular forearm of the man standing behind me, ready to end my life any moment. I don’t know what he looks like—it all happened so quickly—but I know he’s a Black man with a thick African accent. He’s telling me to hold still. As if I would do anything other than that right now. I clutch the cell phone in my hand, wondering if I caught anything useful on the video I’d been shooting moments before. Is the camera still running? If my phone were found, the identity of the man holding me would be revealed to the authorities who were sure to investigate later—too late to save me. Our guide and four others on the tour of the wildlife reserve lie dead on the bare earth ten feet away, each in a pool of their own blood. As I take in the scene, a second Black man holding a rifle shoots the veterinarian who had been speaking to us. Now with a large hole in his chest, the veterinarian, armed only with a vial containing an animal tranquilizer, staggers and falls. I think of my husband, Quinn, thousands of miles away from this South African wildlife reserve—probably asleep, oblivious to the fact that he is about to become a widower. The two attackers yell back and forth. They seem to be having a disagreement, but I don’t understand their language. The man with the rifle raises it. I wince and brace myself for impact, but instead of aiming at me, he fires at the rhinoceros in a nearby pen. Blood and tissue—hide, bone, and brain, I suppose—spray from the back of the animal’s head. I watch in shock as the massive creature emits a haunting wail and falls. A fraction of a second later, another shot rings out, this one quieter. I freeze as the man standing behind me collapses. His machete nicks my arm before he hits the ground. A second shot is fired, and the man who just murdered the rhino falls. Who did that? Am I safe? I’m shaking as I slowly turn, just as Ethan, the only other surviving member of our group, grabs my arm and yells, “Let’s go!” With no time to think, I struggle to keep up as I let him drag me. I check my arm where the machete cut it—it’s only a superficial wound oozing a small amount of blood. Ethan tucks the large pistol he’s holding into his waistband while racing toward the dead rhino. My heart is already pounding when loud voices—African voices—approach from heavy brush close by. Ethan stops and appears to think for a moment, as my heart revs so hard I feel my chest will burst. After the brief pause, he pulls me along again, but in a different direction, now heading towards the body of the dead man who shot the rhino. He drops my hand to search the killer’s pants pockets, pulls out a set of keys, then snatches the rifle lying in the dust nearby. Motioning me to follow, he dashes to the small parking lot and jumps into the driver’s seat of an open, doorless jeep that wasn’t there when we arrived. I don’t know this man, but I scramble into the passenger side as fast as I can. Ethan guns the engine and heads out of the park. My mind is speeding as I struggle to fasten my seat belt, hoping I don’t fall out the side of the vehicle before I get it secured. Who is this guy I met this morning and know only as Ethan? All I know is what I can observe—he’s an average-looking middle-aged White man with a dark tan and thick black glasses, dressed in gray cargo pants. His belly is covered by a dull gray, loose-fitting, long-sleeve shirt with breast pockets and front snaps, hiding the paunch underneath. His gray bucket hat hides his hair, if he has any. He told our group his name as we left Richards Bay that morning for the two-hour drive to the wildlife reserve in the eastern part of South Africa, where we would see several rhinos and witness the horns being sawed off of one. While the other travelers and our guide were lively conversationalists as we traveled the dusty roads, Ethan remained silent, seemingly uninterested in the scenery. I had written off this milquetoast of a man as someone who was there only because he wanted to take pictures to show people back home, hoping to convince them that he was an interesting person. Now I’m wondering: Who carries a gun under his shirt when on vacation to view wildlife? And who would be able to fire it so accurately, so swiftly? I finally snap my seat belt and study him. He stares ahead as he removes a device from his shirt pocket and places it on the dash. “What’s that?” I ask. “GPS device.” Moments later, he veers off the main road. Small trees and bushes snap under the jeep. Not sure what to do, I ask, “What about those people? And the rhino?” Stupid, I know. “They’re all dead. No time to waste. More were getting close to us.” “More what?” “More poachers.” “How do you know?” I ask. He glances at me as if I’m an idiot. “I just know.” “Were you going to take the horns of that rhino?” I know it’s a crime, and I don’t want to sound accusatory, but I can’t imagine any other reason he would start to run toward the deceased animal. His face tightens and his eyes narrow. “What if I was?” Now I’ve gotten him mad. I need to change the subject. “Where are we going?” “I’m getting us to a safe place.” “I really appreciate what you’ve done, but wouldn’t it be best to head back to Richards Bay?” “It’s not safe. There’s more where they came from.” “How can you be so sure?” Ethan reaches into his right breast pocket and pulls out a leather case a little larger than a credit card. He throws it my way, and it lands on my lap. I gasp as I lift the front flap and see his identification. His name isn’t Ethan, but his picture is on the plastic ID. The man sitting next to me is Spencer Crenshaw, and he’s an FBI special agent. *** Excerpt from Rhino Horn Underground by Deven Greene. Copyright 2026 by Deven Greene. Reproduced with permission from Deven Greene. All rights reserved.
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About Author Deven Greene:
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Deven Greene lives in Northern California near San Francisco. She has a PhD in biochemistry, a medical degree, and spent over twenty years practicing pathology. She uses her education and background to craft realistic novels, primarily thrillers, grounded in science and/or medicine. Many are high concept, and some can be considered hard science fiction. Her published novels include The Erica Rosen MD Trilogy (Unnatural, Unwitting, and Unforeseen), Ties That Kill, The Organ Broker, and Happy Sun Farm.
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Where Danger Brings Rewards
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At an international medical conference, infectious-disease physician Noah
Winter encounters the enigmatic Dr. Balodis—a visionary who claims to
have engineered microbes capable of regenerating human cells, ending aging,
and curing the world’s deadliest diseases.
But the miracle comes with a terrifying cost. Balodis plans to force
humanity’s evolution—and reshape the world order. Once unleashed,
the organisms mutate beyond control, spreading rapidly across the globe.
Hunted by intelligence agencies, mercenaries, and Balodis’s private
army, Noah must expose the truth before the cure becomes a global extinction
event.
Time is running out—and the cure may be humanity’s final mistake.
About Author Mo Kramer
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Mo Kramer brings a background in medicine, communication, and psychology
to the world of suspense fiction. After publishing several nonfiction books,
Kramer makes a thriller debut with a chilling story of microbes, invisible
threats, and the dangerous illusion of human control. Combining scientific
realism with psychological suspense, this thriller keeps readers on edge while
leaving disturbing questions behind long after the final page.
A scientific experiment gone horribly wrong sends an
apocalyptic firestorm raging throughout the Eastern seaboard. If it reaches the
Atlantic, it might just be game over for the world.
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Fireline
by Peter Berk
Genre: Action, Eco Thriller, Suspense
An unhinged scientist introduces a nano-based chemical
compound into the Potomac that’s designed to purify the world’s waterways but
that instead sets the river on fire and rapidly spreads directly toward
Manhattan, with only the young chemist who first warned against the experiment
the worlds best hope of stopping it.
Fireline takes us from the heart of Washinton, D.C. to the Statue of Liberty –
all of which are direclty impacted by an out-of-control firestorm snaking its
way to the Atlantic where it could go on to threaten every corner of the
world.
A science gone astray disaster novel, Fireline also touches on such timeless
themes as personal redemption, heroism in the face of seemingly insurmountable
obstacles, friendship and even father-son dynamics – all handled with touches
of humor and romance.
Peter Berk has written six novels, three TV pilots and
a dozen screenplays, including several with his father which became the basis
for the TimeLock series of novels. The original TimeLock novel
is a Finalist in the 2023
Chanticleer International Book Awards for Science Fiction, Mystery,
and Global Thrillers. TimeLock was also named as a Distinguished Favorite in the
TechnoThriller category of the 2024 Independent Press Award. TimeLock
2: The Kyoto Conspiracy was published in 2023 and the third book in
the series will be published by IngramElliott. Peter and his family live
in Southern California.
A novel of nine linked parables about globalization, ambition, hope, love, and greed spanning two decades and eight countries.
Fall 2008. The Waldorf Astoria New York. Two armed men storm the hotel’s famed bar and hold the occupants hostage: an American corporate raider, a Chinese tycoon, a British hedge fund manager, a Japanese housewife-turned-celebrity, a Mexican undocumented worker, a Wall Street bond salesman, and a Norwegian environmentalist. Who are these terrorists? What do they want? And what ties them to their captives? Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a genre-breaking novel that explores globalization’s “butterfly effect”: how choices made in one corner of the world ignited an unstoppable chain of consequences that upended lives across continents.
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Praise for Merry-Go-Round Broke Down:
“What a fantastic tapestry of wordsmithing and storytelling! It left me with a much better understanding of how the world was woven so tightly by globalization, all through the dramatic stories of fascinating cultures and characters that are relevant to this day.” ~ Paul Tudor Jones, Chief Investment Officer of Tudor Investment Corporation “You might think that it would be impossible to write a novel that helps the reader put her arms around the complex issues raised by globalization. Yet, David Woo and Margalit Shinar have done precisely this. The result is most engaging and insightful. It is also one that even globalization experts such as myself can profit from.” ~ Jagdish Bhagwati, University Professor of economics and law at Columbia University, author of In Defense of Globalization “Merry-Go-Round Broke Down depicts the key socio-economic developments of the last quarter-century. It brings to life the people who put them into effect, as well as those who were affected by them. Few were untouched.” ~ Howard Marks, the co-founder and co-CEO of Oaktree Capital and international best-selling author of The Most Important Thing “A timely portrait of a world bound together by the pursuit of profit.” ~ Kirkus Reviews “An ambitious thriller with rich characterizations and a heart-pounding pace, Merry-Go-Round Broke Down also offers a stark, on-the-ground vision of globalization’s devastation.” ~ Booklife by Publishers Weekly “David Woo and Margalit Shinar have perfectly illustrated how even a tenuous connection between individuals can have a profound, far-reaching effect across the world that could never have been predicted.” ~ Reader’s Favorite “Merry-Go-Round Broke Down is a contemporary fiction novel with the propulsion of a financial thriller. It’s fiction, but it wants to explain the world while it entertains you… If you want a story that makes you look up from the page and think, “Wait, is this how it really works?,” then it delivers.” ~ Literary Titan
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Merry-Go-Round Broke Down Trailer:
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Book Details:
Genre: Financial Thriller
Published by: Regalo Press Publication Date: March 31, 2026 Number of Pages: 288 ISBN: 9798895655801
“Low interest rates punish savers.” —Bill Gross THE HOUSE IN KASHIWA, CHIBA Prefecture, southeast of Tokyo, was a two-storied box with aluminum windows and clad in white mosaics. It had a grey-tiled roof and a tiny front garden. The wind was howling outside as Tomoko struggled to get up from her bed. It was six o’clock in the morning and still dark, and everybody in the house was asleep. She was loath to abandon the warmth of the heavy duvet, but today was her husband Akihiro Watanabe’s birthday, and she wanted to surprise him with a special breakfast. Tomoko shivered as her feet, encased in thick white socks, trod silently on the tatami mat covering the floor. It was cold, even for January, and this was one time she wished there was heating in the bedroom upstairs. She put on her slippers, pulled on a heavy cardigan over her fleece pajamas, and went down to the kitchen. The kitchen, Tomoko’s kingdom, was small, but she ran it like a tight ship, every utensil and small appliance kept in its assigned place. She began to prepare her husband’s favorite menu: clam miso soup and omelet rolls. There was smoked fish left over from the previous night, as well as cooked rice. After turning on the small heater and quickly swallowing a cup of hot tea, she put on her old blue-checked apron and set to work. Poor Aki, she was thinking, as she removed from the fridge the asari clams she had bought the previous afternoon; he really deserved some cheering up. Only eight months ago he had lost his lifelong employment, the first serious crisis in their marriage of twenty-two years. The electronics company he had given his all to for over thirty years had gone bankrupt after its main customer decided to outsource to China. She rinsed the clams in cold water, rubbed them clean with a dishcloth, and set them aside to soak in salt water. She then filled a pot with water from the sink and blanched a leaf of kelp. When it had softened, she removed it with chopsticks and then put it back in the pot to boil for a minute or two before taking it out again. Though Aki had found a new job quickly enough, Tomoko was worried. It not only paid a third less than his previous salary, it was a temporary job, with a contract that had to be renewed every six months. While Tomoko was, by nature, someone who took life’s setbacks with a pragmatic optimism, she felt helpless in the face of the loss of their financial security. As she added dried bonito flakes to the boiling water, she shook her head and pursed her lips at the injustice of it. When the fish was cooked, she passed the broth through a fine sieve lined with a cloth. Discarding the scum, she sieved it again. And again. Inspecting the liquid for any telltale specks, she repeated the process until she was satisfied the broth was perfectly clear. She now reached out for the clams, soaking in their bath of brine. Usually, Tomoko loved the ritual fuss of birthdays, especially her husband’s—the shopping for presents, the paper decorations and cards, the candles on the cake—but this year there wasn’t much cause for celebration. She rinsed the clams and tipped them into the broth. Bringing the liquid to a boil, she skimmed it patiently. Once the clams had opened, she mixed in the miso paste, squeezing it through a small sieve with a spoon. The soup was ready. Now for the omelets. What was more worrying, she thought, breaking eggs into a bowl with a deft flick of her wrist, was that his pension was gone. And the new job offered no pension at all. The bleakness of their future agitated her as she whisked the eggs with more vigor than necessary and poured them into the frying pan. The omelets were done. When they had cooled a bit, she rolled them up into narrow, finger-shaped wraps and put them aside. Then she arranged the fillets of cold smoked fish in the middle of a long rectangular plate, which she decorated in one corner with a dollop of daikon radish infused with ponzu sauce. Finally, she heated up the rice and took out some nattō, fermented soybeans, everyone’s favorite. She looked out the window above the sink. The heavy night darkness was lifting, and she could make out the falling snowflakes and the leafless branches of the cherry tree in their garden bending in the wind. A cold grey light was beginning to infiltrate the kitchen. She switched off the overhead lamp, figuring she could do without it now. A brown Formica-top table with six chairs stood in a nook just off the kitchen. Poor Aki, she repeated to herself as she began to set it. At the age of fifty-three, there was little chance of his finding steady employment again. Although they never talked about it, she knew that, ashamed and frustrated, her husband was unraveling. His drinking binges had become more frequent, and he had taken to coming home at all hours. He was also becoming moody and short-tempered. Only last week he had flown off the handle when she told him she was thinking about looking for a part-time job. He wouldn’t hear of it, he had responded angrily. Their son was still at school and needed her. Besides, what would their neighbors think? It was out of the question. Though Tomoko knew his objections had more to do with his pride, she didn’t bring up the subject again. She vowed to herself she would find another way to help. But how? Tomoko put down a small flower arrangement, teacups, bowls, and chopstick supports on the table. She had to find a way to help Aki. Whereas she could still take comfort in little things, he had just lost his entire world. She took a moment to align the chopsticks just so. Taking a step back from the table, she viewed the result with satisfaction. Tomoko glanced at the kitchen clock squeezed between the toaster oven and a shelf. It was seven-thirty and all was ready. Plenty of time left for a leisurely meal before Aki left for the office and their son, Nishio, left for school. What a pity her daughter, Keiko, wasn’t there. Tomoko brushed that regret away, together with a lock of her permed black hair that had strayed onto her forehead, and stood meekly at the entrance of the kitchen, waiting. She could hear her family coming down the narrow wooden stairs. She bowed to her husband and her mother-in-law as they appeared, her face faintly flushed from her efforts, her shoulders hunched forward ever so slightly. “Ohayō gozaimasu,” she said, with the politest of greetings. But Aki only grunted a barely discernible thank-you as he viewed the mini-feast she had prepared and sat down, noisily pushing back his chair. Then he buried his face in the morning newspaper that Tomoko had laid, neatly folded, to the right of his chopsticks. He was followed by Nishio. At fifteen, he was a tall and gawky youth, with a few wisps of dark downy hair on his upper lip and chin. He advanced towards the table and sat down in silence. He sat there sullenly, looking down under lowered eyelids, not once making eye contact with his mother. He consumed his soup in a few rapid gulps and hurriedly shoved some rice into his mouth. Then with a curt, barely mumbled good-bye, he got up and was gone. “Don’t forget your bento box,” Tomoko’s voice rang out after him, “you must eat lunch!” The third person at the table was Mishimo, Tomoko’s mother-in-law. It was she who owned the house, and after the death of Akihiro’s father some ten years before had given over most of the space to her son’s family, keeping only one room for herself. It was a situation not without friction. She had never liked Tomoko and was of the opinion that her handsome son could have found a better match than the daughter of a taxi driver. Or, at the very least, a prettier one. Though their exchanges were invariably on the right side of civil, Mishimo inevitably found fault with everything Tomoko did. But this morning was different. She spooned down the soup slowly, savoring every sip. “Excellent, Tomoko,” she remarked loudly. “Well done.” A compliment! Tomoko was touched to the bottom of her heart. She then turned to her husband. “Anata,” he said, using a Japanese term of endearment. “I hope you’ll be home on time for dinner. I bought a cake for tonight. And there will be eel as a main course.” Aki didn’t shift his eyes from the newspaper. “No. I’m eating out. Client dinner. Don’t wait up for me. I’ll be back late.” If Tomoko was disappointed, she showed no sign of it. “Akihiro-san. I also bought you a small gift,” she announced timidly. She had bought it out of her personal savings and had hoped to give it to him at the evening meal. She would have to give it to him now instead. She went to the living room where she had hidden it. Coming back, she bowed respectfully and held out the package in her two open palms like an offering, saying “Happy birthday” in English. Aki finally deigned to lower the newspaper and stared at the box wrapped in delicately folded bright blue paper, tied with a slender red-and-gold string. He reached out to take it. But instead of opening it, he put it in the pocket of his suit jacket. “Have to rush now,” he said dismissively. “It’s the lighter you always wanted,” said Tomoko. But Aki responded with a dead gaze of bitterness at the wall behind her. Suddenly, he jumped up from his chair with such violence that it crashed to the floor. “Baka! You stupid woman! Kono ama, you bitch!” He exploded in an inexplicable fit of rage. Tomoko shrank back. “How many times do I have to tell you not to waste money?” he yelled. “Don’t you see the situation we’re in?” Without warning, he grabbed the cast-iron teapot from the table. He seemed ready to hurl it straight at her. Tomoko raised her arm to defend herself. He had hit her before, and she thought she knew what to expect. At the last moment, however, perhaps in response to a whispered word from Mishimo that never reached Tomoko’s ears, he changed the direction of his aim and the heavy pot went flying toward the kitchen. Spurting tea, it smashed loudly into one of the kitchen cabinets. In the silence that followed, Tomoko couldn’t move. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. But she didn’t say a word. Out of the corner of her eye, she was just in time to catch the expression of icy disapproval on Mishimo’s face. *** Excerpt from MERRY-GO-ROUND BROKE DOWN by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Copyright 2026 by David Woo & Margalit Shinar. Reproduced with permission from David Woo & Margalit Shinar. All rights reserved.
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About Author David Woo:
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David Woo is a renowned global macro strategist, widely recognized for his bold and prescient calls on some of the biggest economic, political, and geopolitical stories over the past quarter century. Bloomberg called him “one of the most outspoken voices on Wall Street,” while Business Insider named him among “the twelve smartest people on Wall Street.” His views have shaped debates across markets, policy circles, and the global media. David began his career at the International Monetary Fund before going on to hold senior positions at Bank of America, Barclays Capital, and Citigroup. He earned a PhD in economics from Columbia University and a bachelor of arts in mathematics from Tufts University. A true product of globalization, David was born in Pittsburgh, raised in Taiwan, and educated in the United States. His career has taken him from Washington DC to London and New York. He is fluent in English, Chinese, and French.
Margalit Shinar is an architect. Margalit was born in New York, the daughter of French émigrés. She has a master’s degree in art history from Tufts University and a bachelor of arts in architecture from the Technion, Israel Institute of Technology. She has edited a history book on ancient Israel. She is fluent in English, French, Hebrew, and Italian.
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From the author of the National Book Award finalist Ghostroots, a debut novel that thrills with its eerie mix of folklore and history.
Something is haunting the pregnant women of Lagos. Across the city, they are walking into water . . . and drowning.
Twenty-three-year-old Yosoye arrives in Lagos ready to start her life. Working for a slick architectural firm, she finds a city of adventure and opportunity. Her new world is one of fancy gallery openings, glamorous friends, and all the shiny potential of the future, encapsulated in projects like Omi City, the ultra-luxury development her company is building, a symbol of the dawn of a brighter Lagos.
But Yosoye’s idyllic vision of Lagos soon begins to seem naive, and its darker, stranger layers trouble her. Something is not right about Omi City, and as construction speeds ahead, stories of strange deaths in the city’s open waters reach a fever pitch. And then, after a chance encounter, Yosoye discovers she is pregnant . . . a revelation which puts her on a collision course with an inexplicable force that is as seductive as it is deadly. A masterwork by a writer hailed as “an astonishing talent” (Lauren Groff), One Leg on Earth is an ambitious novel like no other: a coming-of-age story, an uncanny exploration of motherhood, and a chilling vision of the dark side of progress.
MIRIAM AIKI PRAYED FOR THE FRUIT OF THE WOMB for thirteen years. Thirteen years of chafed knees: blood and shredded skin staining church altars, shrine altars, her bedside rug, her mother-in-law’s living room tiles. Thirteen years begging for a miracle, for strength, for patience. Her cries were answered. At thirty-eight, her womb was unfurling its first bloody fruit.
Now, in the passenger seat of her husband’s car, she smiled at her taut six-month belly. An ugly joy stirred within her. Ugly because it sat heavy on top of her growing baby, nausea amassing saliva in her mouth. But mothers who’d hunted long for that title knew that this unpleasantness was welcome, embraced.
Miriam smoothed a hand over her lace buba. She smiled at her husband, Victor, who frowned at the standstill traffic. They were running late for his cousin’s wedding and hadn’t moved in twenty minutes. His knuckles tapped an agitated beat on the steering wheel along to soft jazz playing on the radio. Past her husband’s head, the blue BRT bus keeping them in merciful shadow advertised a “We Are Lagos” music concert. Celebrating our oneness together! Miriam turned her beaming face to her window, gap-tooth a narrow darkness in an otherwise white smile.
These shining eyes, these stretched lips, these deep dimples. The people of Third Mainland Bridge stuck in traffic with Miriam would always remember the fizzy happiness in these details.
Miriam’s bliss bubbled up, feathering her insides, shimmering around her baby, erupting from her throat in a giggle—a curious misplaced sound in that car.
Victor turned to her, startled. His hand brushed her thigh, her rounded belly.
“Are you okay?”
Miriam giggled again. Her head slid down the leather headrest, neck tilting backward for more happiness to escape, clavicle bared to her husband’s confused gaze. This frothing joy within Miriam, she wanted to warble it out, to dance through it, until she and her baby were heady with the fervor of it.
She pushed the passenger door open. Stepped out. Victor sat there, blinking in shock for what would later seem like two lifetimes. The humid air crowded in to displace cool air-conditioning. He clicked the radio off, leaned toward the open mouth of the door.
“Miriam? What are you doing?”
Miriam kicked her sandals off, flung the fuchsia-pink slingbacks behind her. One heel struck the car’s bonnet, leaving a silver chink. She wound between the bridge’s stalled vehicles: engines turned off; gears stuck in neutral. She skipped and spun and squealed. Even in the midst of that sweltering Lagos day of thumping car music and raucous engines and the truck that honked at her for dancing too close, Miriam’s squeal stood out, a siren.
Passengers lowered their half-eaten Pure Bliss wafers and leaned out of windows to watch this odd but entertaining episode. Drivers, stretching their legs in small huddles, paused their whining—about traffic and heat and wives and money and that new backache that made their worlds flush dark when they bent at the wrong angle. All necks craned toward Miriam. Hawkers hitched boxes higher and nudged each other to behold the spirited pregnant woman.
Miriam swayed, shoulders shaking with laughter at a joke nobody else could hear. Her legs kicked. Hands stretched, twirling as if being spun about. What joy! What joy!
Victor leaned on the horn. His feet hit tar, finally going after her. Had she gone mad? He yelled her name, using the tone his father wielded on his mother, demanding Miriam return to the car immediately.
But Miriam didn’t want to get back in the car. She wanted to dance, to be free, to glide forward with the happiness surging from her womb, her baby. Her husband navigated between fascinated watchers. He shouted, “Miriam! Miriam! Miriam!” But by the time he got to the railings, she had launched herself off Third Mainland Bridge, laughing and screeching into the lagoon below, belly-first, like a child jumping into the arms of a beloved parent.
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About Author Pemi Aguda:
Pemi Aguda is a Nigerian writer known for her short stories and debut collection Ghostroots (2024). Her work often explores complex themes surrounding motherhood, identity, and the supernatural. Ghostroots, which includes previously published stories such as “Breastmilk” and “The Hollow”, was a finalist for the 2024 National Book Award for Fiction and received critical acclaim for its unifying themes and narrative cohesion.
Aguda’s stories have been widely recognized, earning multiple accolades, including an O’Henry Award in 2022 for “Breastmilk” and again in 2023 for “The Hollow”. Additionally, “Breastmilk” was shortlisted for the 2024 Caine Prize for African Writing. Her forthcoming novel, The Suicide Mothers, which won the 2020 Deborah Rogers Foundation Award, is slated for release in 2025.
