Brief updates: The Hacienda on sale! An exclusive short story! What!
The dark has lifted here in Seattle. The sun is shining, tulips are beginning to push through the soil, and dear reader, I can't believe I'm saying this, but it actually feels like spring. Something about this sense of transition, about the promise of a new season, makes spring and autumn my most fruitful creative times. Despite the head cold I've been battling this week, I feel alive. Which is good, because damn, do I have a lot of deadlines to meet by the end of the season!
Before I go chase those deadlines, I have a few quick updates.
Update the first: the ebook of THE HACIENDA is currently on sale for $1.99! I've linked to Amazon, but this promotion applies across all ebook platforms until Saturday, February 25, so if you haven’t read it or want to nab an ebook copy, now’s the time!
Update the second: speaking of books to buy, my friend Amanda Jayatissa’s historical horror thriller ISLAND WITCH is out now! I blurbed this book and enjoyed it immensely. It’s angry, twisty, tense, and satisfying—and, for my fellow masochists who love a non-happy ending, the conclusion really knifes you in the gut. Highly recommend.
Update the third: Remember how in my last email I mentioned that I was going to be dipping my toes into the paid newsletter waters? And then that upgrade button led to a broken link? 🙃 Yeah, well, I fixed it! If you’ve already upgraded, do nothing. (Well, do nothing but bask in my eternal gratitude! I am so thankful and happy to have you along on this journey.) If you haven’t… what’s stopping you?
In early March—which is in, like, fifteen minutes, holy cow, where did February go—I’ll be releasing an exclusive short story to paid subscribers! “The Ruby of Sindbad” is a story I wrote back in 2018 and that I'm revising just for this newsletter, a magical spin on 1001 Nights influenced by the medieval Islamic history and literature I was studying at the time. (For the uninitiated among ye: that studying resulted in a PhD dissertation on emotion and masculinity in late medieval Turkish popular literature. I have a doctorate in male tears.)
Readers who upgrade will get a nerdy breakdown of how I revised the story and all the Easter eggs I lovingly buried in the details (think: Mongol princes; folkloric megafauna; conquered Turkic kingdoms). And you, my friend, get a brief teaser, right now:
“Hasht Behesht is a mirror for princes,” the prince scoffs, his Turki accent pinching the vowels of the book’s title short. Il-Arslan lounges across from me on embroidered pillows. His long muscular legs, clothed in loose silk trousers, stretch across plush Gulestani rugs imported—or so he says—from Kashan. More likely taken in a military raid, like so many of the other luxurious items that deck this palace of Gurganj, the capital of Khwarazm. Like the bronze sconces that line the red-stone walls of the citadel, the crystal goblets that servants fill with amber honey-wine and sour-sweet sherbat at his father’s banquets.
Like me.
“I warn you, girl. I will not be entertained by didactic fables.” He plucks a date from the silver plate before him, tosses it into his mouth. “I had my fill of talking jackals at the hands of my tutor.”
“Where I am from, Hasht Behesht is not a mirror for princes.” I keep my voice low, my eyes downcast. I must tread carefully, a gazelle before the half-sated lion. “It is a mirror of all creation, mortal and immortal. It is a pomegranate with a thousand enchanted seeds, a tapestry woven with all the intoxicating flavors of the pari realm. Each tale is the end of all beginnings, the beginning of a thousand ends. Some tales, they say, still bear the touch of pari poets: they will fill the listener’s goblet with wisdom. You will hear them and grow rich, blessings raining upon your head for the rest of your days. Other tales may divine the day of your death.”
He takes the date pit from his mouth. His are almond-shaped, dark and set deep in an arrogant, tanned face; strands of ebony hair fall to broad shoulders, loosened from his topknot by an evening of drinking with his viziers. His kaftan is the navy of the Sea of Khazar at dusk, embroidered with the green thorns and blush petals of Kashan roses. Another import, no doubt.
A mother-of-pearl scabbard is fastened casually at his belt. In it rests a kılıç, its graceful curve both ornament and fang, as deadly to me as it is bewitching. Khwarazmian steel, it is said, is impervious to the cunning arts of pari tongues, and the most dangerous weapon a man can wield in this world or in mine.
I must ignore the knife. I must not think about the throats it has slit. Night has only just settled over the river; dawn is many hours away.
I still have time.
An added bonus: I’ll also be sharing some details and progress updates on the projects (yes, that's plural) that I’m currently working on. I’m curled up on a veritable treasure trove of publishing secrets, like Smaug from The Hobbit, and I can’t wait to invite you into my lair. (Does that sound ominous? It should. I write horror, after all.)
Until then, it’s time to chase some deadlines.
You'll hear from me soon.
xx