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Today we’re spotlighting THUNDER CITY by Philip Reeve!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Philip Reeve

Philip Reeve is the bestselling author of the Mortal Engines quartet, which is now a major motion picture, and the award-winning Fever Crumb series. His other books include the highly acclaimed Here Lies Arthur and No Such Thing As Dragons. He lives in England with his wife and son. Visit him online at philip-reeve.com.

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About the Book: THUNDER CITY (A Mortal Engines Novel)

Tamzin Pook is a fighter in the Amusement Arcade. And what she does best is killing Revenants.

All she knows is survival, having arrived in the Arcade as a small child. She pushes away her memories, her hopes, and her fears, and she emerges into the arena to battle the Revenants–dead brains nestled in armored engine bodies. She doesn’t dare to hope or wish for anything more than to survive another day.

Meanwhile, the wheeled city of Motoropolis has been taken over by a rebel faction who killed its leaders and commandeered the city. Its only hope is a teacher named Miss Torpenhow who’s determined to find the Mayor’s good-for-nothing son and force him to take back what’s rightfully his. But to get to him, she’ll need to find someone who’s skilled at fighting Revenants.

With a daring abduction, Miss Torpenhow and Tamzin Pook’s destinies are entwined, and so begin their adventures together…

This stand-alone Mortal Engines novel follows an unlikely crew of fighters-turned friends: Tamzin Pook, Hilly Torpenhow, mayor-to-be Max Angmering, and washed-up mercenary Oddington Doom. Together, they must find a way to outwit the assassins that are determined to drag Tamzin back to the arcade, and try to take back Motoropolis.

Readers, hold onto your seats—it’s going to be a wild ride.

Amazon * B&N * IndieBound

~Excerpt~

The sea was calm that evening, and the raft town of Margate lay at anchor just off the rugged western coast of the Great Hunting Ground, surrounded by a slowly spreading slick of sewage and chip wrappers.

What portion of the Hunting Ground that was, with its stern cliffs and stony beaches, Tamzin Pook was not sure. She caught only a glimpse of it as she went with the rest of the team and their guards along the walkway that led to the stage door of the Amusement Arcade. The walkway was mostly enclosed, but out- side the stage door there was a section called “the paddock,” walled with wire mesh, where keen fans and gamblers gathered to watch the players pass. The other players waved at the onlookers, or showed off their muscles, or blew kisses. They were all much more glamorous than Tamzin. Tamzin was a girl you wouldn’t look at twice: short and wiry, her black hair cut short, her blunt, tan face set in a semipermanent scowl. While the others went in for colorful costumes and flashy bits of armor, Tamzin always wore the same plain, close-fitting tunic and leggings in which she trained. But it was Tamzin the fans were waiting for. As soon as they caught sight of her, the usual shouts began.

“Tamzin!”
“Over here!”
“Tamzin Pook!”
“Good luck, Tamzin!”
“Should have been you, Pook!”
“Vengeance for Eve Vespertine!”
Hooting like a lot of monkeys, Tamzin thought, ignoring them. It ought to be them inside this cage, not us. She looked out through the wire again toward that anonymous shore. Two small motorized towns had stopped on the tide line. Airships and passenger balloons filled the sky above them, drawn like moths to the lights of Margate and its infamous Amusements.

Then the stage door swung open, and Tamzin passed through it with her fellow fighters into the backstage area, where the stage- hands were waiting to hand them their weapons.

There were four boys with her that night, and three other girls. All of them were bigger and stronger than Tamzin. Some showed their nervousness; others tried to hide it. They talked and laughed together, but not to Tamzin. They were still mistrustful after what had happened last season with Eve Vespertine, she thought. Their side-eye glances made her feel guilty. She wanted to tell them she had their backs and would keep them safe if she could, but she wasn’t the sort of person who was good at saying things like that. If she tried, she would only end up mumbling and stumbling and making everyone embarrassed and more nervy still.

The stagehands were handing out the gear: axes, chain-swords, serrated cleavers. From a gantry overhead, minders with guns kept watch in case any players got the bright idea of trying to fight their way to freedom rather than face another show.

A stagehand gave Tamzin her knife. Its smooth rubber handle was stained black with her sweat. An armored cable trailed from it, plugged into a battery pack that fit onto her belt. She checked the battery herself, as she did always, making sure it had been fully charged. When she looked up, one of the new boys caught her eye and smiled.

“This waiting is the worst,” he said. “Wonder what Mortmain’s got lined up for us tonight?”

Tamzin didn’t answer. She guessed he wanted to talk to calm his nerves. Maybe he thought if he got friendly with her she could save him from whatever was waiting for them. But the best thing he could do for all of them was let her concentrate. He was cute, that boy, and he had performed well in his first few shows, but she didn’t even bother to learn her new teammates’ names anymore. It hurt less that way when a show went bad.

She turned away from him and stared at the door that led into the Arcade. It was a big door, squarish and twice as tall as Tamzin. Its timbers were bound and studded with iron.

“Two minutes, people!” shouted the stage manager.

One of the new girls was sobbing with fear. The others moved away from her, afraid she’d bring bad luck. From beyond the door came the eager voices of the crowd, blurred into one huge, ominous wash of noise that sounded like a stormy sea. Tamzin did not hear it. She was concentrating on the ironbound door. She had learned that if she concentrated hard enough, even her thoughts fell quiet. Then there was only Tamzin, and the door, and the unknown thing that was waiting beyond the door to kill her.

Excerpted from Thunder City by Philip Reeve. Copyright © 2024 by Philip Reeve. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc.

Title: THUNDER CITY (A Mortal Engines Novel)

Author: Philip Reeve

Release Date: Nov. 12, 2024

Publisher: Scholastic Press

Genre: Science Fiction

Age Range: 12+

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We are excited to share a giveaway for Trick-or-Treating in the City (Tiffany D. Jackson)!

Meet the Author: Tiffany D. Jackson

Tiffany D. Jackson is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of Monday’s Not Coming, Allegedly, Let Me Hear A Rhyme, Grown, White Smoke, Santa in The City, The Weight of Blood, andco-author of Blackout.ACoretta Scott King — John Steptoe New Talent Award-winner and the NAACP Image Award-nominee, she received her bachelor of arts in film from Howard University and has over a decade in TV/Film experience. The Brooklyn native is currently splitting her time between the borough she loves and the south, most likely multitasking.

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About the Book: Trick-or-Treating in the City

When a little girl can’t follow her usual tradition, she turns to her New York City neighbors for help. This is a can’t-miss celebration of generosity and community from bestselling author Tiffany D. Jackson.

Janelle knows exactly what she wants to be for Halloween, but she has no idea how she’ll celebrate—her mommy has to work and can’t take her to trick-or-treat in the suburbs, and daddy has to run his store like always. But listening to her friends and neighbors’ stories of Halloweens past and present, helps Janelle realize that there may be a way to celebrate the fall-iday that lets her give as much as she gets.

Purchase * Goodreads

~Excerpt~

Title: Trick-or-Treating in the City

Author: Tiffany D. Jackson

Illustrator: Sawyer Cloud

Release Date: 8/13/2024

Publisher: Penguin Young Readers; Dial

ISBN-13: 9780593110287

Genre: Picture Book

Age Range: 4-8

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

Three (3) winners will receive a copy of Trick-or-Treating in the City (Tiffany D. Jackson) ~US Only!

*Click the Rafflecopter link below to enter the giveaway*

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Today we’re spotlighting MONSTER MOVIE! by Chuck Wendig!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Chuck Wendig

Chuck Wendig is the author of the New York Times bestseller Dust & Grim, as well as numerous bestselling novels for adults and young adults. He invites you to find him online at terribleminds.com.

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About the Book: MONSTER MOVIE!

In this hair-raising and hilarious novel by New York Times bestselling author Chuck Wendig, a boy must face his many fears to save his town from a cursed videotape—before “The Scariest Movie Ever Made” devours his friends and family.

Ethan Pitowski is afraid of everything. Luckily, his best friends don’t mind, and when their entire class gets invited to watch a long-buried horror movie at the most popular boy in school’s house, Ethan’s friends encourage him to join in the fun. But when the “scariest movie ever made” reveals itself to be not just a movie about a monster, but a movie that is a monster, only a terrified Ethan escapes its clutches. Now he must find a way to stop the monster and save his friends (and also, um, get their heads back).

With his signature balance of kid-friendly horror and humor, Chuck Wendig crafts a spookily heartfelt novel about anxiety, friendship, and finding your unique voice and inner strength.

Purchase

~Excerpt~

ONE

MISTER CHITTERS MAKES A CALL

“So there it is,” Harley Wurth said, pointing out the window of his bedroom, past the overhanging roof, toward a big- trunked pine tree. It was Sunday, and he had texted both Ethan and Olivia an hour ago:

HUMONGOUS ELEPHANT FORSYTHIA

They knew what their secret code meant, so they headed right over, and now they were looking out the window with him.

Harley had a big goofy smile on his face. (Because he always did. Olivia said he was definitely the reincarnated spirit of a golden retriever. That felt true to Ethan.)

Ethan—that is to say, Ethan Pitowski, who lived a mile away, on the other end of Main Street—squinted into the sun. “I don’t see it.” He let his gaze drift past the tree, down to the narrow, bumpy sidewalk. The houses on this side of town were older: Victorians that gave way to ranch-style homes. On Ethan’s side of town, the sidewalks were straighter and wider, and the houses were of a style his mother called “craftsman.” She often said that the Victorians and the craftsmans didn’t really get along—some stylistic battle of old versus new, tired versus modern, both in terms of money and how long they’d lived there. Don’t even get her started on the ranch-style homes, either. Ethan didn’t understand any of it. Adults were weird. “Sorry, Harley. Are you sure it’s in the tree?”

“Oh, it’s there,” Harley said, using both hands to hook bits of his raggedy blond mullet around his oversize ears. “I swear.”

“Yeah, I don’t see it either,” Olivia James said. Harley was tall, but Olivia was even taller—she, a Black girl with big purple glasses and Invisalign braces, was all legs and all arms and a puff of hair that only extended her height.

Ethan had an idea. “Maybe send it a text?”

“On it,” Olivia said. She pulled out her phone and said, “Open the window so we can hear.”

Harley shrugged, then opened it, grunting. He seemed to take a moment to enjoy the late spring breeze blowing in, making a little mm sound. Ethan almost expected his tongue to loll out of his mouth like a dog with its head out the car window.

Olivia used her phone to text Harley’s.

Sure enough, out there in the pine tree—

Ding- doo- ding

At that, Ethan finally saw the phone tucked in the crook of two branches. The screen glowed for a minute and then dimmed again.

Olivia saw it too.

“Can’t you just climb back out there and get it?” she asked Harley. “I mean, you put it there.”

Harley shrugged again. “Oh yeah, no, I didn’t put it out there.”

Blink, blink. Ethan felt crazy for asking, but he had to.

“So . . . how, exactly, did it get into the tree?”

“Oh! Haha, yeah. Mister Chitters took it.”

Olivia and Ethan shared a what exactly is Harley talking about now kind of look. This was a regular occurrence. Because, well. Harley was Harley.

“Mister Chitters,” Olivia said, repeating the words in a low tone. Incredulous. Dubious. Most uncertain.

“Haha, yeah, he’s my squirrel friend.”

Another look. Another round of blink blink blink. “You have a squirrel friend?” Ethan asked, twitching a little. A tiny anxiety bubble appeared in his mind, threatening to swell and then go pop.

“Totally.” Harley itched the armpit of his shirt, which displayed art for a band called Demongallop. It showed a horse with demon horns riding a spiky electric guitar. Ethan didn’t like it. “We hang out sometimes.”

“I don’t think he’s much of a friend if he stole your phone,” Olivia said.

“He just got confused because of the peanut butter.”

Conversations with Harley were sometimes like riding a roller coaster designed by a five- year- old who’s gone goofy on energy drinks. In the middle of a hurricane.

Olivia was done being polite. “Harley, just spit it out!”

“Oh, okay. Yeah, so sometimes I sit here by the window and watch Mister Chitters, and then sometimes I open the window and we, like, hang out and stuff, and I tell Mister Chitters my problems and Mister Chitters chitters his problems at me and it’s real cool, and then one time I was like, Aw, man, I bet you’re hungry, Mister C, and so I went downstairs and got some peanut butter and put it on my phone like a little plate, and I served it to him and he seemed to really, really like it, like, a lot, but then when he was done? He took the plate.”

“The plate . . . being your phone.”

“That’s right.”

               “And why didn’t you use, like, a spoon?”

“Because I knew my mom wouldn’t want me using one of our spoons,” he said, as if that made all the sense in the world.

Ethan could not contain his squick at this point. He kept it calm at first: “Harley, you shouldn’t be that close to a wild animal. They have diseases. Did you know that marmots carry the Plague? You know? The Black Death.”

Uh‑oh. He found himself speaking faster and faster, a burbling babble of ahhhhhhhHHHHH. But it was impossible to slow down.

“Don’t even get me started on rabies. So who knows what kind of diseases squirrels have. And now that thing has touched your phone, and—and—” His brain raced, and he was imagining that Harley was the vector for some weird squirrel-human hybrid disease, and that they were all sucking in tainted squirrel breath, and he felt his breathing quicken and his pulse race and—

It was Harley and Olivia’s turn to share a look. They had a patented Ethan look just like Ethan and Olivia had a Harley one.

“Dude,” Olivia said. “You’re spiraling.”

“A little,” Ethan said, almost gasping.

“C’mere,” she said, beckoning him closer. Then she did the thing where she got up alongside him and pushed her shoulder against his—like she was a tree he could lean on. And he did. “You’re good,” she said.

“It’s cool, man. Mister Chitters doesn’t have diseases, probably,” Harley blurted out. “He’s just nuts for peanuts— hahaha! Get it? Because nuts? Though I don’t think peanuts are nuts. They’re legumes. Shoot. And I don’t think there are any good legume jokes.” Jokes were his way of offering reassurance. While Ethan was sure everything was going to go utterly wrong all the time, Harley was the opposite: certain that things would work out, no worries, it’ll be fine to jump into this quarry, or to eat those weird berries, or to ramp a skateboard over that beehive. “Anyway! I just want my phone back.”

Ethan tried to calm his panic attack. He had techniques. Being with his friends helped. Olivia’s voice and presence were good for this sort of thing. She steadied him.

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

“Awesome,” Harley said. “So I was thinking, like, I’d just take a running jump off the roof and grab the phone, and you guys could hang out at the bottom of the tree and catch me after.”

“Ennnh,” Olivia said, again dubious. “Ethan, you wanna take this?”

Ethan shook his head, anxiety ramping right back up. “No! No. No. Harley, that is not a plan, that is a guaranteed admission to the hospital. You can’t just jump into a tree! You’ll break things! An arm! A leg! The very crucial neck!”

“I dunno,” Harley said, pronouncing it eye- unno. “I’m nimble.”

(Spoiler warning: He was not nimble.)

“Nah,” Olivia said. “You’re not. Ethan’s right, Har. Bad idea. We will not be able to catch you. But I got a better idea.” To Ethan she said, “You got your notebook?” He nodded. It was as reliable as rain that Ethan had his notebook on him.

“Start to draw this—”

Except, interruption. Suddenly the door opened and Harley’s dad came in. He was like an inflated, swollenversion of Harley. Taller, wider, not muscly so much as marshmallowy. He, too, had a mullet: His was a wellwashed chestnut color. He wore a tie- dye sleeveless T‑shirt and cargo shorts, despite it being spring and still a little chilly out.

“’Sup, kids, whatcha doing?” Mr. Wurth asked.

“Just trying to rescue my phone out of the tree because a squirrel took it,” Harley said.

“Oh, gnarly,” the dad said, with no further questions. “Have fun.”

“Wait,” Olivia called out. “Mr. Wurth, do you have, like, a bungee cord?”

“Sure. I use a bunch in my trailer.” Harley’s dad always had junk around— buying it, selling it, transporting it. “I’ll grab a few.”

At that, Olivia began instructing Ethan on how to draw her plan—basically, they were going to create a swing out of bungee cords and, from the corner of the roof, swing Harley over to the tree. Ethan furiously sketched this out—e was pretty proud of how much

Harley looked like Harley, even though he was a little kawaii cartoon version. (His big mullety bucket head in particular was pretty perfect, Ethan decided.) He felt himself calming down, returning to normal, enjoying the peace that drawing brought him.

“Aw, man, looks cool,” came a voice over Ethan’s shoulder, and he nearly peed his pants. It was just Mr. Wurth, though, having come back in with the bungee cords. “Looks like fun, too.”

It was unsurprising that Mr. Wurth was just as excited about this plan as Harley—Harley’s father was famous for once getting his meaty hand stuck in a pickle jar. He got it out by doing a karate punch against the countertop. (He had to get seven stitches, a fact he

thought was “pretty rad, huh?”) That was just one of his many misadventures. The phrase like father, like son hadn’t made much sense to Ethan before he met the Wurth family, but now he had to wonder.

So if Harley was on board with Olivia’s plan, and Harley’s father was on board, that meant this was very clearly a bad idea. Ethan felt himself poised to spiral again.

“Okay. No. Okay. We’re not— we’re not doing this.” He started scribbling hasty doodles of the potential dangers. “Harley could fall, break a leg.” There, a snapped stick figure leg emitting little lightning- bolt pain lines. “He could impale himself on a branch.” Stick Figure Harley now had a tree branch emerging from his stick figure heart. “He could get the bungee cord wrapped around his ankle and smack into the side of the house, and then he’d just be dangling and . . . and . . . I don’t know, a deer could attack him!” Stick Figure Harley dangled on the page, speared by the many- pointed antlers of Stick Figure Deer.

Harley said, with utter seriousness, “It would be an honor to be attacked by a deer. They’re so majestic.”

“Ethan, I think the plan is good—” Olivia started to say, but Ethan interrupted with another objection.

“Not to mention the sap.” This he didn’t even bother to draw. “Pine trees are gooey with sap, and that stuff does not come off with regular soap. What if Harley gets stuck to the tree and can never ever get unstuck—”

“Ethan—”

“Wait.”

Hold up.

Sap.

Sticky.

He did a quick scan of Harley’s room, which was of course a mess— a chaos bomb of clothes in piles and a half- assembled drum kit and LEGO bricks left around like caltrops. But there on the wall, next to a Demongallop poster, was a kid’s bow- and- arrow set.

“That’s it,” he said.

Everyone leaned in, as if to silently ask, What’s it?

Ethan grinned and began to draw.

Title: MONSTER MOVIE!

Author: Chuck Wendig

Release Date: 9/24/24

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Genre: Middle grade fiction, horror

Age Range: 8-12

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I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the GO HOME by Terry
Farish & Lochan Sharma Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

About The Book:

Title: GO HOME

Author: Terry
Farish & Lochan Sharma

Pub. Date: August 6, 2024

Publisher: Groundwood
Books

Formats: Hardcover, eBook

Pages: 304

Find it: Goodreads, https://books2read.com/GO-HOME-Farish-Sharma

In a world beset by anger and fear, what does it mean to protect one’s
home and family?

Olive and Gabe ― her older brother’s best friend ― are deeply in love.
They want nothing more than to make a home and family together, especially
after the overdose death of Olive’s brother, Chris. It won’t be easy. Gabe
works three jobs, and Olive still needs to finish high school, but their future
together feels certain and right.

But when Samir Paudel moves into the house across the street, Olive’s and
Gabe’s lives are disrupted. The Paudel house is overfull with family and
friends, and they play loud music at all hours. Yet Olive is drawn to them,
particularly to Samir’s little nephew, Bhim, and his grandfather, Hajurba.

Yet Samir’s very presence seems to awaken in Gabe an intense anger ―
toward immigrants he believes are taking resources from White Americans ―
resources that would have saved Chris and his own father, who has lost his job
and is now struggling with ill health and alcoholism.

When Olive realizes that Gabe and his family are the source of escalating
aggressions toward the Paudels, she no longer recognizes the loyal, loving boy
she fell in love with.

Guest Post:

2  Can You Swim?  Meet Samir from Nepal in the novel GO HOME

By Terry Farish

Thank you for welcoming me. You asked me to write about a character in GO HOME and include an excerpt. Please meet Samir.  This is a scene in which he does something that’s hard for him to do.  He has moved to the U.S. from Nepal, a land-locked country. He doesn’t know how to swim. No one in his family knows how to swim. And now he lives by the Atlantic Ocean.  He has seen his neighbor, Olive, swim. He feels responsible for his family’s safety in this new place. He believes he must learn to swim and then teach his mother and father and sister. But he is terrified of the water.  Here’s an excerpt in which he is has asked Olive to teach him to swim. She agrees to. The lesson is the beginning of a friendship. The friendship is very awkward because Olive is also the girlfriend of Samir’s enemy, Gabe.  From chapter 34:

She swam out aways into the cove, then turned toward him and swam her beautiful free style. It had a rhythm like a dance.  Where he stood, he lifted his arms and followed her movements and it was just like the memory he was already holding of her movements in his muscles. 

           “Use you back muscles,” she said.

           He felt his back lengthen and twist.

           “That’s the next lesson,” she said.

           “The arms, the breath, the kick.”

           “Yes.”

           On the shore Samir shivered. He looked out at the water, the island. For the flash of a second, fear filled him. Could he really do this? No one in his family had. He felt his skinny midsection. It was not any more muscular. But he already imagined his body swimming.

           Samir glanced at Olive. He said, “I am trying to be a friend. Am I doing it right? Are we friends now?”

           Olive leaned down to grab her jeans and pulled them up over her shorts.

Then she scrunched up her face and laughed out loud. She was a funny girl.

           “Why are you laughing?” he said.

           “You are so serious,” she said.

           “If there is a time you would like a favor, you can ask me,” he said.

           She began to cry. It was very sudden and it scared him. She was not loud like the gulls but her lips quivered and the tears filled her eyes and she hid her eyes under her elbow.  

           “Oh, no, no, no,” he said. “Friends have no strings. You don’t owe me.” 

           She ran to her bike.

           “You’re doing okay,” she called. “You’re doing superior.”

           She disappeared through the trees, like buttermilk on bread as his mother would say.

Here is a photo of Lochan’s mom (Ambika), me, and co-writer Lochan Sharma.  Lochan does not yet know how to swim, but when he learns he will teach his mother. 

About Terry Farish:

TERRY
FARISH is the
author of The Good Braider (YALSA and SLJ Best Book for Young
Adults), Either the Beginning or the End of the World (Maine
Literary Award) and A Feast for Joseph (with OD Bonny and
illustrated by Ken Daley). She lives in Portsmouth, New Hampshire.

Sign up for
Terry’s newsletter! (scroll to
the bottom of the page)

Website | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon | BookBub

About Lochan
Sharma:

LOCHAN
SHARMA was born
in Nepal. His family was registered at Timai refugee camp after they were
exiled from Bhutan. Lochan and his family moved to the US in 2009 and now live
in Concord, New Hampshire. He is a student at Keene State College. 

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Giveaway Details:

1 winner will receive a finished copy of GO HOME, US Only.

Ends October 22nd, midnight EST.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

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Today we’re spotlighting The Lies We Conjure by Sarah Henning!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Sarah Henning

Sarah Henning is the author of several books for young adults, including The Lies We Conjure; the Indies Introduce selection, Indie Next List pick, and Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection Sea Witch, and its sequel, Sea Witch Rising, The Princess Will Save You, The Queen Will Betray You, and The King Will Kill You, as well as Throw Like A Girl and its companion book, It’s All in How You Fall. She is also the author of the middle grade fantasy Monster Camp, and appears in the girls-in-sports anthology, Out of Our League. When not writing, she runs far too much with her friends, chases her two kids, and hangs out with her husband Justin, who doubles as her long-suffering IT department. Henning lives in Lawrence, Kansas, hometown of Langston Hughes, William S. Burroughs, and a really good basketball team.

About the Book: The Lies We Conjure

Knives Out meets The Inheritance Games with magic in this standalone supernatural thriller by Sarah Henning: thirteen witches, a locked-room murder, and two non-magical sisters trapped in a deadly whodunit.

Ruby and her sister, Wren, are normal, middle-class Colorado high school students working a summer job at the local Renaissance Fest to supplement their meager college savings.

So when an eccentric old lady asks them to impersonate her long-absent grandchildren at a fancy dinner party at the jaw-dropping rate of two grand—each—for a single night… Wren insists it’s a no-brainer. Make some cash, have some fun, do a good deed.

But less than an hour into the evening at the mysterious Hegemony Manor, Ruby is sure she must have lost her mind to have agreed to this.

The hostess is dead, the gates are locked, and a magical curse ensures no one can leave until they solve both her murder and the riddles she left behind—in just three days. Because everyone else at this party is a powerful witch. And if the witches realize Ruby and Wren are imposters? The sisters won’t make it out of Hegemony Manor alive.

Purchase

~Excerpt~

Chapter 4
RUBY
The partygoers descend like vultures. Swooping in, all speed and
precision, talons extended toward the fresh meat.
Wren and I—Kaysa and Lavinia.
The Cerises take the left flank. The Starwoods the right.
Ostensibly, Marsyas is clutching us for support, but in that first
moment I feel that if I weren’t holding on to the soft swell of the
woman’s forearm, I might float away altogether.
Because, as they close in, I am sure beyond a shadow of a doubt
that these people will know we’re total fakes. And then we’ll really
be in trouble.
I brace myself as Hector Cerise greets us first. Like his wife and
seventeen-year-old twins, he has the air of old Hollywood, as if
they were made to be in black and white. To wit, Hector is all
slicked-back hair and cigar smoke clinging to his navy suit coat
and pants as he crashes into our three-person line with a showman’s
gravitas. It’s impossible to miss a large ruby ring on his right index
finger as his hands press together in front of his chest.
“Marsyas, you’ve enticed your girls into coming!” he exclaims—
bowing to Marsyas like she’s royalty and not an old lady dressed in
dead animals. “After all these years? Bravo!”
“And what fine young ladies they’ve become,” crows Luna Starwood from the elbow of her grandchild, Infinity. They’re both wearing gauzy white, paired with brilliant grins on their dark brown
faces. They look about a thousand times more comfortable than I
feel. Luna’s midnight gaze meets mine. “You must be Lavinia?” I
nod automatically, wondering how she got it right on the first guess.
Really, for all our differences, Wren and I look alike. Similar height,
bone structure, coloring. “And Kaysa, how lovely are those hazel
eyes?”
And now I know. Something subtle. The smallest of tests passed.
“They’re just the spitting image of Marcos’s gaze, Marsyas,”
agrees Sanguine Cerise, Hector’s wife. Every one of her attributes is
best described with a “very”—very tiny waist, very big boobs, very
sharp cheekbones, very blond hair, very red nails, all wrapped in a
very tight long-sleeved dress. And apparently, she’s very pointed in
her commentary too.
Sanguine doesn’t mean to be unkind—I think—but under my
grasp, Marsyas tenses at the mention of her late son’s name. Wren
catches it too, immediately giving “Nona” a loving pat while cooing, “Such a compliment, Mrs. Cerise. Why, thank you so much.”
“Call me Sanguine, darling. And Hector is fine for my love.” Sanguine gropes Hector’s bicep as if we’d have some sort of confusion
over whom her heart adores. They seem like the type of couple that
mistakes codependence for affection. “Kaysa and Lavinia, please
meet the twins, Ada and Hex.”
Wrapped in a dress with longer sleeves than a hem, Ada is her
mother without all the extremes, soft and natural, like a museum
painting of a girl frocking among wildflowers. Or maybe poppies.
Something poisonous. Hex—short for Hector Junior according to
Marsyas’s document—is tall and dapper like his father in a matching navy suit. He has the bearing of an athlete—the kind named
team captain not out of talent but out of fear. Given that he’s a
varsity linebacker, he probably shoves kids into lockers as a prepractice warmup at the fancy Pinault Day School the twins attend.
“We know each other, Mama,” Hex scoffs, his coal-dark eyes
pinned on me. My heart gives a little kick.
“Prancing around in your nappies a dozen years ago doesn’t imply knowing them as they currently are,” Sanguine insists with a
dismissive wave that has me noticing that it’s not just Hector—all
four of them are wearing matching rings on their pointer fingers. I
don’t know the first thing about gems but these aren’t costume jewelry. Rubies, garnets, or whatever they are, they have the weight of
a family heirloom. I wouldn’t know. The pearl earrings I’m wearing
are the closest thing I have to my own and they’re not even real.
Ada frowns at Wren. “I thought you preferred ‘Kay’?”
Shit, I think, but Wren handles this little snag like a pro with a
shrug. “I grew out of it. Kaysa fits me better these days.”
Ada’s lips twitch as she accepts my sister’s outstretched hand, but
she doesn’t comment further. Phew. Keeping to my current plan
of smiling and saying as little as possible, I accept Ada’s hand next
with the barest of pleasantries.
Meanwhile, when I move to Hex, there’s a sharp edge to his
features, and his long fingers are far too cold for the summer night.
His unfortunate nickname does his general air of presentation no
favors.
As I’m doing everything I can not to rub my clammy, and now
chilly, hand against the lovely silk of my very expensive dress, a musical voice calls to us from somewhere in the vicinity of the manor.
“Are those the long-lost Blackgate girls I see?”
We all turn, and there, approaching, is not so much a person as
a living, breathing candle flame.
Winter Hegemony.
Like the perfect grass, the floating chandeliers, the soft air too
still for the mountains, her outward appearance feels aggressively
manufactured—a mirage with a pit crew.
Honestly, it’s absolutely unnerving.
“Best get your eyes checked, Winter Hegemony, because we’re
all here,” Luna shouts in her direction, with a cackle that shakes
her frail frame as she hangs on to Infinity’s strong arm for dear
life. I immediately like her—Mom’s favorite patients were exactly
like Luna, ornery broads whose love language was subtle verbal
decimation.
“There’s no missing you, Luna—how are you?” Winter makes
a point of enveloping the ancient woman in a gentle embrace the
moment she reaches our circle.
“Not dead yet, which is pretty great when you’re ninety-seven,
I’d say.”
“Pretty great, indeed,” Winter agrees, smoothing the old woman’s ivory caftan as she disentangles herself, careful to make sure
Luna is still well balanced against Infinity. Winter greets the
younger Starwood with a gentle embrace that doesn’t upset the balance of their grandmother, and an enthusiastic compliment about
the cut of their ethereal jumpsuit.
Then, with the practiced precision of someone painstakingly
trained in the social arts, Winter precedes to welcome each guest
warmly, proxy to the hostess, promising her grandmother’s imminent arrival. She gives everyone their due, their time, working with
both class and efficiency before concluding, most likely purposefully, with the three of us.
“Can you believe it?” Marsyas asks, pointedly squeezing us close
in a remake of the Louvre photo she showed us at the Ren Fest.
“My Lavinia and Kaysa, in the flesh!”
Winter agrees that it’s so wonderful she can believe it, and then
pulls us each into a warm, rose-scented embrace. “So lovely you’ve
decided to join us this year,” she muses to the pair of us. “It’s been
so long—whatever changed your mind about attending?”
“Yes, Marsyas, what spell did you put upon them to do your
bidding?” Hector asks, hopping in with a grand laugh. “Mine are
starting to weasel out of my instructions.” Both twins flinch as he
claps them heartily on the shoulders. He squeezes, his large gemstone ring outshining the plain gold wedding band in the floating
light with the movement. “It’s quite infuriating as a patriarch, honestly.”
I don’t think I’ve heard a person outside a Regency novel describe
themselves as a patriarch. Maybe he does belong in another time.
“Nonsense,” Luna insists with a wave of an elegant ebony hand,
“these charming young ladies needed no convincing to attend a
party.” She winks at me. “It’s your mother who needs convincing.
We know, girls, no need to pretend.”
Wren’s mouth pops open to give the stock answer we’d agreed
upon about “our” attendance, but Marsyas lets out a practiced
chuckle, insisting, “It was high time, nothing more, nothing less.”
“Speaking of time, I want to hear where you’ve been, what you’ve
been up to, all of it.” Then, before either of us can object, Winter
claims our wrists, dislodges us from Marsyas, and aims us toward
a fountain gurgling merrily among the expertly shaped topiaries.
I look back at Marsyas for some clue as to if a directive—and a
physical assertion, no less—from Winter Hegemony counts as doing what her grandmother says, per her final set of instructions. In
answer, Marsyas pointedly tugs Sanguine down to sit on a nearby
bench, and waves over a waiter bearing a tray of gleaming crystal
flutes bubbling with champagne.
Wren uses that as her cue to happily launch into the story she’s
concocted over the past six days.
A manor house just outside London, a penthouse in Barcelona, a
walkup along the river in Prague, a little cottage in Bavaria to retreat
to when we please. Boarding school, complete social media ban, everything directed by our mother, Athena, and Nona Marsyas.
Reveling in their undivided attention against the hum of string
instruments being piped in from somewhere discreet, Wren clearly
finds this part of tonight exhilarating, while I find it completely
and utterly exhausting. So good at putting on a show, my sister,
while I can barely hold up the curtain.
Sometimes, I’m not sure how we’re related at all.
Wren is in the middle of a very spirited tale about the time “she”
chucked a scone slathered with clotted cream at a boy’s head in the
Baxter refectory, resulting in an explosion on contact if her hand
gestures are any indication, when a voice appears in my ear.
“This story isn’t about her.”
There’s a wryness to his delivery, as if he’s in on a joke, and a
weight to his presence that hangs between us in the thin mountain
air over my shoulder.
I turn toward this boy—bracing because he could mean that
sentence and humor in any number of ways, including seeing right
through our sister act—and my breath catches. I immediately recognize the lacrosse-star build and clean lines of his classically handsome face from Marsyas’s files.
Auden Hegemony.
I know who he is. And yet, I’m so startled—by him, by his droll
accusation, by the stupid way my breath hitched—that I laugh.
“Um, what?” I grasp for my accent, which slid away in my surprise, and clarify with a questionable British lilt, “How do you mean,
Auden?”
A wry smile lifts now to go with his delivery, and there’s just
something a tad bit dangerous about it. Like black ice—hardly visible and deadly all the same. Still, his eyes, blue rimmed in brown,
twinkle in a way that signals he seems pleased not to have needed
an introduction. “You’re the kind to bean an adversary with a perfectly good pastry. That’s all.”
“So . . . you think this story is actually about me?” I ask, slowly,
hoping I’m understanding this whole bizarre tit for tat correctly
and that he hasn’t just casually dismantled our entire ruse.
“Yes.”
I squint at him, a small, confused smile tugging at the corners
of my mouth because whatever the heck is going on here was not
outlined in his file. “Is that some sort of compliment?”
He tips his chin. “Please consider taking it as one.”
“Auden Hegemony,” Winter’s voice breaks in, chiding and insistent, “what kind of host are you?” She flourishes her mostly filled
drink at him with a very toned arm. “Reacquainting yourself with
one Blackgate but not the other. Don’t play favorites, it’s rude.”
I would not call his attitude toward me any sort of favoritism
because what in the name of rich people was that? But I’ll happily
accept the benefits of Winter’s instruction and Wren’s enthusiasm
as she hops to her feet from where she’d settled in on the fountain’s
edge for story time. “Kaysa,” she announces. “Lovely to meet you
again, Auden.”
Wren’s tone is tickled—like she just can’t believe she’s meeting
him at his very own home. And, as Auden is shaking her hand, I
realize he didn’t afford me the same hospitality. Or even greet me
really. Yet, as I watch, he goes through the same routine Winter
executed, spending time talking to each and every person like he’s a
politician or something.
Apparently, he doesn’t need or want my—Lavinia’s—vote.
With a delicate quirk of her brow and a pointed perusal of the
garden, Wren announces, “I’ve collected two of the three Hegemonys. Now, where is the—”
“We’re not a set.”
My head whips around as a brooding, broad-shouldered boy
steps into view. Warm brown skin, close-cropped dark hair, eyes
the color of the shadowed depths of a forest floor, and the unmistakable air of Hegemony in his refined features.
Evander. The oldest cousin.
Eyes twinkling, Wren smiles at him like he’s exactly what she’s
been waiting for. “That’s not what the collectors say. Hegemony
sightings are very valuable on the black market.”
He doesn’t laugh, but Winter does. “Come now, Evander, isn’t it
nice to be sought after? I won’t bore our guests with the travails of
your love life but suffice to say your reputation as a sourpuss is not
as sexy as one would assume.”
Evander simply meets Wren’s delighted expression, and deadpans, “I’d say sightings of the Blackgate heirs are much fewer and
farther between.”
Heirs. Again. Used in a sentence by someone who just graduated
high school. So formal. So weird. Maybe rich people are a different
species.
“Well,” Wren says, a sly twist to her lips, “if there are stories to
be had about Evander Hegemony’s love life travails, I can guarantee
you’ll be seeing much more of us.”
Wren winks at Evander, her dark eye makeup shimmering in
the floating glow of the lighting arrangement. This makes Winter
laugh, Auden smirk, and Evander scoff.
No one, not even Evander, can deny it. They’re an obvious set.
And just as I’ve determined that, their final piece arrives.
In that moment, the volume of the party bleeds into nothing
but prim footsteps as the matriarch of Hegemony Manor appears
on the stone veranda above the garden, framed by a slate of massive
windows ablaze in reflection of the setting sun.
Ursula Hegemony is straight-backed and prim, a tall woman,
who, even if not stationed above the party, would have no trouble
looking down her nose at everyone around her.
That much I’d expected. What I don’t expect is her age. She
should be a contemporary of Marsyas or Luna. But whether it’s a
trick of genetics, the distance, or, perhaps, her obvious fortune, Ursula Hegemony doesn’t appear a day over forty.
“Welcome, welcome to Hegemony Manor, all of you.” Ursula’s
graceful arms sweep wide and warm, even as she stands purposefully
above and apart.
I realize this is her dinner party, but it is a dinner party, not
a presidential address. Yet as I glance around, no one seems surprised, except for Wren, who mouths to me, Revival of Evita? She
gestures like she might burst into “Don’t Cry for Me, Argentina”
before winking and returning her attention to the balcony.
Ursula continues in a strong, clear voice. “I have summoned you
here as allies and friends, our most unusual and unbreakable family, for a night that is wholly ours.”
I wait for Ursula to launch into a full speech, but instead our
hostess simply gestures to the long, beautifully appointed table.
“Please be seated—we will feast and then tonight’s business will
begin.”
I am extremely happy to take that as my cue to start moving and
latch myself back onto Marsyas’s arm as quickly as possible. Wren is
more leisurely about doing the same, but she eventually pries herself
away from Winter and Evander, who she clearly finds intriguing.
We’ve made it two steps in the direction of where the table is set
under those gorgeous, glowing, floating chandeliers, when I feel
Marsyas stiffen under my grasp. “Ursula, hello! You look as stunning as ever.”
My gaze snaps up and there, indeed, is Ursula Hegemony.
I have no idea how she arrived so quickly, but she’s only feet away
now. This close, her eyes are as blue as tropical water and Ursula
wields them with an intensity that confirms, without a shadow of
a doubt, that she sees everything. I immediately regret prompting
Wren’s Evita reenactment.
Marsyas’s grin stretches to the point where it might fall off her
carefully powdered face and turns to us. “I’d like to reacquaint
you with my granddaughters,” Marsyas announces. “Lavinia, my
oldest, and Kaysa, my youngest.”
Wren offers a hand and a grin. “It’s fantastic to see you again,
Mrs. Hegemony.”
Ursula’s eyes flick to Wren’s pink-polished nails and the swinging rabbit’s foot, and she sweeps her own hands together, lacing her
elegant fingers in a clear, stunning denial.
Wren, ever the actress, drops her proffered hand as if it had never
been raised at all. Ursula’s attention returns to Marsyas’s face. “I see
you’ve prepared them for tonight, Marsyas.”
The old woman forces a chuckle at Ursula, even as her nails dig
into my skin to the point where they’ll definitely leave a mark. “I’ve
only had my heirs back a day. Their skills are still quite raw.”
“I do hope Athena is taking the heirs’ grooming seriously, Marsyas,”
this woman says as if we’re not standing right here. “With Marcos
gone, they are the Blackgates’ future.”
Marsyas swallows so deeply her spiderweb earrings sway, and I
swear her eyes mist at this mention of her son. Unlike when Sanguine referred to Marcos, I’m fairly certain this allusion was meant
to hurt. When Marsyas answers, her words are carefully etched.
“My Marcos’s absence will forever be a chasm, Ursula.”
“A feeling I know quite well.”
Something passes between them. The losses of Ursula’s own children, most likely, though there’s an edge to that buried pain I can’t
read. “Fortunate we are to have the next generation.” Ursula regards
the two of us again and I would not be surprised if I glanced down
and found my flesh burned straight through.
“We are so very happy to be here, Mrs. Hegemony,” Wren pipes
up. Clearly trying to prove she’s perfectly pleasant and not bothered
by the extremely precise, extremely coded small talk. “Your estate is
lovely, and your grandchildren are so very welcoming.”
Ursula eyes my sister. Then, she extends her own hand—not to
Wren, but to Marsyas.
“Come, Marsyas, we have much to discuss.”
I automatically take a step forward.
But Ursula’s mouth quirks at the sight of my assumed inclusion.
“Just your matriarch, Lavinia.”
Marsyas drops our forearms and steps forward. Our hostess
beckons to the party at large. “Auden? Evander? Please see to it that
the Blackgate heirs are properly entertained at dinner.”
Great, we’re being assigned handlers.
As they arrive, Wren immediately latches onto Evander’s elbow,
pleased as punch at this turn of events. An opportunity to flirt at
close range. She’ll probably tease him about ghosts.
Meanwhile, Auden turns to me and offers his crooked arm—we
apparently needed to add Regency-era actions to go with the
Regency-era word choices. Then, he goes further, twisting his palm
skyward so it’s open for the taking.
My brain short-circuits because this whole thing is so bizarre
and when I know I’ve spent too long deliberating, I reach for my
terrible accent and a bit of humor. “Such a gentleman, and only
moments after accusing me of being a scone-throwing maniac.”
Auden smiles, but I have the distinct feeling it’s not for me. Something he seems to confirm when he admits, “I’m sure you of all
people will understand that when my grandmother tells me to do
something, I oblige.”
“That I do. I’m here because I wasn’t in a position to say no—to
coming to this dinner or to my grandmother’s fashion choices.”
I lift the wrist nearest to him in demonstrative presentation, the
black rabbit’s foot swinging morosely. It’s possible that I’ve waved it
too hard because on the upswing, the taxidermic animal appendage grazes the side of his offered bare hand.
Auden jerks away as if I’ve bit him.
“It’s dead, Auden. It can’t hurt you.”
I attempt a smile. If he has an actual phobia, I’ve made things
worse, and I have no idea how to remedy that.
But Auden simply tugs at his very expensive suit sleeves. “It comes
with the territory. Part of what makes you a Blackgate.”
I have no idea what he’s getting at but I nod, because that seems
like the right thing to do. But even that seems like the wrong thing to
do and I have the suspicion that I’m trying so hard to be someone else
that I’ve literally lost my grasp on how to be a normal human being.
In an effort to reset, I turn away from Auden’s extremely handsome
face and make it a point to watch the others situate themselves at the
long rectangular table. Ursula at the head, the adults filling in up at
the top. The kids round out the rest.
Then, Auden surprises me and offers his arm again.
Because he’s a gentleman and this is how gentlemen human,
apparently.
“You know,” I say, “I think I’m good to walk on my own. Very
kind of you to offer. Very regal.”
He pointedly slips both hands into his trouser pockets. “Suit
yourself.”
I have no idea if it’s me, or if it’s him, or the combination of
the two of us, but there’s a thorn buried somewhere beneath this
Auden and Lavinia relationship. If I’m going to survive the next
four hours, I need to steer this ship in an entirely new direction.
“Auden,” I begin as we finally start strolling across the beautiful,
star-shaped ceramic tiles of the garden, “I think we got off on the
wrong foot. Can we give it another go?”
I hold out a hand to him, hoping that starting over at a proper
handshake will do some symbolic heavy lifting to get us out of
our apparent social death spiral. “I’m Lavinia, nice to meet you
again.”
Auden eyes my peace offering and for a small moment, my heart
drops at the thought of him delivering the same clear admonishment his grandmother dealt Wren. I know Ursula Hegemony is
watching us from her seat at the head of the table. And though she
turned her nose up at us, Auden’s own admission is that he must
do what his grandmother says, and she instructed him to take care
of me.
It’s a small gamble. A tiny, little dare.
Auden sets his very nice mouth into a line, a decision made.
He reaches out and accepts my hand.
His fingers are warm and dry, and carefully still—a clasp rather
than a shake, which keeps the offending bunny bauble from swinging his way a second time. His eyes lift to mine, narrowed slightly,
as if they’re trying desperately to read something that isn’t there.
Because I’m not who he’s looking for.
I breathe as shallowly as possible, trying to stave off my panic at
the idea that again, Auden Hegemony can see right through me.
But then his face breaks into that classically handsome smile.
“Auden, and likewise, Lavinia.”

Title: The Lies We Conjure

Author: Sarah Henning

Release Date: 9/17/24

Publisher: Tor Teen

Genre: Fantasy

Age Range: 13-18

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Today we’re spotlighting Theodora Hendrix and the Curious Case of the Cursed Beetle by Jordan Kopy!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: Jordan Kopy

Jordan Kopy is a born and raised New Yorker who now lives in London with her husband and poorly behaved (but lovable) cat. A financial services professional by day (no idea how that happened), Jordan spends her nights with ghouls, witches, and the occasional evil hag. She’s the author of the Theodora Hendrix middle grade series. For more information, follow her on Instagram @Jordan_Kopy or find her on her website at JordanKopy.com.

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About the Book: Theodora Hendrix and the Curious Case of the Cursed Beetle

Theodora and Dexter must dispose of a cursed beetle and thwart a lurking detective in this second book in the sweet and spooky illustrated middle grade series that’s The Addams Family meets Nancy Drew.

After her many adventures, ten-year-old Theodora Hendrix feels confident she can handle anything… Until the unpleasant Inspector Shelley and her pet rat, Ratsputin, come to make trouble and spy on the Monster League of Monsters. Theodora recruits her friend Dexter to help her keep the detective off the scent of her monster family.

But when Theodora uncovers a cursed beetle, their mission seems impossible. Can they destroy it without attracting the inspector’s attention?

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~Excerpt~

Top Secret Information

You there—yes, you. Are you alone? Good, because what I’m about to share is privileged—no, classified—
no, top secret information; not even the Queen of England or the President of the United States knows
what I’m now going to tell you.

But perhaps I shouldn’t. I don’t need you blabbing to your parents or your teacher or your coach who’s convinced you’re the next big footie star and who makes you run laps until it feels like your legs are going to fall off and your lungs are going to explode. They won’t be pleased; I’ve already said too much.

The last time we met, I told you a secret, the biggest secret there ever was: the world is full of monsters. Good monsters, bad monsters, monsters who “forget” to comb their hair and brush their teeth . . . That isn’t news to you, but this will be: we’ve received reports of some unusual monster activity deep in the deserts of Egypt. There, nestled between the shifting dunes of sand, in a village so small it has no name, a series of strange incidents have occurred.

One morning, the villagers awoke to find that their entire colony of well-loved strays had vanished, as if some giant, invisible hand had plucked all the dogs from the streets while they slept. That afternoon, they were even more dismayed to discover that their freshwater well had dried up; hordes of beetles now surged from its empty depths, spilling into the settlement in hissing black waves. And that night, when the moon hung low in the starless sky, they heard a strange scraping sound, as if something big and heavy was being dragged past their windows. No one dared to get out of bed to look, but in the morning they found tracks running the length of the dusty road.

Of course, the villagers didn’t know that beneath their feet, miles below the sand, someone had broken into an ancient, long-forgotten tomb, stealing not one, not two, but six sarcophagi. It was the tomb of a creature so fearsome and formidable that even the brave members of the Monstrous League of Monsters (the MLM for short) avoided speaking its name, referring to it only as the Beetle King.

It goes without saying that the London branch of the MLM had bigger fish to fry than some far- flung, far-off evil. A fish by the name of Inspector Mary Shelley, who would soon be arriving on their doorstep.

Just one inhabitant—incidentally, the only human inhabitant—of the MLM mansion was unconcerned: Theodora Hendrix, who honestly didn’t see what all the fuss was about. After all, she’d just faced down an evil hag who wanted to keep her as a pet, a thieving, skiving skele-crow and an army of the undead—how bad could an inspector be?

Pretty bad, as it turns out.

Now, I’m sure you’re wondering what any of this has got to do with you? That’s for me to know and for you to find out, Agent-in-Training. For now, let’s just say we’re building a case.

Agent Charles Holmes,
Eye Spy Monster Agency

The Head of Anubis

It was a dreary sort of day, the kind made for dozing on the couch. (Did your parents say the park is closed? It’s not. They’re just too lazy to take you. Not that I would ever call your parents lazy . . .) And that’s exactly what the residents of Appleton, England, were doing in their cozy little homes: napping. But there was one house that was anything but sleepy; in fact, today it was downright lively.

Sprawling, peeling and crumbling like a cookie, this particular house—or I should say, mansion— did nothing to endear itself to the neighbors.

“I saw a spider as big as a hubcap walking up the front path, cool as you please,” said Mrs. Next Door, eyeing the cobweb-shrouded door with a shudder.

“That’s nothing,” replied Mrs. Across the Street. “Yesterday, a statue—ugly thing with horns—fell right off the roof.” She didn’t mention that she’d distinctly heard it say, “That’s the last time I let Bob help me fix the chimney.” (The amount of energy grown-ups spend pretending that monsters don’t exist is truly astonishing.)

“Makes you wonder what kind of people would live there,” Mr. Down the Road added.

Of course, people wouldn’t—and didn’t—live there; the members of the London MLM did. And at that very moment, they (unlike their nosy neighbors) were very busy indeed.

In the kitchen, Wilhelmina, the resident witch, was sweating over a cauldron, the contents of which smelled faintly of sage.

In the attic, the operatic ghost, Figaro, was practicing his scales to the dulcet tones of a xylophone made of crocodile teeth. In the tallest tower, Dracula, that most infamous vampire, was pacing beneath a fluttering cloud of bats, a letter bearing the initials HQ clutched in his cold, bloodless hands. But it is in the Ancient Curse Breaking Room that our story begins.

The Ancient Curse Breaking Room was rather spooky, even for a haunted mansion. The cavernous chamber called to mind a vast, gilded cave: The windowless walls were etched with Egyptian hieroglyphics and dotted with weapons, while dozens of painted sarcophagi lined the perimeter. A towering stone jaguar took up one corner, occasionally letting out a tremendous roar whenever he felt things were getting a bit too quiet. In another, Mummy the mummy was working at a desk made from the curved tusks of a woolly mammoth. Sitting beside her was a ten-year-old girl with grass-green eyes and curly red hair in want of brushing: Theodora Hendrix, of course.

Theodora was the reason the MLM was under investigation in the first place: when the monsters found her abandoned in a graveyard and adopted her some ten years previously, they’d broken Headquarters’ Rule Number One: Keep monsters hidden from humans. They got away with it, too— until a hag named Hilda had threatened to reveal their secret. The London MLM had no choice but to take matters into their own hands and had reported themselves to Headquarters. Luckily, Headquarters hadn’t punished them, reasoning that, while the monsters had broken the first rule, they had upheld Rule Number Two: Protect humans from bad monsters. However, they wanted to be certain that there was no pattern of rule breaking—hence the inspector’s imminent arrival.

At the moment, Theodora wasn’t concerned about the inspector, nor her investigation; she was concerned about the scary—no, frightening—no, horror-fying—sight before her. (I suggest skipping ahead a few pages if you’re squeamish.)

On the desk stood a clay figurine with the head of a jackal and the body of a man. It was twenty-five centimeters tall and its eyes were aglow, a stream of emerald smoke pouring from its mouth.

“Who dares to disturb me?” demanded the little statue.

The tiny hairs on the back of Theodora’s neck stood on end; the figurine’s mouth hadn’t moved. Despite this, its voice was booming, as if ten voices were speaking instead of one.

“Who dares to disturb me?” the statue repeated menacingly.

Mummy straightened, carefully tucking a loose strand of bandage behind her ear. “It is I, Mummy. Begging your pardon, Anubis, but we’re in need of your assistance.”

“Mummy, hmm? What assistance do you seek?”

In reply, Mummy opened an intricately carved, velvet-lined box. From its depths she withdrew a dazzling string of jewels, the oversized stones clinking together like wine glasses. “These have just arrived. There was no note. We’re going to examine them for magical properties, but first, can you please tell us if they’ve been tampered with, or
cursed?”

Mummy took curses very seriously. The worst punishment Theodora had ever received was after she’d accidentally released one into the mansion. She’d been banned from the Ancient Curse Breaking Room ever since, unless she was with Mummy or another responsible monster. In effect, this meant she was only allowed in if she was with Mummy, because the others simply refused to enter.

“Meow!” Bandit, the masked vampire-cat, would tell his best friend Georgie, the zombie, whenever it came up. Now, I don’t speak cat, but I think what he said must have been something along the lines of, “That room has too many weapons and not enough mice and I don’t like it at all, not one little bit!”

“Eurg,” Georgie would reply with a shudder.

“Mew?” Bandit would ask, meaning, “I don’t understand why you don’t like sarcophagi, Georgie. They’re just like coffins and you love napping in those. Still, there’s something creepy about that room—lately, I’ve had the feeling that I’m being watched, even when it’s supposed to be empty ”

The friends would exchange uneasy glances, tacitly agreeing to say no more about it.

Mummy, however, did not mind the abundance of weapons or the lack of mice and was wholly unbothered by the presence of sarcophagi, given that her own was among those in the chamber. Yes, she was perfectly at ease in the Ancient Curse Breaking Room—even when being ordered about by a tiny statue.

“Place it around my neck,” Anubis commanded in his thunderous voice, causing Theodora to jump.

Of course, this was impossible, as the necklace was meant to be worn by a fully grown adult and not a small figurine. Mummy wisely didn’t point this out, laying the jewels on the desk so that Anubis was positioned in the middle of the circle of gleaming stones.

There was a sudden bang, loud as a cannon. Mummy didn’t bat an eyelid, but Theodora was so startled she slid right off her seat. Looking up, she was met by a rather alarming sight: Anubis’s head was no longer attached to his body. It was upside down, teeth clamped onto a fat, shimmering ruby. With another bang, he flopped, head over neck, onto a glittering sapphire. On he went, nibbling on each of the stones as if tasting them. (Are you all right? You look a bit queasy—you’ll need to buck up if you’re going to make it as an agent.)

“It’s not been tampered with,” said the head of Anubis, reattaching itself to its body with a final bang. “And I don’t think it’s cursed—but you should still test it, just to be sure.”

“Perfect,” said Mummy, relieved.

Anubis didn’t reply. The light in his eyes had vanished; he appeared to have gone to sleep.

“And now to examine the amulet,” said Mummy. “That’s where you come in, Theodora.”

“How?” she asked eagerly, dusting herself off. Assisting Mummy in the Ancient Curse Breaking Room was one of her favorite things to do; it made her feel very grown-up indeed, being entrusted with such important work. Of course, she suspectedthat Mummy didn’t really need her help (she’d been breaking curses for thousands of years before Theodora was even born), but even so, it was nice to spend some time together, just the two of them.

“With this,” said Mummy, smiling mysteriously as she slid the desk drawer open. She withdrew an object that resembled a magnifying glass: it had a large, circular lens mounted onto a golden handle dotted with hieroglyphics. The only difference, really, was that the lens wasn’t clear—there was something inside it: a bright blue eyeball, identical to the one the monsters used in place of a doorbell (good thing Mrs. Across the Street had never noticed that).

“It’s a Sight Extender,” Mummy explained, passing it to Theodora. “Hold it over the necklace. If the eye turns red, then the artifact is cursed. If it turns yellow, it’s not.”

Theodora did as instructed, gripping the Sight Extender in both hands. After a moment, the eye glowed yellow, shining so brilliantly it looked as if she were holding a tiny sun.

“Thank darkness,” said Mummy. “I was almost sure it was cursed when I held it.”

“Pardon, madam,” called a deep, mournful voice from the doorway. It could only belong to Helter- Skelter, the mansion’s skeletal butler. “Dracula has requested your presence in his tower.”

Mummy frowned. “I’d better see what’s going on,” she said, placing the jewels and the Sight Extender back on th

e desk, one on top of the other. She stood, motioning for Theodora to do the same. “We’ll finish this later, okay?”

As Theodora and Mummy hurried from the room, neither noticed that the Sight Extender was no longer glowing yellow, but burning an angry, vivid red. . . .

But someone did.

Excerpted from Theodora Hendrix and the Curious Case of the Cursed Beetle by Jordan Kopy. Excerpted with the permission of Simon & Schuster Books for Young Readers. Copyright © 2024 by Amanda Jordan Kopy.

Title:  Theodora Hendrix and the Curious Case of the Cursed Beetle

Author: Jordan Kopy

Illustrator:  Chris Jevons

Release Date: Sept 10, 2024

Publisher:  S&S BFYR

ISBN-10: 1665906863

ISBN-13:  978-1665906869

Genre: Middle Grade Fantasy

Age Range: 8 – 12 yrs

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

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Today we’re spotlighting Come Out, Come Out by Natalie C. Parker!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: Natalie C. Parker

Natalie C. Parker is the author and editor of several books for young adults, among them the acclaimed Seafire trilogy. Her work has beenincluded on the NPR Best Books list, the Indie Next List, the TAYSHAS ReadingList, and Junior Library Guild selections. Natalie grew up in a Navy family, finding home in coastal cities from Virginia to Japan. Now she lives with her wife on the Kansas prairie. Find her at nataliecparker.com.

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About the Book: Come Out, Come Out

A spine-tingling LGBTQIA+ YA horror about queer teens who accidentally invoke a twisted spirit who promises help but delivers something sinister.

Perfect for fans of Kayla Cottingham, Andrew Joseph White, and Ryan La Sala.

“A searing and poignant portrait of queer identity wrapped in an unflinching tale of terror.” —Kalynn Bayron, New York Times bestselling author of You’re Not Supposed to Die Tonight

“Modern horror at its best.” —Bram Stoker Award Nominee Sarah Henning

It’s never been safe for Fern, Jaq, or Mallory to come out to their families. As kids their emerging identities drove them into friendship but also forced them into the woods to hide in an old, abandoned house when they needed safety. But one night when the girls sought refuge, Mallory never made it back home. Fern and Jaq did, but neither survivor remembered what happened or the secrets they were so desperate to keep.

Five years later, Fern and Jaq are seniors on the verge of graduation, seemingly happy in their straight, cisgender lives—until a spirit who looks like Mallory begins to appear, seeking revenge for her death, and the part Fern and Jaq played in it. As they’re haunted, something begins to shift inside them.

They remember who they are.
Who they want to love.
And the truth about the vicious secrets hiding in their woods.

This delightfully dark and pointed novel calls out the systems that erase gay and queer and trans identity, giving space to embrace queerness and to unleash the power of friendship and found family against the real monsters in the world.

Purchase

~Excerpt~

CHAPTER
ONE
Fern

The hallway was thick with hope, and smelling a lot like honey-lemon throat drops. Fern wasn’t sure she’d ever seen this many people audition for a school play before. Nearly half the student body was lined up outside the theater, every one of them with ear‑ buds in, humming quietly to themselves. Or, in some cases, not so quietly.

She didn’t have to guess at the reason for the sudden popularity of the Port Promise High drama club. It wasn’t like Grease: The Musical was any more beloved now than it had been during her mom’s generation. The reason was posted in bold letters in the light boxes beside the theater doors: gender-­neutral casting.

The announcement had come as a shock—to everyone, and to Fern in particular. Not because Port Promise was a conservative- leaning town stitched into the curl of an inlet on the Puget Sound, which it was. But because it was Fern’s senior musical, and she had expected the audition process to be a breeze.

“Just a reminder, folks! If you haven’t signed up yet, the sheet is by the door.” Cambria Collier’s voice rose above the clamor. She’d been stage manager in all but name since freshman year, and now she’d morphed into a creature that was part girl, part Excel spreadsheet. While Ms. Murphy was inside the theater managing the auditions, Cam was out here running the show. “If you want to be considered for multiple roles, you are allowed to perform samples of two songs to demonstrate your vocal range. Not three, not four, not two and a half. Two.”

Fern angled her steps for the door, passing beneath framed photos of her three older sisters: Holly, Clover, and Ivy. Each one cap‑ tured as the leads in their own senior musical. Each effortlessly beautiful and talented. They’d all gone on to be so accomplished that Ms. Murphy now claimed that the drama club turned out more success stories than any other department at the school. Holly, the dancer of the group, had skipped college and gone straight to New York, where she’d already done multiple shows on Broadway. Clover headed in the opposite direction to Hollywood, where she’d won recurring roles on not one but two police procedurals. And Ivy was studying drama at Juilliard on scholarship.

Fern had been walking past the evidence of their success for years, increasingly anxious to see her picture next to theirs. And she was so close now. There had never been a more perfect Sandy Dumbrowski than Fern. Not only did she look the part, from her petite frame to her ivory skin and blond hair, but acting sweet and naive was the oldest trick in the book. Last year she’d been the secondary lead in Once Upon a Mattress, the year before that, Liesl von Trapp in The Sound of Music. Even as a freshman she’d snagged a role with a solo, because of all her sisters, she was the singer. The lead in this musical was destined to be hers.

As long as this gender-­neutral casting didn’t fuck anything up.

“Hey, Cam,” Fern said.

“Friend,” Cam said with a sigh, cupping a hand over the microphone of her headset. She was tall and broad across the shoulders, with coppery-­brown skin. When she shook her head, her short puff of a ponytail shivered with her. “Can you believe this mess? I swear, if I have to explain what a callback is one more time, I’m going to choose violence. And then I’m going to die.” Cam turned her big brown eyes on Fern and batted them. “Say something nice about me at my funeral. Even if you have to make it up.”

“You want me to tell everyone you were good at math?” Fern
teased.

Cam narrowed her eyes. “Are you here to sign up for something, or are you trying to get yourself cut before you ever get through
those doors?”

“I’m here to sign up,” Fern confirmed, stepping up to the clip‑ board posted by the door while Cam called up the next person in line.

The parts were divided into solo and ensemble roles and then again by male and female. The sign‑up sheet asked for her name, her grade, a phone number, and then there were four checkboxes. The first for female solo roles, the second for female ensemble roles. A third for male solo roles and a fourth for male ensemble roles.

Fern took the pen, added her information, and checked the first box. She knew better than to indicate she was willing to settle for anything less than a solo role. Especially now. Checking one box was a clear signal to Ms. Murphy. It said that Fern knew her abilities, and she was here to be the next Sandy Dumbrowski.

But her gaze stuck on the third box. On the words “male solo.”

What would it be like, she wondered, to stand up on the stage as Danny Zuko? Her hair slicked back, her face contoured into sharp angles instead of soft curves, her breasts bound flat.

She was good at pretending to be other people. At convincing others that she was someone else—a mad queen, a hopeful ingenue, a stilted lover. But there was something different about the idea of performing as Danny.

Her pen hovered over the box, a quiet scratching at the back of her mind. A strange urge to check the box when she knew she shouldn’t.

Still, she hesitated.

“I don’t think there are any trick questions on there.” A voice broke into her thoughts, and though it was gentle, Fern dropped the pen abruptly, her heart kicking out in a panic, as if she’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just wanted to add my name. If you’re done, I mean. I’m not trying to rush you.”

It was Kaitlyn Birch. Fern had a policy of not having enemies that anyone knew about. Just like she had a policy of never showing her teeth when she smiled and of never coming to school without doing her hair. But Kaitlyn Birch made her want to break her own rules, to let it be known how much she disliked the girl.

For one thing, Kaitlyn Birch was gorgeous, even Fern had to admit that. Her skin was a tawny brown, her eyes a kaleidoscope of sepia and copper. Her spiraling black curls were always in motion, and her stage presence had a weight to it that was impossible to fake. Worst of all, she was every bit as talented as Fern.

And three years in a row, Kaitlyn and Fern had competed for the same roles. Fern had won every time by the skin of her teeth. But last year, after Kaitlyn was cast as the Nightingale in Once Upon a Mattress, she had looked Fern dead in the eye, smiled with her teeth, and promised that she would win the lead in the next spring musical.

Fern wasn’t about to let that happen.

She slipped into a disarming smile without even trying, the one that her mom said made her look sweet and deserving.

“I was just taking a moment,” she said, stepping out of Kaitlyn’s way. “You know, last high school musical and all.”

“It’s wild,” Kaitlyn agreed, adding her name to the list. “It might even be our last musical ever.”

Fern smiled tightly. She was too accustomed to Kaitlyn’s subtle barbs to let one as trite as this get under her skin, but the turnout for the audition already had her rattled, and all she managed in response was “Mm.”

“Well, break a leg up there,” Kaitlyn said, and without a beat of hesitation, she marked all four boxes. Then she turned and took
her place at the end of the line.

“I could forget to call her name,” Cam leaned over to whisper.
“For a fee, of course.”

Fern laughed. “I don’t need to cheat to win. I need to focus.”

And to focus, she needed to be somewhere else.

With a wave, Fern left the crowded hallway and ducked into the stairwell. Far enough away to escape the frenetic pre-­audition energy, but not so far that she wouldn’t hear Cam shout her name.

She climbed to the first landing, then slumped down beneath the window and pressed her back into the cool, cinder block wall.

Closing her eyes, Fern pictured herself onstage. The scuffed black surface beneath her feet, the hot lights against her skin, the way her voice would travel through the wide-­open space. She pictured herself reciting her monologue—a selection from A Chorus Line—and she pictured herself nailing it before singing a few bars of “Summer Nights.” Then she pictured the smile on Ms. Murphy’s face, knowing she’d found her Sandy.

Her mother always said, If you want to see success, you have to imagine it first.

And she could already see herself on opening night.

Her phone buzzed, the text thread she shared with her sisters lighting up with a message from Clover, always the one to track important dates. Break a leg, Fernling! she said, adding three drama
mask emojis.

Holly followed up instantly with a crossed-­fingers emoji and several hearts, probably sent on the sly from some dance rehearsal, and Ivy was after that, asking, Is it already time for the musical? Eeeeeee! Can’t wait to hear more!

It hadn’t always been easy to be the youngest of four, especially when the three older siblings were so much closer in age. By the time Fern was a sophomore, they’d all graduated and moved out. Their lives had become impressive and real in the blink of an eye, and everything Fern was worried about seemed small in comparison. Even her admission to the competitive musical theater program at Baldwin Wallace University in Ohio seemed inconsequential compared to their accomplishments. But her sisters had always made an effort to make her feel included, and at moments like this, that mattered.

Fern responded with a string of hearts and shut off her notifications.

Then she heard Cam call her name. It was her turn.

Inside, the theater was dim and quiet except for the beam of the spotlight pinned to the stage and the whisper of shuffling paper. The stage was modest, but the proscenium arch was draped in red velvet curtains and gold tassels, the elegant frame artfully deco‑ rated with leaves painted every shade of cream and taupe and rose gold. To Fern, it felt like the beating heart of the school.

“Is that you, Fern Jensen? Come on down,” Ms. Murphy called from her seat in the dead center of the auditorium. Even from this distance, Fern could see her signature cat-­eye glasses and the plaid wrap she’d worn nearly every day Fern had known her. She was short and white, with a wave of soft brown hair woven through with silver. She had a classic rockabilly-­meets-­Scottish-­lass sort of look that really worked for her. “The stage awaits.”

Fern let the slope of the floor draw her down the aisle. The house lights were low, and the spotlight carved a five-­foot circle on the
scuffed black stage. There was no one in the lighting booth, though, so it wouldn’t track movement. Part of the challenge of the audition was staying inside the circle’s sharp boundaries. It was harder than it seemed, but Fern was a professional.

When Fern stepped into her light, it was like walking into another world. One where she transformed into something other than herself—an innocent girl falling in love for the first time or one who’d seen some shit and was ready to tell you about it. She could be good or evil or chaotic, and no one in the world would judge her for it because it was all make-­believe.

“Ready when you are,” Ms. Murphy prompted, already scratching out a note on her pad of paper.

“So,” Fern started, cocking her hip to one side and folding her= arms over her chest. Defiant but guarded as she settled into the character of eighteen-­year-­old Valerie Clarke, dead set on becoming a Rockette.

The words flowed, and she relaxed into the scene. Val wasn’t as innocent as Sandy Dumbrowski, but that didn’t make them opposites. Both were soft girls toughened by injustice. Who’d been hurt once, then made sure it would never happen again.

The monologue spoke to Fern in a way she couldn’t explain. She’d never been hurt like either of them, but there was something about their determination that resonated with her.

She let her eyes adjust to the bright light, focusing on the one spot at the back of the theater she could always see through
the glare. With a small jolt of surprise, she realized that there was someone there.

Ms. Murphy was adamant about having closed-­door auditions on the first round. There had never been an exception to the
open call.

But there was someone here. The barest imprint of a person surfacing through the shadows. Fern shifted, making the slight hitch in her performance seem intentional as she angled her head for a better view. The figure rose from their seat and began to move toward the aisle, their steps slow and stilted.

A chill moved down Fern’s back as the figure paused at the end of the row and stopped, their outline small and inky and unmoving
in the shadows. When they stepped into the aisle, Fern could see that it was a girl.

Eyes wide. Hair the brilliant red of maple leaves in fall. Mouth open in a silent scream.

Then, all at once, the figure moved again. This time with light‑ ning speed. Racing down the aisle with one hand outstretched. Rushing past the row where Ms. Murphy sat, toward the stage. Toward Fern.

The girl surged onto the stage, white hands reaching for Fern’s throat. Fern stumbled back, tripping over her own feet, desperate to escape the terrifying, feral girl—

“Fern?” Ms. Murphy’s voice called out. “Is everything okay?”

Fern gasped. She was alone on the stage, her butt aching from the fall. The words she was supposed to say next flew from her mind. Silence rose around her like the tide.

“I—” She shifted her gaze briefly to Ms. Murphy, who was wearing an expression of confused concern. She had clearly not noticed anything other than Fern’s little freak-­out. “Sorry, there was a wasp and I’m allergic.”

“Do you want to take it from the top?” Ms. Murphy asked.

“Um, yes,” Fern managed, sweat beading at her temples as she struggled to slide into one of her practiced smiles. “I’m so sorry. Yes, please.”

“Okay, just, whenever you’re ready.” Ms. Murphy adjusted her glasses as she scratched out another note on her pad. It couldn’t be good, but Fern felt certain that it was about to get worse, because her speech was gone. The words she’d spent hours memorizing were just gone.

All that remained was the memory of the girl in the dark, her mouth stretched wide in a silent scream.

Title: Come Out, Come Out

Author: Natalie C. Parker

Release Date: August 27, 2024

Publisher: Penguin Young Readers; G.P. Putnam’s Sons BFYR

ISBN-13: 9780593619391

Genre:  Young Adult Fiction – Thrillers & Suspense

Age Range: 14 and up

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

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Today we’re spotlighting Twelfth Knight by Alexene Farol Follmuth!

Read on for more about the author and the book!

About the Author: Alexene Farol Follmuth

Alexene Farol Follmuth is a first-generation American, a romance enthusiast, and a lover and writer of stories. Alexene has penned a number of adult SFF projects under the name Olivie Blake, including the webtoon Clara and the Devil and the BookTok-viral The Atlas Six. My Mechanical Romance is her YA debut, coming Summer 2022 from Holiday House. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband, new baby, and rescue pit bull. Find more about Alexene at @afarolfollmuth or alexenefarolfollmuth.com.

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About the Book: Twelfth Knight

Reese’s Book Club Summer YA Pick ’24

“YA is a feeling. It’s a warm summer day reading in the sun, lots of nostalgia, gushing together over the characters in Twelfth Knight.”—Reese Witherspoon

From the New York Times bestselling author of The Atlas Six (under the penname Olivie Blake) comes Twelfth Knight, a YA romantic comedy and coming of age story about taking up space in the world and learning what it means to let others in.

Viola Reyes is annoyed.

Her painstakingly crafted tabletop game campaign was shot down, her best friend is suggesting she try being more “likable,” and her school’s star running back Jack Orsino is the most lackadaisical Student Body President she’s ever seen, which makes her job as VP that much harder. Vi’s favorite escape from the world is the MMORPG Twelfth Knight, but online spaces aren’t exactly kind to girls like her—girls who are extremely competent and have the swagger to prove it. So Vi creates a masculine alter ego, choosing to play as a knight named Cesario to create a safe haven for herself.

But when a football injury leads Jack Orsino to the world of Twelfth Knight, Vi is alarmed to discover their online alter egos—Cesario and Duke Orsino—are surprisingly well-matched.

As the long nights of game-play turn into discussions about life and love, Vi and Jack soon realise they’ve become more than just weapon-wielding characters in an online game. But Vi has been concealing her true identity from Jack, and Jack might just be falling for her offline…

Purchase

~Excerpt~

1
BATTLE THEME MUSIC

Jack

When I was a kid, everyone naturally assumed that because I was
the son of Sam Orsino, I was an All-American quarterback in the
making.
They were . . . half right.
I mean, I can see the logic. My dad, the only son of a janitor and
a waitress, famously set the Northern California record for passing
yards when he was at Messaline High in the ’90s, only to be surpassed four years ago by my older brother—so yeah, I have some
idea of what people expect from me. The family arm! Practically my
birthright. People assume I’ll be no different from my father and
brother: a playmaker, a leader. Someone who can command the
field, and in a lot of ways, they’re not wrong.
I do see the game differently than other people. I think the commentators usually call it vision, or clarity, even though to me it’s
something more innate. When Illyria was recruiting me last fall,
they said I saw the field like a chess prodigy, which feels closest to
the truth. I know where people are going to be, how they’ll move.
I feel it somewhere, like the tensing of a muscle. I can sense it like
a change in the wind.
Like, for example, right now.
Messaline Hills, California, isn’t exactly Odessa, Texas, but for
an affluent San Francisco suburb, we know how to pull off your
classic Friday-night lights. The late-August heat burns away as the
sun molts into stadium brights, transforming the familiarity of
our home turf to the singular mythos of game day. The stands are
packed; whoops and chatter buzz from the crowd, all alight with
Messaline green and gold. There’s a snap from a drumline snare,
sharp like the edge of a knife. From the field, the tang of sweat and
salt mixes with the charred scent of barbeque, the storied hallmark
of our home opener’s Pigskin Roast.
Tonight, standing on this field for my final year feels like the
start of an era. Destiny, fate, whatever you want to call it—it’s here
on the field with us; I can sense it from the moment our next play is
called, my team collectively suspending in time for the same fleeting breath.
“HUT!”
There’s immediate pressure on Curio, our quarterback, so I force
some space and quickly change directions, shaking off a linebacker
to reach Curio’s left for the handoff. We’ve run this exact play hundreds of times; it worked last week in our season opener, an away
game against Verona High, and it’s going to work again now. I take
the ball from him and spot an oncoming defender, shouting for a
blocker to take my right. Naturally he misses, so I pivot again to
drop a right-side defender. He can’t hang. Too bad, so sad.
Now it’s just a forty-yard run with the entire Padua defense at
my heels.
You know how I said everyone was half right about me following
in my dad’s footsteps? That’s because I’m an All-American running
back. It’s who I am, what I love. After watching me take off with the
ball every chance I got during my first peewee season, my coach had
the foresight to start me at running back instead. My dad supposedly threw a fit—once prophesied to be the rare Black quarterback
who could rival Elway or Young, his career had ended abruptly,
with an injury cutting his pro dreams short. Naturally, he saw in
his two sons the mirror-slivers of his own glory, craving for us the
greatness foretold for himself.
But when I took off for the full length of the field, even King
Orsino couldn’t argue with that. They say every great football player’s got some supernatural spark, and mine—the thing that makes
me the best player on the field—is that when I catch even a glimpse
of an opening, I can outrun anyone who tries to stop me. What
I’ve got absolute faith in is the pulse in my chest, the sanctity of my
own two feet. The knowledge that I will fight my way back up from
every hard fall. Most people don’t know what their purpose in life
is, or why they exist, or what they were meant for, but I do. In the
end, it’s a very short story.
In this case, only forty yards.
By the time I’m across the goal line the band is blasting our
school fight song, the whole town going wild in the stands. As far
as home openers go, I’m definitely giving them a show, and they
return the favor with their usual chant—“Duke Orsino,” a variation
on my father the king and my brother the prince.
This year, nobody uses the phrase if we win State, but when.
I toss the ball over to the ref while glancing at the too-late Padua
cornerback, who looks less than pleased about me scoring on his
watch yet again. He’s probably the fastest person on his team,
which must seem like a hell of an accolade if you haven’t met me.
Some people really take issue with coming in second—just ask
Viola Reyes, the student body VP to my president. (She demanded
a recount after the results had us coming in within twenty votes,
ranting something about election protocols while staring me down
like my popularity was somehow both malicious and personal.)
Unfortunately for the Padua cornerback—and Vi Reyes—I really
am that good. The speed and agility that secured my spot at Illyria
next fall isn’t something to sneeze at, and neither is the fact that I
spend every minute of every day being likable enough for ESPN.
With . . . minor exceptions. “A little more steam next time,” I
advise the cornerback, because what’s a game without a little smack
talk? “Few more sprints and you’ll have it.”
He scowls and flips me off.
“ORSINO!”
Coach motions me over to the sideline as we swap with special
teams, rolling his eyes when I saunter over with what he calls my
“eat shit” grin.
“Let your runs do the talking, Duke,” he grunts to me, not for
the first time.
Humility’s easy to preach when you’re not the one being lauded
by the crowd. “Who says I’m doing any talking?” I ask innocently.
He glances at me sideways, then gestures to the bench. “Sit.”
“Sir, yes, sir.” I wink at him and he rolls his eyes.
Did I mention that Coach occasionally goes by Dad? Yep, that’s
right—King Orsino became Coach Orsino, and thanks to his work
in the community as varsity football coach, he’s still the local boy
made good. He won Man of the Year last year from the Bay Area
Black Business Association, plus he’s been honored at almost every
school function in the last decade. Together, our wins while proudly
wearing Messaline emerald and gold afford us a rare place in this
town’s predominantly white history.
When it comes to the Orsino skill on the field, some call it luck.
We call it a legacy. Still, compared to my father and brother, I’ve got
a lot more to prove. At my age, they were both All-Americans and
top-recruited NCAA prospects, too—but unlike me, they had State
Champion titles under their belts by the start of their senior season.
I may be the best running back in California, arguably the country,
but I’m still fighting my way out from under a shadow that goes for
miles. As far as nicknames go, Duke Orsino is a great one until you
consider what that actually means in terms of lineage. Every year is
a vicious new experiment in close, but no cigar.
Still, it’s a good thing I’ve got such a powerful motivator, because
while I’m having the game of my life tonight—I’ve already run for
two hard touchdowns so far, bringing me within a single good run
of the Messaline record for career yards gained—Padua’s got a battalion of big defenders putting in work to keep our offensive line
at bay. Our defense is holding their own against Padua’s sleeve of
trick plays, but Curio, our senior QB who’s finally risen through
the ranks, isn’t nearly the player Nick Valentine was in his senior
season. It’ll be up to me to make sure we’re getting that ball to the
end zone come hell or high water, which means my all-time record
is definitely getting broken tonight.
I shake myself at the sound of the Padua crowd’s cheers; their
receiver makes an incredible catch that leaves our side of the stands
groaning. This will be a tough one, definitely. But these stakes,
however crucial, are no different from any other game. It’s always
about the play right in front of me, and the moment it passes, we’re
on to the next one.
Ever forward. Ever onward.
I roll out my neck and exhale, rising to my feet at the exact moment that a perfect spiral gets Padua to first and goal. If they score
here, it’s our turn next. It’s my turn. My moment. Everyone I know
is out there in the stands holding their breaths, and I won’t let them
down. Before I walk off the field tonight, they’re all going to bear
witness to my destiny: a winning season.
A state championship.
Immortality itself.
Am I being dramatic? Yes, definitely, but it’s hard not to be romantic about football. And I don’t think it’s unreasonable to say
there’s always been something waiting for me. Something big, and
this is my chance to take it.
So right now, it’s time to run.

Vi

Things in the game are definitely getting heated. We’ve lost some of
our best players from last year, and with a pace this arduous, focus is
everything, so getting this team to a win is going to take . . . well,
a miracle.
But miracles have been known to happen.
“They’re coming” is all Murph says. Instantly, I feel a shiver.
This is the exciting part, but also the time when most mistakes are
made. I lean forward, anxious but not concerned. We can do this.
(We have to do this. If we don’t, there’s no way I get my shot, and
that’s just not an acceptable alternative.)
On my left, Rob Kato’s the first to respond. “How many are
there?”
Murphy, or Murph (whose real name is Tom, though nobody
calls him that—honestly, don’t bother learning anyone’s names,
they’re really not important), says from across the table, “Ten.”
“Some people will have to take two.” That’s Danny Kim. He’s
new—not just to the group, but to the game itself. Which is exactly
as helpful as you’d expect, and he’s just as unworthy of committing
to memory. (I’d happily number them instead for ease of consumption, but I’ve been in all the same AP classes with them for the last,
oh, four hundred years, so for purposes of atmosphere, let’s pretend
like I care they exist.)
“I will,” volunteers Leon Boseman, on Rob’s left. The boys call
him Bose or Bose Man, a brotastic endowment of reverence with no
meaningful effect on his personal appeal.
“And me,” I say quickly.
“What?” That’s Marco Klein, on Murph’s left. He’s a huge bitch.
But I’m used to him, so better the devil you know, I guess.
“Check my character sheet, Klein,” I growl. “I’ve got a black belt
in—”
From outside Antonia’s kitchen window there’s a sudden, deafening roar, followed by the blast of a marching band.
“Ugh, sorry.” Antonia rises to her feet and closes the window.
“Gets so loud on game days.”
The distant sounds of high school football are successfully muffled, leaving us to return to our kitchen table game of ConQuest.
Yes, that ConQuest, the role-playing game for nerds, ha-ha, we
know. The thing is that 1) we are nerds, by which I mean we collectively make up the top 1 percent of our graduating class and are
probably going to rule the world someday even if it loses us some
popularity contests (don’t get me started on the idiotic grift that
is student body elections, I will throw up), and 2) it’s not just for
antisocial weirdos in basements. Did you know that tabletop roleplaying games like ConQuest are the forerunners to massive multiplayer online RPGs like World of Warcraft and Twelfth Knight? Most
people don’t, which drives me crazy. I hate when people dismiss revolutionary forms of media just because they don’t understand them.
Though, don’t get me wrong—I get where the misconception
comes from. Murph’s floppy ash-blond hair is currently swept
forward to cover an Orion’s belt of cystic acne. Danny Kim has
anime-style black hair that still doesn’t take him past my shoulder.
Leon is best known for his hyena cackle; Rob Kato’s prone to uncontrollable stress sweats; Antonia—the only person here I actually
like or respect, by the way—is wearing a hand-knitted vest-thing
that’s more lumpy than trendy; and hey, even on a good day I still
look like I might be twelve, so current company might not be the
perfect sell. Still, this game is a revolution, regardless of whether a
bunch of high-achieving teens have settled into their post-pubescent
forms or not.
“You were saying?” Antonia prompts me, though I’m still annoyed with Marco. (He once begged me to make Murph invite
him, as if Murph has ever been in charge.)
“I’ve got a black belt in Tawazun,” I finish irritably. It’s Arabic
for balance, and one of the five major fighting disciplines from the
original ConQuest game. They say that War of Thorns—my favorite
TV show, a medieval fantasy adaptation about warring kingdoms—
originated from a massive homebrewed ConQuest campaign that
the book series’ author, Jeremy Xavier, played QuestMaster for
when he was a student at Yale. (He’s kind of my hero. Every year I
cross my fingers that I’ll run into him at MagiCon, but no luck yet.)
“Isn’t Tawazun like, ceremonial fan fighting or something?” says
Danny Kim, who, once again, doesn’t know anything. Yes, there are
hand fans in Tawazun, but the use of a fan as a weapon is not uncommon in martial arts. And anyway, the point is that it’s all about
using your opponent’s momentum against them, which makes it
a super practical choice for a smaller female character like Astrea.
(That’s me: Astrea Starscream. I’ve been role-playing as her for two
years now, refining her story a little more each campaign. Basically,
she was orphaned and trained in secret as an assassin for hire, but
then she found out her parents were murdered by the people who
trained her and now she wants revenge. A tale as old as time!)
Before I can correct yet another of Danny Kim’s annoying misconceptions, Matt Das answers. “Tawazun is basically jiu jitsu.”
“And either way, I said I could do it,” I add, “which is all you
need to know.” There hasn’t been much combat yet; we got into a little skirmish earlier with some bandits, leaving us with a small onyx
arrowhead that none of us know what to do with. Still, I shouldn’t
have to prove anything to him.
“Why don’t you just, like, seduce him?”
Okay, I kind of hate Danny Kim. “Do you see ‘seduction powers’
listed anywhere on my Quest Sheet?” I demand, this time not very
patiently. Danny exchanges a glance with Leon, who brought him
here, and suddenly I want to smack both their heads together like
a pair of coconuts. But I don’t, of course. Because apparently I’m
supposed to be nicer if I want people to agree with me. (Big ups to
my grandma for that sage advice.)
“Believe it or not, Danny,” I say with a pointed smile, “I’m just
as capable of imaginary martial arts as you are.” More so, actually,
since I’ve done Muay Thai with my twin brother Bash for the last
four years. (Bash does it for stage combat, but I do it for moments
like this.)
Danny Kim doesn’t smile back, so at least he’s not a complete
idiot.
“I can try something,” Antonia cuts in, ever the peacemaker of
the group. “I’ve got a love potion that might work. Feminine wiles
or whatever, right?”
She did not just say feminine wiles. I love her dearly, but come on.
“Is that your official move?” Murph asks her, reaching for the dice.
I smack a hand out to stop him because for the love of god, ugh.
“Larissa Highbrow is a healer,” I remind the rest of the table, because every campaign, without fail, leaves at least one of us in need
of Antonia’s healing powers in order to keep going. She’s basically
the most crucial character here, which naturally the boys are unable
(or unwilling) to recognize. “You should stay back and tend to the
wounded.”
“She’s right,” says Matt Das, who’s surprisingly helpful despite
being new to our group. (Matt is tan and wavy-haired and seems
well acquainted with deodorant, so if I cared what anyone here
looked like, I’d say his appearance was reasonably good.) “The rest of
us can handle combat amongst ourselves.”
“Or—” I begin to say, only to be interrupted.
“Can we stop talking about this and actually fight?” whines
Marco.
“Or,” I repeat loudly, ignoring him, “maybe we should try diplomacy first.”
In unison, the boys groan. Except Matt Das.
“Uh, they’re coming at us with axes,” says Rob.
“Murph didn’t say shit about axes,” I remind him, since as
Master, Murphy’s the one who narrates the game and gives us the
information we need. And likewise, he doesn’t give us information
that’s not applicable. “Do they have weapons, Murph?”
“You can’t see from this distance,” Murphy answers, briefly
skimming the page in the QuestMaster’s Bible (it has a stupid name
and I covet it). “But they’re getting closer by the minute,” he adds,
reaching blithely for a pizza roll.
“They’re getting closer by the minute!” Rob informs me urgently,
as if I cannot also hear what Murph just said.
“I get that, but it might be a mistake to just assume they’re armed.
Remember what happened to us in the Gomorra raid last year?” I
prompt, arching a brow as they all nod, minus Danny Kim, who
still knows nothing. “We don’t even know if these guys are with
the rest of the army.”
Luckily for me, I’m being blatantly ignored.
“I say we shoot first, ask questions later,” says Leon, blowing off
the invisible barrel of an imaginary pistol even though his character,
Tarrigan Skullweed, specifically uses a bow and arrow.
I glance witheringly at him. He winks at me.
“How far away are they?” Antonia asks Murph. “Is there a way
that someone can get closer to see whether they’re armed?”
“Try it and see,” invites Murph, shrugging.
“Oh sure, does anyone volunteer to fall on that grenade?” demands Marco.
Okay, this is exhausting. “Fine. Combat it is,” I say, “and let the
die be cast.”
“Is that from War of Thorns?” asks—who else—Danny Kim. Yes, it
is, and it’s also from a scene right before Rodrigo, the main protagonist
who is honestly kind of a dud compared to the other characters, leads
his army into a losing battle.
“Whose turn is it?” I ask loudly.
“Mine.” Rob sits up. “I take my sword and throw it directly at the
heart of the biggest warrior.”
Well, that’s typical, but at least Rob’s character, Bedwyr Killa
(I know, eye roll, but it’s actually not the worst of the bunch), is
massive and strong in addition to being impractically reckless.
Murph rolls. “It’s a successful hit. The leader of the group falls to
the ground, but just as he does, his arm comes up, and—”
Oh my god. I swear, if he’s holding a white flag . . .
“—the white piece of cloth in his hand flutters to the ground,”
Murph concludes, and I groan. Of course. “The rest of the horde
falls around their leader in anguish.”
“Great work, boys,” I sarcastically applaud them.
“Shut up, Vi,” says Marco half-heartedly.
“So what now?” asks Matt Das.
If I were in charge? We’d use Antonia’s character’s magic to heal
him and resolve the conflict, possibly trading with the horde for
supplies or extracting information about the missing gems that
make up the whole purpose of this campaign. But I already know
there’s no point bringing that up—if I’m going to successfully parlay
the group’s good graces by the end of the night, then I need to win
this game their way.
If the boys crave violence, then violence they shall have.
“We’ve obviously got to fight now, don’t we? I’m next,” I remind
them, turning to Murph. “I approach the horde’s lieutenant and
offer safe passage in exchange for surrender.”
Murphy rolls. “No go,” he says with a shake of his head. “The
lieutenant demands blood and lunges, aiming a knife at your chest.”
We do the usual contested strength check, but I know my skills.
“I wait until the last possible moment, then slip the knife, twisting
his arm around and directing it into his kidney.”
Murphy rolls again. “It’s a critical hit. The lieutenant is down.”
I sit up straighter, pleased. The boys look impressed, which reminds me that even if they’re the portrait of incompetence, I do
actually want them to believe I can handle this.
“I take the next biggest one,” says Marco. “With my mace.”
“I shoot an arrow,” adds Leon.
“At what?” I ask, but he waves me away.
“Arrow lands in the blade of a horde member’s shoulder, but it’s
not fatal. Mace is a swing and a miss,” says Murph.
“Another swing,” says Marco.
“I use my lasso,” says Matt Das, whose character is kind of
weirdly Western—a vestige from an old campaign, I suspect.
“Lasso holds, but not for long. Mace lands, but now they’ve got
you surrounded.”
The others are excited about the possibility of battle, but what
everyone always forgets about ConQuest is that it’s a story. As in,
there are good guys and bad guys, and all the characters have motives. Why would the horde come over with a white flag? We must
have something they want. They’re built into the quest regardless of
who our characters are, so it has to be something we’ve picked up
within the game. That weird arrowhead . . . ?
Oh my god, I’m an idiot. The quest is literally called The Amulet
of Qatara.
“I remove the Amulet of Qatara from my holster and hold it
aloft,” I blurt out, shooting to my feet, and everyone turns to stare
at me. Blankly. (This is why I hate playing with people who don’t
pay attention. It actively makes me dumber.)
Murph, however, gives me a noncommittal thumbs-up. “The
fighting stops,” he says, “and the horde requests a personal parlay
with Astrea Starscream.”
Finally. It’s time to get this done.

Title: Twelfth Knight

Author: Alexene Farol Follmuth

Release Date: May 28, 2024

Publisher: Tor Teen

Genre: Young Adult

Age Range: 13-18

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Today we’re spotlighting A Lie For A Lie by Jane Buckingham!

Read on for more about the author, the book, plus enter the giveaway!

About the Author: Jane Buckingham

Jane Buckingham is the Founder and CEO of Trendera. She is one of the countries’ leading experts on Generations X, Y, and Z. Trendera provides trends, consulting, and market research to Fortune 500 clients including The Coca Cola Company, L’Oreal, NBC Universal, Nike, Sony, and Target.

Prior to starting Trendera, Buckingham helped pioneer the trend forecasting field by creating the leading youth marketing and consulting firm Youth Intelligence, and The Cassandra Report in 1996, both of which she sold to Creative Artists Agency in 2003.

At 17, Buckingham wrote the book Teens Speak Out to help explain her generation. She was featured on The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Today Show and many others.

Jane is the bestselling author of the Modern Girl’s Guide book series and starred in the TV show of the same name. Buckingham has been a contributing editor to Glamour Magazine and Cosmopolitan Magazine. She has been featured in The New York Times, The Boston Globe, 60 Minutes and The Los Angeles Times. Buckingham has served on the Board of Directors for Baby2Baby, The Rape Treatment Center at St. John’s Hospital and Women in Film.

Website * Instagram

About the Book: A Lie For A Lie

Gripping—Twisting—Shocking

An action-packed thriller that keeps you guessing until the end

Boyfriend cheating? A bully wreaking havoc? A classmate plagiarizing? Don’t get mad. Get @Revenge. At Milford High, if you’ve got a problem, message @Revenge, and the mysterious figure behind the account will take care of it with an embarrassing, public comeuppance. But when the school’s star basketball player falls victim to a dangerous prank orchestrated by Revenge, the consequences are life-threatening.

Praise for A Lie for a Lie: “A Lie for a Lie has twists you won’t see coming and explores what really happens when you get back at someone . . . and when getting what you wish for comes with a high price. I couldn’t put it down!”

—Sara Shepard, #1 New York Times best-selling author of Pretty Little Liars

Purchase * Goodreads

~Excerpt~

It’s a beautiful night to die.

We crowd inside the gym. The familiar smell of old tennis shoes and stale sweat follow us to our seats. The cheerleaders are already on the court, tossing a skinny girl in the air. Personally, every time I see a cheerleader soar, I wish the girls catching her would change their minds at the last minute.

SPLAT!

Sorry. Never said I was a nice person.

At seven on the dot, the lights dim, and that stupid techno song they always play before the game comes on. The announcer booms into the loudspeaker. I try to tune him out as soon as he starts blabbering about how these players have gone undefeated. Does he really think we should bow down to them? Last I checked they were just boys, not God’s gift to Milford High. Yet we hold up cheesy signs to show our support. Some hold them for their boyfriends. Others for their latest boy crush. Those stupid signs turn my stomach. I always want to say, “Do you know who those boys even are, deep down? Do you know what they’re capable of?”

Smoke fills the stadium. We drum on the bleacher seats, screaming until our voices are hoarse. In a cloud of dry ice, our school’s team parades through a bal- loon archway. The announcer names each player along with his stats. Most of the players duck their heads and rush to the sidelines, proud but also not quite sure what to do with all the attention.

But not the last guy. He walks through the archway as the applause roars and spreads out his arms to accept our undying affection. We give him what he wants. We cheer and scream. The announcer reads his list of impressive points. Leading scorer all year. Total powerhouse. Yawn. Our hero.

I check the time. Any minute now.

The other players strip off their warm-up gear and take their seats on the benches, but our star player remains in the center of the court like he’s owed this. But as the overhead spotlights gleam against his forehead, a thin bead of sweat forms. It’s my first clue. It’s happening.

First, his arms droop just a little, like someone has pulled down on invisible strings in his armpits. A confused expression comes over his face as he drops to his knees. Still, most of us still think this is part of his routine. We still cheer.

But then he’s on all fours. A few of the players on the sidelines look over, con- fused. The music throbs. We figure it’s nothing serious. But then, the star player pukes up his guts on the shiny school logo at center court, right where the tip-off takes place.

A puddle spreads. It must smell pretty awful, because the player nearest to him makes a grossed-out face and moves away.

The coach runs over with towels. We rise, tip forward, our brows furrowed. Whispers travel down the seats. The coach leans over our star. He puts a hand on the boy’s back and says something, tries to get him to stand. But the star’s knees buckle. He drops to the floor again in an X and starts to flail. His muscles move uncontrollably. The assistant coach is there, too; he wheels around and shouts something to another player. “Get an ambulance! Shut off that music!”

The techno song stops mid-beat. Voices, shouts, screams fill the gymnasium. We’re all on our feet, gawking, wondering what we can do. The coach can’t get the star to stop seizing. His pained face is turning blue.

A trainer rushes in. Some medics. A woman runs onto the court, pushing peo- ple aside. It’s the star’s mother. We hear a perverse laugh in the stands—not mine, but hey, I can’t be the only one who wanted this. And then, an interesting rumor I hadn’t expected starts to swirl—he puked out his intestines. He’d vomited a lung. There’s an organ lying there, literally, on the polished wood floor.

“It makes no sense,” other people say. “He was fine minutes ago.”

When they load the player onto the cot, he’s eerily pale and lifeless. We grow hushed, fearful. A few girls burst into tears. His mother walks next to the medics as they wheel him out. I feel bad for her, I guess. I always feel bad for the families, even though it’s probably partially her fault. Bad behavior, toxic masculinity—it’s learned at home. When a seedling is rotting, all you have to do is look at the tree from which it came. Chances are, there’s rot there, too.

Still, I feel a little bad. I have a pretty good feeling how this is all going to end. How do I know? I put all of this into motion.
I’m the one who got revenge.
It’s been real, Milford.

I don’t care if you miss me. Just remember not to lie to me.

Copyright © 2024 Jane Buckingham All rights reserved.

Title: A Lie For a Lie (An @Revenge Story)

Author: Jane Buckingham

ISBN: 9798886452181

Release Date: June 18, 2024

Publisher: Greenleaf Book Group

Genre: YA Thriller

*GIVEAWAY DETAILS* 

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Today we’re spotlighting Shock The Monkey by Neal Shusterman and Eric Elfman!

Read on for more about the authors and the book!

About the Author: Neal Shusterman

Neal Shusterman is the New York Times bestselling and award-winning author of over thirty books, including I Am the Walrus; Challenger Deep, which won the National Book Award; Scythe, a Michael L. Printz Honor Book; Dry, which he cowrote with his son, Jarrod Shusterman; and Unwind, which won more than thirty domestic and international awards. He invites you to visit him online at storyman.com.

Website* X * Instagram  

About the Author: Eric Elfman

Eric Elfman is a screenwriter and the author of several books for children and young adults, including I Am the Walrus; The Very Scary Almanac and Almanac of the Gross, Disgusting & Totally Repulsive (an ALA Recommended Book for Reluctant Readers); and coauthor of the popular Tesla’s Attic trilogy. He invites you to visit him on Twitter @Eric_Elfman.

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About the Book: Shock The Monkey

Noah Prime must set out to save his friends and the universe once again in this jaw-dropping sequel to the New York Times bestselling novel, I Am the Walrus. 

Noah Prime never expected to wind up a fugitive hunted by aliens. 

To be honest, he had never even believed in aliens…until a team of them blew up his house. He escaped—and managed to save the world—by using his mysterious ability to harness the traits of every animal on earth. Now he’s in hiding, and thinks all is well.…

…Until his friend Ogden buys a star for Claire, the most popular girl in school. However, instead of a quaint romantic notion, it turns out to be an actual real estate deal—and aliens from that star system abduct Claire to take her to the nasty, trash-filled planet she now owns.

It’s up to Noah, Sahara, and Ogden to cross the cosmos in search of Claire to save her and her strange new world from the evilest body-snatching worms in the galaxy. This time it’s going to take a lot more than walrus blubber, cheetah speed, or skunk funk to save the day…it’s going to take friendship of the most extraordinary and extraterrestrial variety.

Critically acclaimed authors Neal Shusterman and Eric Elfman are back with an action-packed, laugh-out-loud sequel to the New York Times bestselling novel I Am the Walrus, perfect for fans of Eoin Colfer and Rick Riordan.

Purchase

~Excerpt~

Chapter 1

With Claws Like That . . .

The creature was clearly not of Earth. It did not even bear the slightest resemblance to anything that had ever legally been on this planet.

Wherever it was from, it was obviously an apex predator. Even its teeth had teeth.

“Can’t you go any faster?” asked Andi, clinging to Noah’s back as he raced through the Latvian forest to escape the hellish creature.

“Maybe if you weren’t so heavy.”

“Oh, so now it’s my fault?”

Noah was pushing himself as hard as he could. He had employed cheetah-​speed and tried to use horseshoe bat echolocation to anticipate trees, boulders, and other obstacles in their path—but using two complex animal traits simultaneously? Impossible! It was like trying to do math while someone was shouting random numbers at you. He could do them one after the other, but not simultaneously—so they ended up bouncing off a tree, taking critical seconds away. The neon-​blue monstrosity was almost on them now.

“Slime trail!” shouted Andi.

“I tried that already!” Noah shouted back. “Twice! I slopped our trail with hagfish slime, then snail slime, and it didn’t even stumble!”

The creature’s scales, each with its own miniature mouth, screeched as the creature galloped toward them. Although “galloped” wasn’t quite the right word for a thing with five legs. “Gallolloped” was more like it. The rhythm of its hooves cut a five-​beat cadence that just felt wrong on so many levels.

“You’re the brainiac!” Noah yelled to his sister. “Think of something!”

“I’m not a miracle worker!” shouted Andi. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a product of science, not a magical being.”

Andi was, as her name suggested, an android. Not the phone, but an actual android, although she was also a phone, but that was a very small part of her functionality. Most of the time she was in humanoid form, indistinguishable from an actual human. But once in a while, she was a

suitcase.

She had already tried all her countermeasures against the monstrosity closing in on them, from dark-​energy quantum lasers to self-doubt torpedoes. But nothing had worked.

“Fractillian Abysmal Beasts are extremely difficult to discourage once they get their mind set on something.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Duh— isn’t it obvious?”

Noah leaped into a tree with gibbon agility to clear an unexpected bog— but the Fractillian Abysmal Beast stomped right through the bog as if it weren’t there.

“Maybe,” said Andi, “we should find out what it wants.”

“It wants to eat us!”

“Not us,” reminded Andi. “You. My metallic alloys are not digestible to it. But that aside, we’re not certain it does want to eat you.”

“Are you kidding me? Look at it!”

“All that drool discharging from its primary mouth does not necessarily indicate hunger. Fractillian Abysmal Beasts tend to have issues with saliva overproduction.”

Noah dropped back down to the forest floor and called up cheetah-​speed again. While he had still not mastered all the defense mechanisms of the million-​plus species held within his DNA, there were several hundred he could summon at a moment’s notice— if not simultaneously, then at least one after another. For instance, he could go all poison dart frog on the monster, forcing his skin to secrete a deadly neurotoxin— but there was no guarantee it would work. And even if it did, the thing wouldn’t die until after it had eaten Noah, so that was a nonstarter.

Had Noah been able to effectively echolocate while also running like a cheetah, he would have known about the granite face of a mountain in front of them before it could be seen. And although Andi’s radar did catch it, she couldn’t communicate the threat in time.

Noah hit the mountain face at nearly sixty miles an hour. That would have killed a normal human, but his body responded like a tardigrade— a microscopic creature that could survive bullet-​speed impact. Of course, that didn’t stop it from hurting.

But he didn’t have time to yowl. He swallowed the pain of his near splat and, realizing he had to climb the sheer cliff, called up some gecko. Gecko was easy— it was, in fact, one of his favorite traits. His fingers spatulated, and he began to scale the rock wall, but just a few feet off the

ground, he realized his critical error.

Shoes.

To successfully gecko, he needed all ten fingers and all ten toes to climb. Quickly, he kicked his shoes off and tried again, but to no avail.

Because he was also wearing socks.

How pathetic to have survived an entire alien conspiracy trying to kill him, only to be defeated by a stupid pair of socks. The irony that they were from “Target” was not lost on him.

Title: SHOCK THE MONKEY

Author: Neal Shusterman and Eric Elfman

Release Date: May 7, 2024

Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Genre: Middle Grade Action / Adventure

Age Range: 8-12

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