Fed up with his desk duty in the Imperial Arcane Library, book hunter Colin Bliss accepts a private commission to find The Sword's Shadow, a legendary and dangerous witches' grimoire. But to find the book, Colin must travel to the remote Western Isles and solve a centuries' old murder.
It should be nothing more than an academic exercise, so why is dour -- and unreasonably sexy -- Magister Septimus Marx doing his best to keep Colin from accepting this mission -- even going so far as to seduce Colin on their train journey north?
Septimus is not the only problem. Who is the strange fairy woman that keeps appearing at inconvenient times? And who is working behind the scenes with the sinister adventuress Irania Briggs? And why do Colin's employers at the Museum of the Literary Occult keep accusing Colin of betraying them?
As Colin digs deeper and deeper into the Long Island's mysterious past, he begins to understand why Septimus is willing to stop him at any price -- but by then, it's too late to turn back.
Available in digital, print and audio, The Darkling Thrush is popular with readers of gay fantasy and steampunk. It has sold about 7K copies at this time -- a slow but steady seller. It contains relatively little erotic content for the male/male genre.
The letter was addressed to Mr. Colin Bliss.
It sat on my desk, propped against the framed photograph of Antony and me. This reminded me that, as we were no longer “an item,” I really needed to dispose of that photograph of my chief and me. It was bound to look a trifle like I was sucking up, and I’d already done enough of that in every conceivable form.
I picked up the cream envelope, studied it. There was no return address, which seemed curious. Brown ink. Another curiosity. Librivenators like myself — in fact, most of the Societas Magicke — used blue. Other branches of the Arcane Services used purple. The general populace favored black. I couldn’t think of any particular significance to brown. Perhaps the author simply liked the color. The problem with book hunters is we see a mystery every time pen is set to paper. One of the problems, anyway. I’d heard I had others. In detail from Magister Septimus Marx.
The handwriting was spidery and elegant. Absently I turned the envelope over and tried to peruse it. I can’t say I felt any kind of premonition. After all, my kind of trouble would hardly announce itself with heavy stationery and a fine hand. Who handwrote letters in these days of the Varityper? Let alone letters like this one, which offered fleeting impressions of genteel age and sumptuous living: an elderly person…male…an elegant drawing room with heavy velvet drapes, marble-topped chests, and a spread of tarot cards on the table…
I picked up the pearl-handled letter opener and slit the envelope open.
Dear Mr. Bliss,
Allow me to introduce myself.
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French
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Unavailable for translation.
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German
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Already translated.
Translated by Verena Kieffer
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