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Beneath the Bedfantasy

Beneath the Bed

You have known since you were four that something lives under your bed. You learned to sleep with one foot tucked in, to leave the hallway light on, to say goodnight to the dark and mean it. Tonight it answers. "I need your help," it says, in a voice like leaves moving in a room with no windows. "Something is coming up from below. I have kept it off you for twenty years and I cannot keep it off you tonight. Please. I am frightened, and I have never been frightened before." You have until the barrier gives out to decide what you owe a monster that loved you badly and faithfully for two decades, and what you are willing to become to help it.

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Memories of Murderfantasy

Memories of Murder

On your twenty-fifth birthday you dream of dying: a small private room, a table you leaned on for support, and the faces of two people who loved you holding you still while the blade went in. You wake up with the whole of another life in your head. Five hundred years ago you were Ashara Vane, the Phoenix Queen, and your own court killed you. Now you are a graduate student in a modern city, and you have started recognising people. Your thesis supervisor gestures exactly the way your chancellor did. The woman who moved in downstairs stands the way your guard captain stood. They do not remember. You do. But memory is a made thing, and something in your possession has had five centuries alone with yours.

6
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The Last Dragon Riderfantasy

The Last Dragon Rider

Three hundred years ago the Ember Covenant finished the dragons and kept the skulls. Since then the word "rider" has meant a children's story, a hanging offence, or both. You went into the Shattered Peaks to survey a collapsed mine and came out having touched something warm. The egg was under a cairn of dragon bone, wrapped in a rider's cloak that had not rotted. It hatched in your hands, and the thing inside looked at you and knew you, and now every scrying-glass in Ashfall Keep is pointed north. Commander Vaelith Vex killed the last wild dragon thirty years ago and has been waiting since for someone to be this stupid. You have one hatchling, no saddle, and a choice: fly low and stay a rumour, or fly high and give a broken country something to follow.

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Familiar's Lamentfantasy

Familiar's Lament

You are Obsidian, and for three human lifetimes you have belonged to Elara Thistlewood. Last night you found her on the tower floor with her mouth still moving and no sound coming out, and the silver sigil on your forehead went cold. A familiar without a witch has about a month before the Unbinding takes what is left of it. So you have a month to find someone to bind to, and a month to find out what came through Elara's wards, and you are going to have to do both at once while a coven that suspects you and a hunter who does not believe in coincidences both decide what you are. There is also the matter of what she was saying at the end, which had no sound in it, and which you can still read off her lips every time you close your eyes.

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Courts of Thorn and Starlightfantasy

Courts of Thorn and Starlight

Your grandmother kept an iron horseshoe over the door and never explained it. Three days after her funeral a fae prince comes through your kitchen window with a hand burned to the wrist and asks for you by a name you have never used. The Veil between the mortal world and the fae realms was tied off a thousand years ago and the knot is slipping. Summer blames Winter. Winter blames Summer. Both are wrong, both are mobilising, and neither court can send an envoy across the Twilight Marches without dying at the other's wards. You can. Your grandmother's blood makes you the one door left open. Six days of courts. Every gift you accept is a debt. Every promise you make holds you the way a nail holds a plank. Say the wrong true thing and a war starts on your account.

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