Spotlight: Xonarye Series by S.H.S.

Xonarye: Australia 

Xonarye Book 1 

Genre: Travel Adventure, Mystery 

One hidden book. A forgotten country. Three mates on a journey that could change everything.

Nineteen-year-old Leaf Brodie is just an ordinary apprentice from Naracoorte, a small country town tucked between Adelaide and Melbourne. He lives a simple life apprentice builder, beers with mates by night until a routine renovation job uncovers something that doesn’t belong: a sealed, leather-bound book hidden inside an old farmhouse wall.

The book tells of a place that doesn’t exist on any map. A country called Xonarye, once nestled between Yemen and Somalia, rich in a rare, indestructible mineral called Xzed. Long ago, the people of Xonarye vanished beneath the ocean to escape war and greed—but not before scattering twenty-six mysterious keys across the globe. Now, generations later, the legacy of that hidden world has landed in Leaf’s hands.

Driven by curiosity and loyalty, Leaf enlists his two closest mates Spence, a level-headed farmer, and Summo, a flashy car salesman with a sharp tongue to help him decipher the book’s secrets. Together, they uncover a forgotten legal contract, a hidden vault in Adelaide, and a belt buckle that can’t be melted, burned, or broken no matter what they throw at it. And then comes the final clue: a name, a country, and a warning.

Reblick, a shadowy global organisation, is also searching for the truth and they’re watching.

As the line between myth and reality begins to blur, Leaf is forced to make a choice: walk away and return to his normal life, or follow the trail to Cuba and beyond… risking everything to uncover the truth of Xonarye’s fate.

Xonarye rise again.

Xonarye: Cuba

Xonarye Book 2 

The trail of Xonarye leads to Havana. But nothing about this journey is simple

Leaf Brodie thought his life changed forever back in Naracoorte when he discovered the mysterious book sealed behind a wall. Now, he and Selina are in Cuba, chasing the next clue in a worldwide puzzle that dates back centuries. A transparent cloth has revealed a hidden map, and it points straight to Havana.

But nothing stays easy for long. Reblick the secretive organisation that once silenced Xonarye is still in pursuit. Leaf and Selina must decipher local legends, evade dangerous followers, and track down a man who knows more than he lets on. Meanwhile, Summo makes his way to Panama City, following instructions tied to a hidden safe house, while Spence travels by air and ferry from Havana to the island of Tobago, meeting a one-legged stranger with a mysterious past.

Scattered across three countries, the friends are tested like never before.

From bustling city streets to forgotten safe houses, the legacy of Xonarye continues to unfold—one fragment at a time. But with danger closing in, and Reblick growing bolder, it’s no longer just about solving a mystery. It’s about staying alive long enough to piece it all together.

In a world full of deception, their bond of friendship is the only truth they can trust.

The journey continues. The stakes are higher. The legend grows.

Xonarye rise again.

Excerpt

I need you to get into that crate, ” she said, pointing to the middle of them. Leaf looked at her then looked back at the crates; it appeared as if there was just enough room for maybe two people to fit inside them at a squeeze.  

He turned back to Selina and shook his head defiantly, indicating that he was not getting into what felt to him like a coffin.  

Suddenly, Selina grabbed him and twisted his arm behind his back in what seemed like the blink of an eye. She leaned right up to his ear, and whispered, “ You need to hurry up and get into the crate before anyone sees us. I will be right next to you inside there.”  

Leaf took another deep breath, feeling extremely anxious about the idea, and Selina released his arm and gave him a little nudge forward.  

Leaf slowly slid over one of the edges of the crate and carefully laid down inside. Selina then did the same until they were both now lying in the crate, shoulder to shoulder, staring straight up into the afternoon sky.  

Leaf was lying there in a state of anxiety, wondering what was going to happen next, when suddenly the lid was being placed on the crate. He instinctively put both his hand up to protect himself, but before he could stop the lid, Selina put her arm across his body.  

Then, just as the wooden lid was about to be sealed, the friendly face of Vicente, the ship’s captain, appeared, and he said, “ You two all good?”  

Selina gave him a quick wink back, and he slowly closed the lid, leaving nothing but little rays of sunshine squeezing through the cracks.  

There was basically no room to move at all inside the crate, and Leaf couldn’t help thinking that this must be what it feels like to be in a coffin.

Xonarye: Japan

Xonarye Book 3 

A dangerous betrayal. The journey of Xonarye leads to the edge of trust and the heart of Japan.

Leaf Brodie’s path has already taken him across oceans, through hidden vaults, and into the shadows of a global conspiracy. Now, with Selina by his side, he arrives in Japan following a transparent cloth that revealed the next clue in the legacy of Xonarye. The trail leads them to the Tanaka Dojo, but instead of answers, they find silence. Master Kenji Tanaka is gone.

Guided by a new thread, Leaf and Selina travel west to Izumo, a city of ancient tradition and quiet mystery. There, they meet the elusive Master Kenji a wise Aikido master who speaks in riddles and tests Leaf’s strength in more ways than one. Earning his trust means staying hidden, training in secret, and learning to control not only his body, but his purpose. Six months pass in the mountains, and while Leaf grows stronger and understanding himself.

Unbeknownst to him, another student Yuji Morita. Younger, faster, and full of questions, Yuji becomes both a training partner and a shadow. But he’s not who he seems. As Leaf trains to protect the truth of Xonarye, Yuji’s true allegiance to Reblick threatens to undo it all.

Meanwhile, the pieces set in motion in Cuba. Spence and Summo remain out of contact. The clock is ticking.

From sacred dojos to coastal shrines, from quiet reflection to explosive action, Xonarye: Japan is a journey of honour, resilience, and trust. As the legend of Xonarye draws more eyes from the dark, Leaf must face the hardest question yet:

Who can he trust when the enemy is already beside him?

Xonarye rise again.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author 

Scott Shepherd is an emerging Australian author with a passion for adventure, storytelling, and the lure of lost lands. Hailing from Naracoorte, South Australia, Scott self-published his first novel in 2020, introducing readers to the daring world of Xonarye. Since then, he has written three books in the Xonarye series, bringing his vivid imagination to life through tales set in exotic locations steeped in mystery and culture.

In 2025, Scott re-released a refined edition of his debut novel, Xonarye: Australia, followed by the second instalment, Xonarye: Cuba, with the third book, Xonarye: Japan, set for release later the same year.

A part-time novelist, full-time family man, and self-described “regular guy,” Scott continues to write from his hometown, where he balances storytelling with hiking, fatherhood, and shared adventures with his partner. Whether at his desk or exploring the outdoors, Scott is always chasing the next great journey—on the page or beyond.

Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Amazon 

Spotlight: The Legend of Valentine by Sheldon Collins

I’m sharing Sheldon Collins’s The Legend of Valentine, a historical epic that uncovers the origins of Valentine’s Day through a story of courage, love, and rebellion in ancient Rome.

The novel takes readers to 268 AD, where Valentine, once a warrior hardened by violence, is transformed by his love for Agatha, a woman whose blindness reveals remarkable strength. Their bond inspires him to defy the emperor’s edicts by secretly marrying Christian couples, risking his life with each ceremony. His sacrifices set in motion a legacy that outlasts his own life, laying the foundation for a holiday celebrating love centuries later. With its blend of historical detail, timeless romance, and a narrative of resistance against tyranny, The Legend of Valentine invites readers to discover the man behind the legend and the hope that still shines through his story.

Excerpt

They stood facing each other, Rose towering over Bear, her height and poise only deepening his discomfort. With a deep breath, she leaned down to kiss him, her lips hovering close to his as he awkwardly closed his eyes and puckered. But just as their lips were about to touch, Rose pulled back.

“This isn’t right,” she exclaimed as she sat back on the log.

“What is it?” he demanded, his heart now racing at the thought of actually kissing her.

“You’re at a disadvantage,” Rose replied, her gaze lingering on his stature.

“What do you mean?” he asked 

“The man I am to wed will likely be taller than me. It makes little sense to practice with somebody of your height,” she explained, her voice tinged with defeat.

Bear’s frustration was evident, but inspiration quickly lit his eyes. Scanning the riverbed, he announced, “I have an idea.” Quickly springing into action, he gathered flat rocks and assembled them into a makeshift platform. With a satisfied grin, he climbed on top, elevating himself slightly above Rose’s height. “There. How’s this?” 

Rose’s smile widened at his ingenuity. “Perfect,” she replied, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she stood up and approached him.

As her lips neared him, he leaned down awkwardly while balancing on the rocks, his heart pounding in anticipation. Suddenly, their lips met. The sensation sent a surprising shiver down each of their spines. But as they drew closer, Bear’s balance betrayed him, and he toppled into the river with a startled shriek. 

Emerging from the water, soaked and sputtering, he caught Rose doubled over in laughter. “You must work on your balance, Bear!” she teased, her laughter echoing through the forest.

“I will never do that again!” he declared, his pride wounded.

Rose, still chuckling, offered a playful retort: “Yes, you will!”

“No, I will not!” 

Rose turned and ran off through the forest toward a meadow, her laughter trailing behind her as she playfully chanted, “Yes, you will! Yes, you will!”

“Wait for me!” he called, pausing briefly to strap on his sandals before resuming his chase. Suddenly, he halted and hid behind a tree, his gaze fixed on a formidable figure advancing across the meadow on horseback. It was Rose’s father—the town’s jailer, a man feared by many and someone Bear instinctively knew to avoid.

“Daughter, the hour has come,” her father declared as he approached Rose and drew her onto his steed. “And how many times must I remind you not to wander off into the forest without permission?”

“Wait.” She hesitated, her gaze darting back toward the forest in search of Bear’s familiar figure, but he was nowhere in sight.

“What is it?” her father pressed, his brow furrowed as he followed her gaze.

“It’s nothing,” Rose replied, lowering her head. She knew better than to reveal her relationship with Bear, wary of her overly protective father’s reaction. 

With a gentle kick, her father urged the horse forward, and they departed from the forest.

Hardly able to contain his emotions, Bear stepped out from behind a tree and called out to her: “Rose!” 

Unheard by her father, she turned in her saddle and gave Bear a small, heartfelt wave in farewell. Bear waved back, feeling a hollow ache begin to settle in his heart. As the horse picked up speed and galloped away, Rose clutched her father and turned her head forward. A tear rolled down Bear’s cheek as the truth dawned on him—his feelings for Rose ran deeper than friendship. Silently, he had always imagined them growing old together, a future he had never dared voice to his first and only true love.

Buy on Amazon | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Sheldon Collins began his creative career as a Hollywood screenwriter and director. His films, celebrated for their character-driven storytelling, earned awards at international festivals and aired on premium television. With The Legend of Valentine, his debut novel, Collins brings cinematic scope and emotional depth to the page, also co-directing a multi-cast audiobook edition. He lives in California with his wife and daughter, drawing inspiration from the outdoors and enjoying activities like hiking, surfing, biking, and skiing. Collins studied Rhetoric at UC Berkeley before earning his MFA in Directing from the American Film Institute. Learn more on his website or follow him on Instagram.

Spotlight: What Goes Around by Michael Wendroff

EVIL HAS MANY FACES

Chilling murders terrorize a town and bring together two detectives to face the hardest tasks of their lives. Jack Ludlum, who relies on his brawn to get things done, is now paired with his archenemy, Jill Jarred, a brilliant investigator with keen intuition. As they delve into the secret world of incels and white supremacists, and conflict between local authorities and the FBI rages, a media frenzy further complicates the mission.

Is there a serial killer on the loose? Or something entirely different? Will the detectives' clashing personalities be their undoing, or can they unite to stop the killer before they kill each other?

What Goes Around is a dynamic thriller that examines the intricacies of love, loss, and the unbreakable bonds that transcend time. With its pulse-pounding pace, captivating characters, and a revelatory twist that challenges the boundaries of life and death, this novel will keep you hooked from the first page to the last, and thinking long afterwards.

Excerpt

“Jack walked nervously up to her front door, heart pounding in his chest.

He thought about how unusual it was for him to be going to see her outside of work, especially in her home. While they had been co-workers for years, he now realized  he’d always harbored a secret infatuation for her—though he wasn’t sure it was now safe, not sure if that ship had sailed. But now, here he was, a bit winded, standing on the doorstep.

Jill answered the door with a smile that made his heart skip a beat. She looked stunning in a simple white blouse and jeans, bare feet with polished pink toenails, her long hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She tossed her hair a bit as she greeted him.

“Hey,” she said, her amber eyes sparkling with excitement. Or was it uncertainty? “Come on in.”

Jack followed her inside, taking in the inviting living room with its plush couches, multiple pillows, and warm lighting. Abstract paintings decorated the walls, in vibrant yet soothing colors. A bookcase filled the far wall, lined with a combination of professional texts, non-fiction books, and what looked like a slew of mystery novels.

Jill saw his eyes hover about, taking it all in like a vacuum cleaner. “Always liked a good thriller,” she said, mischievously.

Jack smiled, but then became contemplative. He had always known that she was special, but now he was realizing just how much he had been missing out on all those years, together, but not together.

“You know,” he said, “after the other night, I was so confused. Happy…but confused.  I wasn’t sure if it all was just a reaction to what we, especially you, went through that night.”

Jack stopped, feeling as if his throat had constricted. After a few moments, he continued. “We’ve been professionals for so long…”

Jill’s eyes widened, and seemed to be wet.

He felt the tension building between them, the unspoken attraction hanging in the air, vibrating like a tuning fork, the uncertainty surrounding them like an orchestra without a conductor.  It seemed they were both very much aware of the possibility of something more, but neither one knew for sure if it was right.

Jack mumbled a few things that made little sense.

Jill leaned in close to him, her breath hot on his cheek. She put two fingers over his lips to shush him.

“I was wrong. Enough talk. Life is too short to mess around. I think we understand each other. What’s happened, maybe what has always been. Maybe…what will always be.”

She stopped a second, looking at Jack; afraid to look at Jack.

“We seem to have missed the clues, but we don’t have to miss anything anymore.

As detectives, we always follow the logic. Now let’s follow our hearts.”

Jack looked deeply into her eyes, knowing she was right. He closed the distance between them.”

Buy on Amazon | Audible | Bookshop.org

About the Author

Michael Wendroff is the author of What Goes Around, a debut thriller published by Bloomsbury, which bestselling author Eric Rickstad calls a “brilliant debut,” and bestselling author Lisa Black says, “starts off at a breakneck pace and doesn’t let up until it reaches its unexpected conclusion.” Plus, #1 bestselling author J.D. Black says, “Relentless and gritty, Wendroff expertly weaves a narrative that begs, ‘just one more page…’”

The book was inspired by what his mother said to him the second he was born: “Oh! How nice to see you–Again!”

Michael has an MBA in marketing from NYU, and was inducted into their Hall of Fame. He is a global marketing consultant. He shares his time between New York City, Sarasota, Florida, and Lake Garda, Italy. He is married and has three wonderful children.

His mother was an editor (watching his mother scribbling in red ink on manuscript pages at home on weekends prepared him for his own editor's comments!). She remarried a literary agent, so Michael was friendly with many authors, and even spent a vacation with Robert Ludlum. Watching Ludlum hand-write his 450 page novels on yellow legal pads didn't dissuade Michael from trying to write a novel (though he's thankful for his PC).

What Goes Around was launched in the USA, UK, and Australia, and foreign language rights have been sold in Italian, Japanese, and Hungarian. The hardcover went through 3 printings, and now the trade paperback is available (along with audio book and e-book).

Fun fact: Michael's great-grandfather was brought over by Thomas Edison from the University of Copenhagen to work with him. He holds a number of patents, including for plastic buttons. Michael proudly wears button- down shirts whenever he can.

Website * Facebook * X * Instagram * Bookbub * Amazon * Goodreads

Spotlight: Just Friends With a Rockstar by Kitt Henley

(Soulmates, #1)

Publication date: September 30th 2025

Genres: Adult, Contemporary, Romance

Synopsis:

A second-chances friends-to-lovers redemption story featuring a rockstar hero in need of forgiveness, a jilted drummer heroine craving belonging, and a secret crush revealed.

He broke my heart. Now he wants me back.

KACIE: Micah Andrews was my everything—bandmate, best friend, and secret crush—until he replaced me as the drummer in his band.

I was devastated. I moved back home and vowed never to let myself be vulnerable again.

Now he’s begging me to come back to help him record an album on a super tight timeline. Rebecca—his new drummer—left him high and dry, and the label’s given him an ultimatum: Finish the album or they’re canceling his upcoming tour.

I tried to say no. I told him to find another drummer. But Micah doesn’t want another drummer.

He wants me.

I hear the emotion in his voice. I know how much he’s counting on me right now, and I also know how utterly lost I’ve been without him. I can’t walk away from this chance to repair our friendship, but I’d better figure out how to protect my heart—and fast—or Micah might just break it into a thousand pieces all over again, and then I’d lose my best friend. Forever.


Soulmates: Two bands. Three shows. Four happily ever afters.
Just Friends With a Rockstar is a complete romance novella with no cliffhanger. This story can be enjoyed as a standalone or read as the first book in the Soulmates interwoven rockstar romance series.

Buy on Amazon

About the Author

Kitt Henley writes short, spicy contemporary romance with relatable characters, a touch of humor, and tons of heart. Never one to make it through a good romance (or cookie commercial) with dry eyes, Kitt's heartstrings are easy to pull on. When she played in rock bands and crunched numbers in the Seattle tech world, those waterworks weren't an asset, but after a friend suggested she try writing romance, everything clicked into place. From the moment she sat down to write her first novel, she knew she'd found her calling.

When she's not wrangling words in her tiny bedroom office, Kitt loves to spend time with her high school best friend (a.k.a. her rockstar husband) and their two ridiculously funny boys. She's still holding out hope for that family band someday, but in the meantime she'll happily settle for camping trips, board games, long walks with friends, and watching lots and lots of thrillers.

Connect:

https://kitthenley.com/

https://www.instagram.com/kitthenleyauthor/

https://www.facebook.com/kitthenleybooks/

https://www.bookbub.com/authors/kitt-henley

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/57470312.Kitt_Henley

Spotlight: Higher Magic by Courtney Floyd

In this incisive, irreverent, and whimsical cozy dark academia novel for fans of Heather Fawcett’s Emily Wilde series and R.F. Kuang’s Babel, a struggling mage student with intense anxiety must prove that classic literature contained magic—and learn to wield her own stories to change her institution for the better.

First-generation graduate student Dorothe Bartleby has one last chance to pass the Magic program’s qualifying exam after freezing with anxiety during her first attempt. If she fails to demonstrate that magic in classic literature changed the world, she’ll be kicked out of the university. And now her advisor insists she reframe her entire dissertation using Digimancy. While mages have found a way to combine computers and magic, Bartleby’s fated to never make it work.

This time is no exception. Her revised working goes horribly wrong, creating a talking skull named Anne that narrates Bartleby’s inner thoughts—even the most embarrassing ones—like she's a heroine in a Jane Austen novel. Out of her depth, she recruits James, an unfairly attractive mage candidate, to help her stop Anne’s glitches in time for her exam.

Instead, Anne leads them to a shocking and dangerous discovery: Magic students who seek disability accommodations are disappearing—quite literally. When the administration fails to act, Bartleby must learn to trust her own knowledge and skills. Otherwise, she risks losing both the missing students and her future as a mage, permanently.

Excerpt

CHAPTER ONE

You should be writing. hexing people who tell you that you should be writing.

—NOTE ON THE BLACKBOARD IN THE MAGE STUDENT COPY ROOM, EDITED IN ANOTHER HAND

THE CLASSROOM DOOR SHIMMERED, AND I SCOWLED AT IT. Twenty minutes ago, the door had been normal. Mundane, even. A steel slab with a hydraulic hinge that had a nasty habit of seeming to swing slowly shut before slamming all at once. It opened onto a fluorescent-lit room overstuffed with motley desks and accessorized with a decrepit whiteboard. Inside, I’d drawn my containment circle using a piece of chalk pilfered from the lecture hall down the way and cast my working. Then, I’d stepped out for a coffee.

Now, two minutes late to my own class, I pressed my palm to the door and felt a frizzle of static ghost its way up my arm and into my hair. My bangs went blowsy. I swatted them out of my eyes and shook the sting from my hand.

So much for making a professional first impression.

Of all the ill-starred winter terms I’d experienced in this program, this one was already well on its way to being the worst, and it was only day one. If I was being fair, it wasn’t the door’s fault. Someone else teaching in this room had thrown up a ward to penalize late students. I was going to have to take it down, or spend the next ten weeks fighting with it. But I wasn’t in the mood to be fair. Not with an 8 a.m. class to teach and a meeting with my advisor immediately after.

Sighing, I levered the door handle down and pushed through the field of prickling magic. Thirty-five

heads—according to my course roster—swiveled in my direction as I stalked toward the front of the room. I pretended not to notice them, smoothing my bangs with my fingertips in an effort to compose myself.

“Hey! The professor’s going to be here any minute, dude. Stop messing around,” someone called out.

As a young, femme, and heavily tattooed instructor who habitually dressed in faded jeans and the nicest clean top I could find in the laundry basket—today’s wasn’t wrinkled . . . much—I was used to that reaction. Instead of replying, I set my satchel on the long table that served as the room’s makeshift lectern and fished out a dry-erase marker.

Concerned whispers soughed through the room. I ignored them, scrawling information on the board:

Spell Composition I

Under that, I added:

Ms. Dorothe Bartleby (she/her)

As I wrote, the whispers quieted until the only sounds were the squeaking of my marker and the high-pitched flickering of the fluorescent lights.

When both my nerves and the room were well and truly calm, I turned back around with a flourishing bow that triggered the working I’d cast earlier.

Students gasped and giggled as syllabi winked into existence above each occupied desk and slowly fluttered into place. They wouldn’t be as impressed if they knew my housemate, Cy, had given me his spell for the working just a couple days earlier. Still, their delighted bafflement was almost enough to make me smile, despite the morning’s irritations.

“My name is Dorothe Bartleby, but you can call me Ms. B.”

I paused to gesture at the board. “I teach Spell Composition I. If you’re here for another class, this is your cue to exit.”

A couple of students scurried out of the room as inconspicuously as possible. Which of course meant that the sound of their packing, bags zipping, and sneakered tiptoeing on the waxed vinyl flooring was so loud it was pointless to continue until the capricious classroom door swung shut behind them.

The remaining thirty-three or so students watched me warily. Smiling, I reached for my heavily annotated copy of the syllabus.

“This course is part of a learning community with Ms. Darya

Watkins’s Herbalism 101. The work you do in Spell Composition I will complement your work in that class. By the end of the term, you will have drafted and revised two academic-quality spells.”

The corresponding groan came from nowhere and everywhere at once, an overwhelming expression of sentiment that shuddered me back into freshman year. My shoulders tensed with the sense-memory of panicked drafting, late-night grappling with the arcane rules of the Mage Language Coven’s style guide, the growing certainty I’d never be a real practitioner because I couldn’t even format my grimoire citations correctly on the battered electric typewriter I used for my assignments.

I took a breath and dropped my shoulders, forcing myself to focus on the students in front of me. Someone had helped me, and I would help them. They might still hate the class at the end. Hec, most of them probably would. It was a gen-ed, designed for gatekeeping and consequently loathed by the student population. But they’d make it through. I’d see them through.

Quiet settled in as I regarded them.

Tangled auras, pained grimaces, sleep-crusted eyes . . . This group was so starkly different from last term’s Spell Composition I students that I couldn’t help a sudden rush of sympathy. There was something special about the off-cycle students, the unwieldy or unlucky or un . . .something few who’d fallen out of the campus’s natural rhythm. And it wasn’t just that I had recently become one of them.

Students who took this course in fall term, as admin recommended, tended to be bright eyed and happy-go-lucky, brimming with the magic of sun-dappled October days and pumpkin-flavored beverages. But it was January, skies glowering with rain clouds, and these students were in for a bumpier ride. They knew it. And they’d persist, despite it.

I looked at them and they looked back at me, wearily expectant.

“Most of my students come to class with a very specific preconceived notion,” I told them. “Maybe it’s self-imposed, or maybe it’s something you were told again and again until it stuck.”

I stalked back to the board and scrawled a giant number across it.

“According to our preclass survey, eighty-five percent of you self-identify as ‘bad spell writers.’ That’s bullshit.”

The class gasped and tittered.

“You’ve been hexed, or hexed yourselves, into believing one of the biggest lies in academia—that there’s only one kind of ‘good spell writing,’ or that only certain kinds of practitioners can be good spell writers. Bull. Shit.”

Fewer titters this time, because I’d gotten their attention. Hexing was a serious accusation—workings intended to cause harm violated the student code—and right about now they’d be trying to sort out whether I meant it literally or metaphorically. The thing was, it didn’t matter whether someone had literally hexed them to think of themselves as bad spell writers. The only thing that signified was that 85 percent of them did. It was part of the story they’d learned to tell about themselves. And reality reshapes itself around stories.

“Does anyone have a hunch about why I’d say that?”

Silence. Stillness. As though I was a predator who could only hunt when prey was in motion or making sound. I folded my arms and waited, even though the approximately seven seconds that went by felt like an eternity.

Finally, a hand climbed skyward.

“Yes? You in the striped shirt. What’s your name?”

“Alse. Um, Alse Hathorne.”

“Hi, Alse. Any thoughts?”

“Well . . .” Alse fidgeted with their glasses and scrunched their face, as if uncertain whether their thoughts were worth sharing. “It’s okay to speculate. Take a wild guess.”

Alse huffed. “Okay, thanks. It’s just . . . When you said spell writing isn’t just one thing, it made me wonder what actually counts. Like, am I writing when I’m flipping through old grimoires for research? Does daydreaming about what I want my spell to do count?”

Their tone was half-sincere, half-sarcastic, but I could work with that. I smiled, waiting to see if any of their classmates had a response before sharing mine.

A blonde in a pink tie-dye T-shirt waved, excited.

“Um, yeah, Reed here. Like, are we writing when we select spell ingredients?”

More hands flew up, and for a little while I forgot it was an ill-starred term. I lost myself in discussion.

BLEAK REALITY CROWDED BACK IN AS MY STUDENTS FILED OUT OF THE classroom. In a matter of minutes, my advisor would be giving me the come-to-Hecate talk I’d been dreading since last term. Her email yesterday hadn’t said that, but I could read between the lines of her vague Let’s chat. Can you stop by my office tomorrow?

A knot formed in my stomach as I repacked my satchel.

Every mage student got two attempts—and only two—to pass the Branch and Field exam, our program’s version of the qualifying exam that marked the transition from coursework to dissertation work. I’d failed my first attempt, and this term I’d get one last chance to convince my committee that I had what it took to be a mage.

Except, I wasn’t certain I believed it anymore. I had magic, sure. I was one of the lucky few born with the ability to see past consensus reality to other possibilities. But I didn’t belong here. Not really. Not in the way my housemates did. They were stars in their respective branches, innovating and winning awards. I was squarely middle-of-the-pack among my fellow Thaumaturgy students. A mediocre practitioner in a branch that I’d heard laughingly referred to as the underwater basket weaving of Magic more times than I could count. It wasn’t true. Thaumaturgy was so much more than a catchall for the bits and bobs of magical scholarship that weren’t interesting or important enough to make it into the curricula of Necromancy or Alchemy or even Divination. But my branch’s undeserved reputation didn’t help my confidence.

And now Professor Husik wanted to chat. She was going to tell me I didn’t get a second attempt, after all. That my first try had been so egregiously bad the committee wanted me to pack my things and go. I was so engrossed in the thought that it took me a minute to notice the student who’d stopped in front of my desk, smiling nervously. I blinked a few times, forcing myself to refocus. 

“Sorry—”I dredged my memory for the student’s name “—Alse. Do you have a question?”

Alse rummaged in their bag. “Not a question, really, just, uh—”

They handed me a piece of paper and backed away quickly, as if the slightly crumpled page was actually a detonation charm. A ghost of static tickled up my arm as I skimmed the photocopied text, achingly aware that I was going to have to sprint to my advisor’s office to make it on time.

It was an accommodation letter. The requests were common ones: time and a half on exams, an extra week to compose spells, use of an object-based sensory working to manage attention and focus.

I looked up. Alse had used the time to shrink into themself. 

“Thank you.” If only I could will away their nerves with my smile. “I know these letters don’t always give me a full picture of how I can best support you. I’d love to chat about that. Can you make it to my office hours today?”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“My last professor nearly exploded when I gave her the letter.”

I couldn’t help but wince. Some faculty took the letters as a personal affront, rather than expressions of students’ desire to be able to actually do the work.

“Is everything okay?”

Alse shrugged. “Sure.” Their tone wasn’t convincing, but every nerve in my body was shouting at me to get moving.

“Okay, good. The directions to my office are in the syllabus. Now, I apologize, but I have to run to another meeting.”

I was halfway down the hall and already out of breath by the time that traitorous classroom door slammed behind me. When it slammed again, signaling Alse’s departure, I’d rounded the corner and hauled open the stairwell door.

I swore under my breath as I climbed. Most elevators on campus were too old and slow to be relied on in a rush. But teleportation wasn’t an option—not even for disabled students.

A group of them had lobbied administration for a change to the policy last year. Their requests were met with a volley of excuses. Teleportation was banned in the student code of conduct due to its disruptive nature and disrespect to the hallowed halls and grounds of this fine institution. It was federally restricted. Over and above all that, though, it was expensive.

I shoved the thought aside, taking the stairs two at a time. I had until the last full moon of term to pass my exam and convince my committee, and myself, that I deserved to be here. That I was ready to advance to mage candidacy, write my dissertation, and join the ranks of full mages out in the world.

I didn’t have time to worry about anyone else’s problems. Even without my advisor’s cryptic summons, I had more than enough of my own.

Excerpted from Higher Magic by Courtney Floyd. © 2025 by Courtney Floyd, used with permission from HarperCollins/MIRA Books.

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About the Author

Courtney Floyd is a neurodivergent fantasy author who grew up in New Mexico, where she learned to write between tarantula turf wars and apocalyptic dust storms. She currently lives at the bottom of a haunted mountain in the woods of Vermont with her partner and pets. Higher Magic is her debut novel.

Courtney has a PhD in British Literature and a penchant for irreverent literary allusions. Her short stories have appeared in publications including Fireside Magazine, Small Wonders, and Haven Spec, and her audio drama, The Way We Haunt Now, is available wherever you get your podcasts. Find her online at courtney-floyd.com.

Connect:

Website: https://courtney-floyd.com/ 

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/cannfloyd/ 

BlueSky: https://bsky.app/profile/courtney-floyd.com 

Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/52370149.Courtney_Floyd 

Spotlight: The Essence of Bliss by Emily Astillberry

Publisher: Blossom Spring Publishing

Publication Date: December 16, 2024

Pages: 615

Genre: Speculative Fiction/Paranormal Romance

Isabel Bliss is a reception class teacher. She experiences other people’s emotions and can influence how they feel but she doesn’t truly understand her gift and has been encouraged, by her mum, to hide it from others. She often feels lost and alone. 

When a child in her class experiences chronic distress that only she can perceive, Isabel uses her ability to relieve his suffering, but his situation continues to worsen. Eventually she is forced to take matters into her own hands, escorting him home where she finds horrific signs of abuse. She saves his mum’s life and his father is arrested for the brutal torture he has inflicted upon his family. 

A wealthy family moves to town and Isabel meets the two sons. She recoils from Daniel, who is hateful, rude and emotionally deficient but is inexorably drawn to Scott, who awakens something magical, deep inside her. They are like her. They are fluencers and have the ability to sense, read and willfully manipulate emotional energies. Isabel confronts her mum and uncovers hurtful lies and deceit within her own family. 

She falls deeply in love and ultimately discovers the untold potential of her gift and the passion and power that dwells within.

Excerpt

The next few moments occurred in painful slow motion. As I tugged my arm sharply out of Donna’s grasp, I was jostled by a stranger on the other side. I felt myself falling off balance and reached out to grab onto something, anything, to keep me upright. The something that I grabbed onto was a jacket slung over an arm and the owner of the jacket pulled back on it hard, tipping me further off balance and sending me sprawling to the floor on my knees. I let out a pained cry as my still bruised knee struck the hard floor.

I ended up on my knees in front of a strong, long set of masculine legs in blue denim. I didn’t know for certain to whom the legs belonged, but I could make an educated guess from the pitch of the gasp and giggle from Donna and the murmuring of the onlookers. I really didn’t want to look up, but I knew that it was inevitable. I couldn’t stay on the floor forever. My knee was painful, and I wasn’t even certain that I could get up by myself. Slowly, grudgingly, I raised my eyes to find Daniel Callahan looking down at me with distasteful recognition and an unpleasant, disdainful smile. I looked him in the eye with as much dignity as I could muster. He continued to stare rudely. He didn’t utter a word.

“Sorry,” I muttered, and my hand flew to my mouth in instant regret. Had I seriously just apologised to him, again, for falling over, again? I was a total idiot, and I was more embarrassed than ever. What was it about this man that made me fall at his feet and behave like a stuttering moron with an apology tic?

“It seems like you’re making a habit of falling on your knees in front of my brother. Here, let me help you.” 

In an instant, everything changed. My whole life turned upside down. Something inside me roared to life and I suddenly felt different, stronger, more alive. It came from the source of the humming, that place deep inside of me. Those simple words, that simple offer of a hand to my feet, the smooth, velvety voice. It was the sort of voice that could make a person weak at the knees with its deep resonance and gentle tone, but it was so much more than that. I didn’t just like the sound of his voice. Something about the owner of that voice had just changed something fundamental about me, and somehow I knew, in that fraction of a second, that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

I wasn’t sure if I could move or if I wanted to look into the face that belonged to those words, that voice. I was frightened about what I might find and what it might do to me, what I might become. However, I was still on the floor on my knees, so I put my hand out, took his and let him pull me to my feet. 

Our eyes met, and without warning, a multitude of sensations overwhelmed me. I saw him, I felt him, I sensed him. I experienced things that I couldn’t understand or explain, but it was like a fire had been lit in my soul, like fireworks exploding in the deepest recess of my mind. I couldn’t just feel his emotions in the way that I normally do. This experience went further, deeper. It felt like in that single second, he was actually inside my mind, or I was inside his. I wasn’t sure whether it was one or the other or if it were both. I couldn’t process what was happening to me. It was happening too fast and exercising too many of my senses. 

He looked at me with bewitching eyes that reached into my very core. Eyes a deep, rich brown, like swirling chocolate, shimmering with a layer of warmth. They glistened with a flame that matched the fire that had ignited inside me, as if his eyes understood and reflected the very essence of me. We saw each other in a way that I had never known before, a way that I had never even dreamed of, and as we looked into each other’s eyes, the flames in his eyes grew larger, hotter. I took everything in, every minute detail. The dark hair swept back from his face, the healthy tan to his skin, the perfect line of his nose leading to full, rich lips surrounded by laughter lines, indicating a happy man: a joyful, confident, beautiful, magical creature.

The intensity of the moment wasn’t limited to the visual. The way that he looked wasn’t what captivated and thrilled my senses. When I sensed a person through their emotions, I usually felt that they were happy or sad, angry or hurt, but this was something new. This was a cacophony of feelings so loud that I felt as if my head might burst with the joy of it. Emotions that lifted me into the sky, swirling around me and through me — through my mind, through my heart, through my body — until I felt dizzy with the power of it. All that I could see were those eyes, those lips. All that I could hear was that voice, and yet I could feel and see and hear everything all at once, like I was awake for the first time in my life, like I had found the answer to a question that I hadn’t known I’d been asking.

– Excerpted from The Essence of Bliss by Emily Astillberry, Blossom Spring Publishing, 2024. Reprinted with permission.

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About the Author

Emily Astillberry is an author and RSPCA Inspector from Norfolk, England. She has a degree in English Literature and Linguistics from York University and has been investigating animal cruelty and neglect and rescuing sick and injured animals for 20 years. In her day job, Emily deals with very difficult and often emotional situations and meets all sorts of people from all sorts of backgrounds. Her career provides some of the inspiration for themes and characters that can be found in her fictional work.

At home, in a very old cottage in the country, Emily has a husband, 5 children, a dog, a cat, an axolotl, 2 giant African land snails and a varying number of rescue hens, so finding time to write can be a challenge. She is happiest outdoors, growing fruit and vegetables in the garden, walking the dog and family holidays usually involve walking up mountains in summer, skiing down them in winter and sleeping in a tent whenever possible.

Emily loves spending time with her large, noisy, chaotic family, cooking meals for friends and playing board games. She always has at least one book on the go and has always dreamed of writing her own novel. She now dreams of writing more.  

The Essence of Bliss is her latest book.

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