Autorentext

Taylor Grothe is a writer of adult and young adult horror, horror romance, and dark fantasy. They hold a nonfiction MFA from Fairfield University, acted as the graduate Assistant Managing Editor of Brevity, and their short works can be found in esteemed publications such as Titan Book’s These Dreaming Spires, Brevity’s craft blog, Haven Speculative, and Shortwave Magazine. They are a scholar of medieval literature and Nordic Saga. Taylor lives with three cats, two kids, and their spouse, in New England.

Klappentext

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A darkly gothic sapphic body-horror fantasy steeped in medieval history. Perfect for fans of Ava Reid, Rachel Gillig, and The Starving Saints.**

Plagued by sick headaches that are considered an ill portent in her superstitious village, Ediva has prayed to the Goddess Warmth for a cure. Too ill to marry and too weak to farm, she is desperate to contribute to her family’s survival.

When her prayers are finally answered, it isn’t by the Goddess, but by the Vivari—learned men from the North—who claim Ediva’s pain makes her special. They offer a cure in exchange for forsaking the Goddess Warmth and repaying them in lymph, allegedly the source of Ediva’s illness. Upon their orders, Ediva traverses the shimmering auras that appear with her sick headaches to the Otherworld—a strangely beautiful plane where Ediva is free of pain yet haunted by many-limbed beasts. 

Pursued by horrors, Ediva is saved by a hard, fearsome girl named Brigid, who claims the Vivari aren’t trying to take away their pain but give it purpose. Ediva wants to believe her, but the more she explores the Otherworld, the more she suspects the Vivari’s promises of power will only be offered to the one who survives. To save the girl she loves, Ediva faces a choice: retreat to a world where her pain means nothing or become like the monsters she fears.

This gothic gem is perfect for readers who love clashes between decaying gods and upstart cults with a heartrending sapphic monster romance. A bloody brilliant reflection on power, pain, and the body’s inherent worthiness.

Zusammenfassung
A darkly gothic sapphic body-horror fantasy steeped in medieval history. Perfect for fans of Ava Reid, Rachel Gillig, and The Starving Saints.

Plagued by sick headaches that are considered an ill portent in her superstitious village, Ediva has prayed to the Goddess Warmth for a cure. Too ill to marry and too weak to farm, she is desperate to contribute to her family’s survival.

When her prayers are finally answered, it isn’t by the Goddess, but by the Vivari—learned men from the North—who claim Ediva’s pain makes her special. They offer a cure in exchange for forsaking the Goddess Warmth and repaying them in lymph, allegedly the source of Ediva’s illness. Upon their orders, Ediva traverses the shimmering auras that appear with her sick headaches to the Otherworld—a strangely beautiful plane where Ediva is free of pain yet haunted by many-limbed beasts. 

Pursued by horrors, Ediva is saved by a hard, fearsome girl named Brigid, who claims the Vivari aren’t trying to take away their pain but give it purpose. Ediva wants to believe her, but the more she explores the Otherworld, the more she suspects the Vivari’s promises of power will only be offered to the one who survives. To save the girl she loves, Ediva faces a choice: retreat to a world where her pain means nothing or become like the monsters she fears.

This gothic gem is perfect for readers who love clashes between decaying gods and upstart cults with a heartrending sapphic monster romance. A bloody brilliant reflection on power, pain, and the body’s inherent worthiness.

Leseprobe
Chapter One
Death sounds like silence.
The silence of an abandoned house, the eaves dusty and unkempt. The silence of a chicken coop raided by a fox, feathers floating down in the dark. The silence of a hive, its bees annihilated.
I know something is wrong before I open the hive’s top.
It’s midmorning, and the forest rustles with bitter wind in the distance, black leaves brushing, hushing together. Soft as a mother’s song.
I place my hand on the top of the hive box and tilt my ear down. There’s no soft whirring. No need for smoke. I place the smoldering bellows at my feet and crack the lid, wood creaking. Tears sting my eyes, and I throw the wax-sealed cover to the ground. The comb inside is the dusky black of a fresh bruise, delicate hexagons crushed by some unseen force.
I open the next box. The next. Three hives, the result of years of care, wiped out by the heel of a dark hand.
I press my fingertips to my forehead and say a prayer to a Goddess who has never answered. My teeth worry my lip as I remember Father and Alis in the forest together, capturing our wild swarm.
Too cold now to find more bees; there won’t be any this close to winter.
At the bottom of the last hive box, I find a clue. I reach in and pick her up. The queen’s little body is a still and hollow husk, her head torn from her abdomen. Though normally pale rose, she’s gone jaundiced, her wings bitten and tattered.
Strange.
I place her down with nervous reverence on the box’s edge, tightness ratcheting my lungs until it becomes hard to breathe.
Perhaps there is honey enough to salvage? I draw my knife from my pocket and run it down a comb that already feels too light. As I lift it out, I see the truth of the matter: Hornets have wiped out the bee colonies and raided the hives. They come in the late fall, thieving all they can and laying waste to hundreds of thousands of honeybees. Any honey the swarm hasn’t devoured is mottled by black specks: bee blood.
Beekeepers fear this moment: hive collapse. No bees remain, the honey pilfered or poisoned. The whip snap of tension inside me slices deep.
But it’s been only a fortnight since I checked the hives—and this is too fast—
Another ill portent.
Mother was supposed to sell this honey in the neighboring village of Llendas before winter truly overtook the valley. Hercynian winters without stores mean certain death, and without the coin to buy seasoned wood . . .
I leave the box on the ground and crunch through the early frost back toward our little farm. My fingertips tingle, a telltale sign that a headache will breach the barrier of all my efforts.
When father sees this, he’ll know exactly what kind of failure I am. Again. This honey was meant to help us survive the winter, and it was my responsibility. Tears wet my cheeks as panic climbs my throat. I could scream. I could thrash and cry and destroy something. How is it possible that this has happened? I was so careful. I followed all the rules. I clench a fist and move into the house’s shadows.
My parents have not yet returned from the fields. It’s good, I think, that they aren’t here to see me like this. With muddy tears on my face and an empty basket meant for sliced comb.
Pressure rises sharply in my head. I thrust the basket onto the table and lean onto my hands, chest heaving. I need to tell them that some pestilence has ripped through our hive, but the thought of disappointing them yet again . . .
This was to be my project, my offering to our family, since I’m too young to marry and too weak to farm. It was meant to prove that I’m not a broken creature.
Anger flares inside me, and I grab the flint from the table where…