Quick reads

What if the future remembered you before you were born? Vera was never meant to lead. Crafted from Anthemis legacy and buried code, she was designed to obey—until she chose not to. Now, in the ashes of Sulen’s war-torn vaults, whispers of her final stand echo across the galaxy.

Black Violet is more than a detective agency. It’s the last defense against mysteries that rewrite reality. Run by three women bound by fate and fractured timelines, the agency unravels cases whispered through forgotten letters, broken timepieces, and photographs that shouldn't exist. Across ten interconnected investigations—each darker than the last—Dakota, Brooke, and Alice confront ghosts both literal and metaphorical, uncovering a conspiracy of erased identities, buried legacies, and a force that’s been archiving their lives before they were even born.

In a world where ghosts are goofy, mischievous, and sometimes heartbreakingly human, one mismatched trio of investigators has spent their days wrangling vending machines, haunted camp counselors, and sentient foot-ticklers. But when a forgotten town beckons from the edge of memory—a place where time folds in on itself and even the living forget they exist—they’re pulled into a final confrontation with something ancient, hungry, and familiar.

Beneath war-torn Europe, a vampire cabal begins devouring history—rewriting the legacy of humankind’s greatest minds into immortal propaganda. Ink fades. Names vanish. But one time traveler refuses silence. He journeys through fractured time to summon four literary titans: Edgar Allan Poe, Mary Shelley, H. P. Lovecraft, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Together, they form a covenant to fight the vampiric apocalypse—not with swords, but with words. As stories unravel and alternate selves threaten to consume them, these authors must decide: Can memory survive when monsters control the pen?

They say there’s a man who doesn’t stay long. A doctor with no license, a name that changes like wind, and eyes that reflect too much moonlight. Where he walks, pain quiets. Fever breaks. The broken breathe again. But he never asks for thanks. And he never stays for sunrise. Some call him a monster. Some call him a miracle. He’s both. And neither. Because Richard Jinnings doesn’t run from his curse— he carries it like penance.