M K Wiseman – författare

I am afraid that I, Sherlock Holmes, must act as my own chronicler in this singular case, that of the Whitechapel murders of 1888. For the way in which the affair was dropped upon my doorstep left me with little choice as to the contrary. Not twelve months prior, the siren''s call of quiet domesticity and married life had robbed me of Watson''s assistance as both partner and recorder of my cases. Thus, when detective inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard required a lead-any lead-I found myself forced to pursue Jack the Ripper alone and without the aid of my faithful friend. And all for the most damnedable of reasons:

Early on in my investigations, Dr. John H. Watson, formerly of 221b Baker Street, emerged as my prime suspect.

Before Baker Street, there was Montague.

Before partnership with a former army doctor recently returned from Afghanistan, Sherlock Holmes had but the quiet company of his own great intellect. Solitary he might be but, living as he did for the thrill of the chase, it was enough.

For a little while, at the least, it was enough. 

That is, until a client arrives at his door with a desperate plea and an invitation into a world of societal scandal and stage door dandies. Thrust deep in an all-consuming role and charged with the safe-keeping of another, Holmes must own to his limits or risk danger to others besides himself in this the case of the aluminium crutch. 

"I speak of magic, Mr. Holmes."

Poor Mr. Percy Simmons, leader of London''s Theosophical Order of Odic Forces, stands upon the hearth rug of 221B Baker Street, slowly mangling his hat brim in ill-concealed distress and fully aware that his is not a case which Mr. Sherlock Holmes would ordinarily take up.

These are not ordinary times, however.

For something, some unquiet demon within Holmes stirs into discomfiting wakefulness under the occultist''swords. This unassuming Mr. Simmons has-in addition to his more fantastical of claims-spoken of good and evil with the sort of pure conviction and sincerity of soul that Sherlock yearns for. Something Holmes sought for himself during the three years in which the world thought him dead. While, for all intents, constructions, and purposes, he was dead.

But, six months ago, Sherlock Holmes gave up that chase. He returned to Baker Street, declared himself alive to friend and foe alike, took up his old rooms, his profession, and his partnership with Dr. J. Watson. Only to find himself haunted still by the questions which had followed him out of the dreadful chasm of Reichenbach Falls:

Why? Why had he survived when his enemy had not? To what end? And had there ever, truly, been such a thing as justice? Such a thing as good or evil?

England, 1680 A. D.

Liara and Nagarath''s enemy has unexpectedly come to their aid, surrendering to the magick-suppressing forces of the king of France so as to buy time for their escape. But that doesn''t necessarily mean Anisthe is on their side. Vrsar''s war mage, Liara''s father-in-magick, has never been a man do to things for others. And he has always has plans within plans.

In fleeing to England with his apprentice, the Wizard Nagarath realizes that Liara''s power is no longer her own to command. With the shattering of Khariton''s magick mirror in the Palace of Versailles, the young woman has become trapped in an alliance with the ancient and evil mage. What is more, at eighteen-years-old, her life remains tied to Anisthe''s for another two years per the Laws of Magick. Anisthe, who is now imprisoned for having helped them evade the king''s spellpiercers.

Forced to revisit his own past, Nagarath is finally learning that there are some histories you cannot outrun. As for Liara, the darkness within her heart is greater than she ever could have imagined. This after Dvigrad''s orphaned magpie having finally learned to love. For, in the words of Khariton himself, "In magick you can never have friends. Only rivals."