I posted about adding exclusive written content for Tier 1 members and beyond and I figured it's only fair folks get the chance to see the stuff I plan to write and what they can anticipate.

Currently, I have two dueling works-in-progress I will be sharing chapter by chapter. I'll be open for feedback, changes, criticism, etc. on both projects and figured I'd let people decide which one they want to follow and go for that since they're both so different.

The first project I'm posting about is this one: The Book of Icarus. It's a blend of Catholicism, Celtic folklore, and Greek mythology about two disgraced exorcists who discover one of their own who they thought was missing might not, in fact, be missing at all. Icarus and Maren unravel something the Church has been hiding from them for over a decade and have to choose a side in the war between faith and fae.

The second project I'm posing about is currently unnamed. That's how new it is. Maybe I'll open the floor and let readers help me decide on a name so I can stop calling it Unnamed Fantasy WIP. This one is very different from The Book of Icarus. It's an epic character-driven fantasy meant to evoke classic juggernauts like Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones where the world is huge, the characters are the focus, and we start returning old, forgotten fantasy creatures to our beloved genre.

It turns out life doesn't end when you close the Tempest Gate and save the world. Keelie Sharp, unfortunately, would rather not talk about all that. She's a simple woman who kills people for money and accepts that her childhood dreams will only ever stay dreams. Until, of course, her patron sends her and the one person she can't stand into the heart of the kingdom to find out what exactly the Dawn Emperor is doing in the dungeons. While she avoids a face from her past, a nosy prince, and an Emperor who may or may not be going mad, she begins to wonder if she really wants to know the answer.

So. Without further blathering. Enjoy the first chapter of The Book of Icarus and decide if you'd like to keep enjoying future chapters exclusively reserved for Tier 1 subscribers.

Chapter 1

Exorcising demons was killing Icarus Ulrich slowly and painfully. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, chest heaving, the knife wound in his forearm a distant pulsing memory. The pile of ash erupted in a dim blue flame and reclaimed his attention. Vial in hand, he dipped it into the fire and captured the shimmering sludge within. When he straightened, he found the elderly couple staring at him wide-eyed in the doorway. He politely palmed the vial into his pocket and gave them a sharp nod. 

“My secretary will be in touch for payment,” he didn’t wait for them to respond and shoved his way past.

The cold Dublin air bit at his skin despite his effort to sink back into the high coat collar of his long, wool coat. His stride was long and fast, escaping the shadow of the cramped row house until he found an alley he could use. He cracked open an ampule and let the iridescent liquid drip into one eye, then the other. Blinking, he leaned into the stone wall and slid to the ground. 

The numbing wash of pleasure flooded his veins, empty smile on his lips. He knew what he looked like to any passers-by: sclera flaring brilliant blue, expression slack and joyful, skin just slightly thin enough to show his pulsing veins for anyone who cared to look hard enough. Fifteen minutes passed and the world ate away at the feeling until his vision cleared and his head was sharp again. He rubbed his eyes with a calloused hand, resting against his knees while the effects wore off in full. 

Two more weeks until he would have to do that again. Two more weeks until the Rot tried to claim him and he fought back valiantly with a substance that would drive him mad someday if he let it. He shoved off the damp flagstone and brushed off the back of his coat halfheartedly. He needed a cigarette. Fumbling for a moment while the Eidolon wore off, he found a rogue tobacco soldier in his pocket and the last gasp of a matchbook with it.

It burned his lungs deliciously while he walked the uneven cobbles and slithered around the iron poles of unlit gaslamps lining the street. The rattle and shout of horses and hawkers crashed into him like a wave when he spilled out onto the main thoroughfare into the lifeblood of industry. He tugged the white Roman collar free and shoved it in the pocket with the vial. People tended to stare more when they spotted a priest with a cigarette between his lips and he did not much enjoy being stared at. He kept his head down while he walked, mindful that he would have to dispose of his vice--one of many, if he were being honest--far enough from his destination to avoid being chastised by his loving colleagues.

He flicked the butt away, lamenting the loss of a third of it, and patted his coat until he found what he needed. Keys jangled in his hands when he reached the iron-barred door of the office tucked away on the busy Temple Bar street corner. It was not his first choice, Temple Bar, but nothing matched the price so this was where they were forced to set up shop. 

Inside, a fire warmed the small offices upstairs against the prewinter chill. Heat carried all the way to the paned front door and he shut it quickly to stop it from escaping. He stamped the city off his boots and shrugged his coat onto a hook. A crackling, wizened voice called down from the top of the stairs, “Back so soon?”

He grunted affirmation and ran a hand through slightly-too-long hair the color of sodden wheat, “Hadn’t attached to the place too hard, one foot still in the Veil.”

His boots fell heavy on the wooden stairs, amber lamps stretched his shadow too long across the floor. The woman at the desk was older than she had any right to be, but more reliable than the younger ones who had come before her. Edith was never late and always methodically locked everything up at the end of the day. Her calendars were clean, easy to read, and she had no problem shaking down clients who thought they could avoid the whole “half later” part of the “half now, half later” contracts they signed. Icarus liked her very, very much.

“Maren back yet?” He asked with a glance to the dark office nearest them. He knew the answer, the ask was a reflex.

Edith shook her perfectly pinned white head and peered over thick spectacles, “No. Any minute now. You have a visitor.”

She jerked her chin towards his office. He paused, “Who?”

“Father Reed,” came a familiar strained voice behind the cracked door. Floorboards creaked under the man’s feet when he rose and widened it. His face was drawn, eyes tired. He had the ever-increasing hunch of someone who saw too much too often. 

Icarus took a deep breath and attempted--poorly--to hide a sigh. He placed the vial firmly on Edith’s desk, “Make sure Maren distills that. I’m running low. Father, lovely to see you.”

“I’m most definitely sure it is not,” Reed smiled warmly and moved out of Icarus’s way, closing the door behind him. He remained on his feet when Icarus sat behind the weathered wooden desk.

When Reed didn’t immediately explain himself, Icarus prompted him, “What brings you to the dregs of exorcist society?”

He exhaled and finally sank down into the chair opposite. He leaned on the simple silver-handled cane he carried and brushed imaginary lint from his sleeve. Though he liked Father Reed, Icarus had little patience for the Church’s unexpected visits. It took the older priest a long, studious moment of silence before he decided to speak. Icarus hid his growing irritation in the grip on his pencil while he filled out the remaining fields for his most recent client. 

“There’s a case I’d like you to take. North of the city in Baldongan,” Reed examined his gloves. He wasn’t making eye contact, already the sign of something peculiar that set Icarus on edge.

Storm-blue eyes snapped to him so sharp they could cut glass, “You, not we. Not a Church-sanctioned house call?”

He extended a hand for the yellowed folder Reed passed him and leafed through it. Eyebrow arched, he studied the details. Nothing stuck out to him as unusual. A woman showing early signs of possession, no spatial distortions, no evidence of anything other than a run-of-the-mill Bánánach trying to force its way in. The grainy black and white photo showed a buoyant woman in her late teens or early twenties, the one behind it a more recent version of her that looked a hundred years older. Jarring, but all the signs of a standard possession.

“This is child’s play. A baby Caldrist could do this. You don’t need a Nytherist to slap a Bánánach around,” he dropped the folder with a clap. “Rejected until you tell me why this one specifically.”

Icarus leaned back and steepled his fingers across his chest, boots thudding when they landed on the desk. The priest frowned at the impropriety, but ignored it. They had known each other long enough that Reed expected rudeness without being affected anymore. At one point, they had even been friends, “You think I didn’t already send one to handle it? The last thing I’d like to do is contract your services, you know that. The local bishop asked me to discreetly send someone more… gifted.”

Icarus smirked, “And you had to admit that someone was me? I’m flattered. What about it’s different? You sure your Caldrist wasn’t just incompetent?”

“I’m sure,” he shot back with a warning look. “Father Simon was efficient and effective, but this… whatever it is… couldn’t be shaken. It’s all the signs of a Bánánach, but it threw him clear across the room and broke his leg. Then it blew out all the windows and blacked out the town. Bánánach can’t do that.”

“So you misclassified a demon,” Icarus shrugged. “Happens to the best of us. Well. The best of you lot anyway.”

“Icarus,” Reed warned again, “don’t make me regret asking you. Just go investigate, at the very least. If it’s something Simon screwed up, I’ll double your contract fee for the inconvenience.”

That made him pause. He did not like the Church, but he did like the Church’s money. He ran his tongue along his teeth and glanced at the clock ticking away at the back wall. Maren should be back by now. He would want her input on it, but Reed seemed twitchy about this case for some reason. It was unlike the man to hide his nerves, which made Icarus all the more intrigued. He sighed dramatically and dropped his feet to the floor. He put on a good show of thinking it through, bobbing his head eventually in a halfhearted nod.

“Fine,” he thrust a hand at Reed, “I’ll take your ridiculously simple case and prove the Church fucked it up.”

“Language, Father Icarus.” Reed shook the outstretched hand in the style of makeshift deal that had often been made about these things between them. 

“Father feels a bit formal,” Icarus scrunched his face to hide his disdain. He got feet to show Reed the door, “Perhaps Brother? Cousin, maybe? Hell, Uncle might be more fitting.”

Reed shot him a confusing paternal look and paused at Edith’s desk. He had taken a shine to her since she started two years back and it was very much reciprocated. The older woman beamed at the opportunity to settle contract terms with him. Beside her desk stood a figure Icarus was grateful to see again. She was only shoulder height to him, but that wasn’t her fault. Icarus had always been tall. Her limbs were long, body catlike, dark almost eyes perpetually narrowed as though she constantly scrutinized everything they settled on. She did, so it was fitting. She kept her straight, black hair pulled into a low ponytail secured at the nape of her neck. Her arms were folded over her black shirt, Roman collar flashing white in sharp contrast to the dark. She liked her collar. She also didn’t smoke.

He gave her a half smile, the best he could do, and she tilted her head at him. A silent conversation played out between them--what was Father Reed doing there, he would tell her in a moment, she hoped he got a good price, he absolutely did. 

Reed started when he noticed her and offered a small smile, “Father Maren! My apologies, I didn’t see you, my dear. You’ve always been so quiet.”

It was true. Maren had a magical way of going unnoticed when she wanted to, which was essentially all the time. Her expression stayed unchanged, but it relaxed when she looked at the old man, “A pleasure, as always, Father. I look forward to Icarus’s debrief.”

They exchanged a pleasant farewell and waited until the small bell stopped tinkling before sealing themselves away in Icarus’s office. She never rounded on him, Maren was not the kind to get worked up easily. She would study, ask questions, be thoughtful. Explosive response was Icarus’s specialty. He leaned against the edge of his desk and passed her the file, waiting for her to finish her methodical evaluation. 

“And the Church wants us to look into this?” She read through it again, her tone wary, “Seems fairly rudimentary.”

He shrugged, “Beneath us, but he’ll double the fee if it turns out to be incompetence. So, there’s that.”

“Hm,” she nodded, “and we do like money.”

“How’d it go in Clondalkin?” He watched her ever-placid expression, always hoping someday she would give something more away to him.

She put the file back down on his desk, “Fine. Nothing a Sídhe Binding couldn’t handle. Yours?”

“Throw some Pale Doctrine and blood into a seal and that tends to do the trick. Left you some raw Eidolon to distill, did Edith give it?” At her affirmative, he relaxed, “I’m nearly out. I’d like to live a bit longer before Rot takes me, if you don’t mind.”

“Never do,” she kept her focus on the closed file with suspicion. “Why do you think they asked for us?”

He breathed a laugh, “They didn’t. Reed did. That’s the strangest bit of it. He’s selling it as Church business and I’m fairly sure the Church doesn’t have the faintest idea.”

Maren watched the frosted window behind him and listened to the sounds of the city. Carriages rolling, steam trams in the distance screaming along the rails, voices muffled by the early evening fog. She turned, hands shoved into her pockets, and went to leave the room. 

“Tomorrow at seven there’s an early train north,” she paused to look back at him, her tone firm from giving the same lecture too many times. “Do not be late, Icarus. Repeat it back. Do not be late.”

He rolled his eyes, hands up in defeat, “I won’t be late, Father Maren.”

He was absolutely going to be late. 

***

When he showed up promptly at half past, Maren was ready for him. She said nothing of it and hoisted her bag over her shoulder. He trailed after her through the hissing, steaming station disappointed by her lack of disappointment. When he glanced at the ticket she gave him, he made a noise.

“You tricky bastard. Eight. Not seven,” he brandished the ticket in the air and laughed. “You’ve known me too long, my friend.”

He could have sworn he saw a smile on her impassive face, but he knew better than to draw attention to it. He kept his coat wrapped and his scarf tight, the flash of his white collar hidden underneath the dark red wool. Maren stood like a statue beside him, her dark hair barely affected by the morning breeze. They waited on the brass and tile platform in silence, watching the trains pulled in and out along flickering copper wires overhead. Amber light from ornate gaslamps wavered uneasily in the receding dark. 

He eyed the ticker above the platform and watched the letters flutter and change. Their train drew in with a sigh--a testament to industrial engineering at its finest. Rich red and gold paints along its body, an interior of plush rose velvet in the second class car, and glorious heat that gallantly kept the Ireland cold at bay. 

Icarus settled into his seat and shed his coat down to his black clerical shirt and collar, relishing the warmth in the air when he hung it on the communal hook. Maren did the same, but with far less flourish. They settled in companionable silence and waited until the train jerked away from the platform before she spoke. 

“What do you suppose it means, that Reed is asking this and not the Church?” She mused, hand-sharpened pencil scratching away at a leatherbound journal full of secrets and sketches he had never concerned himself with knowing. 

He shrugged and stretched out long, arms folded, “No idea, but I’m looking forward to the double fee.”

His hand slipped into his pocket and he drew out a silver flask. Maren made a disapproving sound when he shook it at her in offering. He uncapped it and drained enough to make the passage of time more bearable. Then a bit more to make it nonexistent.