BOOK 01: Of Inkings and WIllowpillars
Vanover, 1877. It has been snowing for four days, which is exactly the sort of weather that encourages children to go looking for trouble.
The Inklings are five in number — three Doyles, two Preciouses — plus one honorary member: Professor Augustus E. Peabody, an eccentric of the highest order, inventor of the sunlight-powered candle, the hands-free hat-tipper, and spectacles for near-sighted cats. He has just come home from South America with half his luggage and one impossible map. Nobody can read it. Except ten-year-old Charlotte, who insists she isn't reading it so much as smelling it.
The map points the way to Ber'Ebrin — the Beautiful Place, a paradise of eternal life that the professor's father chased his entire life before vanishing without so much as a zephyr of a clue.
Six little clay coins later, the Inklings step out of a blizzard and into the Colorless Kingdoms: black sand, bone-white sky, and a sun twice the size it has any business being. Two of them arrive wearing bodies that are not quite their own. One of them will not be leaving with the others.
And something has come along for the ride — something that struck a bargain with a goddess in a snowy back alley, and now wears a face the children trust completely.
There are sand pirates. There is a drake lord with a magnificent palace and a deplorable sense of honor. There is a queen in the forest who has been left at the altar once already and has no intention of allowing it a second time. There are, of course, willowpillars.
And there is Mary Doyle, fifteen and a quarter, told all her life to put away childish things — and the only thing, in any realm, the Beast actually came for.
Book One of The Chronicles of Ber'Ebrin. Mind the doors.
Release Date: November 1, 2026. Pre-order now.
PROLOGUE
Once upon a time, perhaps 148 or 149 years or so ago, in this very world in which we live, a truly remarkable thing occurred. In the back lots of a soot-soaked city, from the depths of pungent garbage and foul refuse, there arose a malevolence of ancient power, so wicked that even its shadow did not like to follow it around. This creature was known simply as the Beast—and it was nasty. It was grumpy and grouchy, stinky and sticky, bumpy and lumpy. Altogether, it was full of vinegar and sour moods.
The Beast was an old-world spirit, a despicable thing, an abomination. Its original name was Gurgle, but it had not used it for so long that it had almost forgotten it. It thrived on evil and dastardly deeds. You see, long, long ago, it was not uncommon for such spirits to walk freely and untamed amongst the land of men. In fact, many of these heartless spirits were responsible for much of the mischief in the world. They were invisible in their natural form and had the talent of touching a person’s mind in such a manner as to nudge him towards his partiality to do evil or sometimes, though rarely, good.
Many of these ghastly beings, although not all, were exceptionally cunning and employed elaborate devices and schemes to taint the weak minds of mortals. These methods involved things like creating obsessions with power or wealth, placing temptations for infidelity or envy, or, every now and then, making lopsided deals with folks just for spite. And it was not unheard of for these spirits, if they faced a really stubborn chap, simply to possess his body outright. Although amongst the other spirits, this was seen as a kind of cheating, totally frowned upon.
Now, some of the spirits were clean, happy-go-lucky, and mischievous, while others were dreadfully brutal and bloody. Some worked in groups, and some worked alone. Some liked to hide things, and some liked to find things. But all possessed the gift to tempt the insatiable lusts in our fragile minds to fit their ultimate ends. In fact, these spirits were responsible for some of the most dastardly deeds in history: Napoleon’s conquering of Europe, John Wilkes Booth’s assassination of President Lincoln, the invention of the powdered wig—a crime against both dignity and weather, the mustache wax empire—which convinced men their faces were horticultural projects, the publication of The Origin of Species—after which dinner parties were never again safe from amateur science, and the all-too-cheerful phrase “Every cloud has a silver lining.” For who among us has not grimaced when he’s heard that phrase repeated once too often?
But now the Beast had a visitor. Before it stood a goddess of the Old World, Ahniella, who was as exceptionally beautiful as she was wicked. She wore a black Victorian dress with a matching flowered hat and carried a small lace umbrella. “Ahhh, so nice to see you again,” Ahniella greeted. It was snowing and windy, but her dainty umbrella kept the elements at bay.
The multi-armed Beast bowed low, snow falling from its shoulders. “It’s not often I get to hold court before Your Majesty. To what do I owe the displeasure?” it asked.
Ahniella smiled at the joke. “I’ve been talking with my sisters, and we have a task for you.”
The Beast looked up at the goddess, its interest piqued at once.
“Your task is not too difficult,” she continued, touching a finger under the Beast’s chin, “and I believe it is one you will relish—a real lip‑licker. I charge you with corrupting a beautiful, chaste young girl. I want you to bring out the Devil in her.”
The Beast laughed and said, “That is child’s play, old crone. I could do it in my sleep. Give me something worthy of my immense talents.”
Ahniella replied, “Don’t interrupt me, Beast, for I am not finished. The task must be done—by her own free will. She must choose to accept evil into her heart.”
The Beast thought for a while. Such a task was one of the most difficult ever given to a spirit. In those times, young girls were harder to corrupt.
But Ahniella, the crone goddess, knew that the Beast was equal to the challenge. Because the task was so tricky, she made a deal with the Beast. “If you can accomplish this assignment, you shall be given dominion over all the other spirits in the known realms—a real promotion from…” the goddess looked around at the garbage, gesturing, “…this.”
The Beast smiled.
“Does that get your kettle a’boiling?” she asked.
“Who’s the mark?” queried the Beast.
“Her name is Mary Winchester Doyle.”
“Why this girl?” the Beast wondered.
“There’s something about her that’s just … too goody-goody.”
“Nobody’s perfect,” the Beast replied.
“Very well,” the goddess said, looking up at the snow falling all around. “What do you say? Let me know quickly, as I am dreadfully unused to this weather.”
The Beast cracked his fingers on four different hands. “I readily accept!”
“Good show,” she said. “So be it!” With that, a clap of thunder shook Vanover, and the goddess was gone in a puff of smoke that smelled of paving tar and perfume.
The Beast smiled. At last, it had a purpose, a goal, a task to accomplish: to corrupt a young lass named Mary Doyle, aged fifteen and one quarter, into betraying her own innocent conscience.
Despite its bravado, the Beast knew that the task was not going to be easy, or the goddess would not have promised him such a reward. For one thing, Mary was one of the most upright and chaste souls in all Victorian Vanover in those days. For another, she was continually surrounded by her young friends, who kept her stalwart; they were all members of a little adventuring club known as the Inklings. For a third, the Beast was getting a sore throat and knew that falling ill would only make him all the grumpier. And, to make matters worse, he had even forgotten his handkerchief.
“O, dearest me,” the Beast said to itself in a growl, “of all the days to go a’questing. I should never have gotten out of bed. I just knew to-day would be bad the moment I awoke and saw that it was snowing again.” Bad weather only added to the Beast’s ire, even as clumps of snowflakes landed on its wet, slobbery nose.
So, the Beast trudged ahead in the snow towards the part of the city in which Mary Doyle lived. It would likely need some sort of disguise, for it really did not want to attract attention. Commotion always gave the Beast a headache, and it surely did not want a migraine to add to its troubles.
Fortunately for the Beast, the snow kept people from noticing it, although one small girl walking with her parents pointed at it briefly. It started to sneer at her, but she was mercifully distracted by a storefront window. Just as well, the Beast thought; why ever waste a perfectly good sneer?
Along the way, the Beast noticed a slovenly booze-bum sitting on the street corner, shivering in his long coat, with little piles of fluffy snow already building on his shoulders and his wool cap. The Beast approached, shielding its own hideous face and red, glowing eyes so as not to cause alarm. The bum looked up through drunken lids and asked, in a creaky voice like an old door, “Spare some change?”
If there was one thing the Beast could not stomach, it was beggars. Intolerable fellows they were, thinking only of themselves and forever asking for handouts. The Beast had half a mind to gobble him up and be done with the trouble. But something held him back—and it was not just the horrendous smell the bum gave off.
“I said, sir, spare some change?” The man repeated his question, this time with more impatience and an outstretched hand.
The Beast’s eyes grew fiery red, like a blazing hearth. But the bum did not notice, for his drunken stupor clouded his sight. Neither of them moved. Only the fall of snow kept the scene from becoming a frozen picture.
“Well, I mustn’t complain,” the bum mumbled to himself after what seemed like an eternity. “Nobody’s got no change nohow.” He slunk back into his coat as a sudden cold wind blew.
“Listen, chap,” the Beast began in a voice echoing as if from a deep well, “Can I ask you something?”
The bum did not respond except with a snore.
The Beast continued, pondering, “However would one go about tempting a girl to betray her own soul? I mean, if you were a lucifugous devil or a scheming meadow gremlin, you couldn’t just come right out and poke her with a stick until she invited corruption into her heart, now could you? So, what do you think? What, if anything, would bring out the hidden demon from a righteous child?”
The man did not react but fell deeper into his slumber. Only the whistling winter wind and the gentle snoring of the bum answered the philosophical question. The Beast grew uncomfortable at the silence and nudged the sleeping drunk with a long, bony finger. The bum rolled over and muttered, half asleep, “…I don’t see you any more, sir…”
But wait. That was it. That was it! Something the bum had said—not being seen. The Beast must disappear. How clever! In disguise, it could present the innocent Mary Doyle with irresistible temptation, enough to draw out her own beast from within. Yes, it would masquerade in the guise of those she trusted most, gain her confidence, and lay the trap. It was brilliant—and to think, the inspiration came from this snoring, besotted man on the street.
It is neither entirely proper nor even necessary to write exactly what the Beast did to the bum after that. Remember, the Beast was, after all, a most displeasing monster and had committed many abominable acts in its day. Suffice it to say that, after the monster was through, the bum would never again have to worry about being in the cold on the streets of Vanover.
The Beast was unquestionably inspired. It knew just the person it could inhabit—nay, possess—to pull off its detestable scheme: a benevolent professor, the very man who hosted Mary Doyle’s adventuring group in his own mansion, Professor Augustus E. Peabody!
And so, the Beast transformed itself into a fog-like mist, blending into its snowy surroundings. In this form, it could only be definitively detected by the occasional red glow of its eyes or the ever‑present, distinct smell of peppermint and cloves, nothing more. With a satisfied huff and a swallow (to test whether it really was coming down with a sore throat), the amorphous shape drifted towards the professor’s house. Perhaps, after all, this day might yet turn out to be a good one.