A Hole in the Air Release!

Finally, finally, book three is out on Monday!!!
It's been a long time coming and an incredible journey. This trilogy is very special to me and it was so much fun to finally write some of the scenes in this book; scenes I've dreamed of and had planned since the very beginning! You can read an excerpt below (WARNING may contain spoilers if you haven't read books one and two):

Prologue: Wife

The Duke spat out his tea. Hastily wiping off his newspaper with his napkin, he stared at the page again. It still boldly proclaimed in huge script:

AIRSHIP CRASHES IN BALTIC SEA! IS RUSSIA PLOTTING WAR?

The Duke shook his head and peered at the smudged story below.

Our correspondent has confirmed with Swedish officials that something like an airship washed up on the island of Gotland. Reports of a flying machine seen overhead have been trickling in from Norway, and while there is no way to prove that the remains found on the Gotland coast were ever capable of flight, it seems possible that something of this nature could have been developing behind Russia’s rideau de fer. Russian officials have declined to claim the machine or make any affirmations about the identities of the bodies found aboard the vessel. Sweden has identified one corpse as Czar Ivano, but though the Russians did remove the body to Moscow, they would not confirm that it was the Czar.

Further mystifying the situation, someone set fire to the airship’s remains. Many engineers were eager to examine them, hoping to prise the secret of flight from the Russians’ fingers. A group of Belarian scientists arrived on Gotland soon after the discovery was made. Our correspondent was unable to contact them. Did they ascertain the secret? Did they burn the remains to keep it from the rest of Europe?

Will Russia continue to remain silent, or will they reveal their intentions? And their inventions? Were they in the act of betraying Greater Europe, planning a war that assured them victory? And will the Belarian Alliance soon be equipped with the power to conquer as well?

“Well,” coughed the Duke, “how sensational.” He looked up at the empty breakfast table and sighed, remembering he was alone. He glanced at the cuckoo clock set high on the green and gold striped wall. Ten thirty-eight. Was the Duchess not up yet? Or had she eaten already? He rarely saw her at breakfast; that was quite normal, but today he’d hoped to bump into her sometime before dinner.

He lay down his sodden newspaper and regarded his toast. Perhaps he could find her at her desk in her tower, writing missives or reading letters or making out cheques. She was probably busy and didn’t want to talk to him right now, anyway.

“Your Lordship,” the butler mumbled from the doorway.

“Yes, Haemming?”

“Her Ladyship desired you to know that she has gone out to Norden this morning,” Haemming said, looking fastidiously at the carpet.

“Norden?” the Duke asked, his shoulders slumping. “Why?”

“She did not say,” Haemming said.

No surprise. The Duke nodded and Haemming slipped from the room. The Duke looked out the window into the rain and mist of the garden. He wished he had some secret meeting in Norden or Berlin. Or at least some company. He might have been more eager to go out and hunt or shoot fowl in the rain if he’d had someone to do it with. He looked back at the cold toast on his plate. Perhaps he should go to Paris. That would show his wife: vanish off to some distant city leaving only a note and no details regarding length of absence or business. And why Norden? Usually she was off to Berlin or Paris, sometimes Moscow or London, but lately she’d seemingly become fascinated with Norden, that odd little barren spot in the middle of nowhere on the coast of the North Sea. What kind of business could she have there? It could hardly be a meeting with the heads of Greater Europe. It could hardly be any sort of business trip. It could only be some clandestine meeting of a darker nature.

“Wife,” he said. It could have been a term of endearment. It could have been an insult. It could have been an entreaty. It could have been a threat. Had anyone been listening at the keyhole, his voice would have held them all in one anguished parcel.

“No use thinking about it,” he grumbled to himself. What else was there to think about? “I hate Hannover,” he said. “Nothing going. Nothing coming. Nothing. Nothing.” He slammed his fist into the table. “And I can’t throw a party because she’s not home.”

The Duke rose and glared at the cuckoo clock. Ten forty-three. Time creeped by. He would pass it with a carriage ride through town and a stop at the Größenwahnsinn for a glass of port and possibly a game of cards. Or two.

Chapter One: His Wickedness Alive

The sunset flashed green.

The Sea erupted.

Vroanen was freed.

A huge wave struck Parsifal, drowning him in sorrow and remorse and shellfish. Parsifal struggled in the water, kicking out for something, anything to hold onto. There was nothing, and he was sinking towards the sparkling lights of Aquatamunicipalir in the depths of the Sea.

The Compass tumbled from his fingers into darkness, pulsing with eldritch light, gleaming back at Parsifal from the green eyes of Oaktree, the purple eyes of Vassilissa, the brown eyes of Balder, the grey eyes of Dioktes, the wild eyes of Fou, the black eyes of a mermaid.

Parsifal jerked awake.

The early morning sun beat down on his face and chest. The hard, wet boards of the wrecked Scylla’s deck dug into his back. The smell of rot rose from Balder’s wounds. Parsifal rolled onto his side and looked at his friend. Balder’s chest rose and fell, but his eyes were motionless beneath their fevered lids. Parsifal looked around for Dioktes, his hand reaching into his pocket and clutching The Compass. Dioktes, the grey-bearded captain who’d betrayed them, stood near the prow. The ship sat low in the water after the tidal wave from the collapse of Vroanen’s underwater prison. Parsifal thought it seemed even lower than it had last night and wondered if the entire ship might slowly sink away beneath them, leaving them thrashing in the endless expanse of water…

Parsifal closed his eyes and tried to beat back the panic rising in his chest. The image of the crazy woman, Fou, lingered there behind his eyelids and he had to open them again to escape her wide gaze and last gurgle. His eyes stung. Fou. He glanced at Dioktes. He’d tried to kill Parsifal and slain Fou instead. Why hadn’t Dioktes tried to kill him again? Why shouldn’t Parsifal go push him off the prow right this instant?

Parsifal sat up with a groan and put his head in his hands. He didn’t want to remember anything, but it wouldn’t go away. Fou…He had to stop thinking about the past. He had to find a way to save Balder. Balder was all now. Not even The Compass, not even preventing Vroanen and Vassilissa from conquering the Weather Casters, not even revenge must get in the way of saving Balder. Dioktes could still be useful.

“Dioktes,” Parsifal called from the cradle of his palms. “Is the ship sinking?”

“Stupid,” muttered Dioktes, nearly inaudibly, “the mast’s broken. Where do you see trees to replace it?”

“We could prop it up with bits of railing and deck and bind it with rope,” Parsifal suggested, looking up. He glanced about at the wreckage. The mast was floating alongside them, still connected by the odd rope and scrap of sail. He looked back at Dioktes. The old man was still staring out to Sea. His beard, patchy from Fou’s mad attack, fluttered in a light breeze.

Parsifal took a deep breath of the vibrant air. It was a hopeful seeming breeze, laden with sweet, fresh, nameless aromas. “What are you looking at?” he asked Dioktes. “Is Vroanen out there somewhere?”

Dioktes didn’t answer. Parsifal staggered to his feet and clambered to the stern where he jumped up on the rail and balanced precariously, scanning the horizon. He didn’t see anything but glittering water.

“Will he drown out there?” Parsifal asked hopefully.

“Immortal,” Dioktes replied. “Kept at the bottom of the Sea for a thousand years. Not dead yet.”

“Yes, but that was a supernatural prison, wasn’t it? He can’t actually breathe water, can he? He’ll have to keep swimming. He’ll die of exhaustion.”

“Maybe,” said Dioktes.

Parsifal scowled and returned to Balder. He unwrapped the putrid bandages from Balder’s arm and wrinkled his nose. Parsifal couldn’t even see where the original cut had been made by the Tan Noz’s claw, it was just a nauseating mass of puffy, contorted flesh colored red and green.

Parsifal washed it with cold salt water. There was no dry fuel and the stove was underwater, below decks, so he couldn’t boil any. Balder twitched a bit, but otherwise remained still. Parsifal didn’t have anything clean to wrap the wound in, so he left it. Perhaps the fresh air would help? It could hardly get any more infected than it already was. Parsifal squeezed Balder’s good hand.

“Stay with me, please,” he whispered. “Just a bit longer until…” until what? There was nowhere they could go, nothing they could do to help Balder. Parsifal closed his eyes and squeezed Balder’s hand harder. There had to be something.

Balder’s lips were dry, but the rain barrel had been smashed in the violence of the collapsing waterspout. Parsifal took a portion of shredded sail and draped it over the rail so that it shaded Balder from the fierce sun.

Parsifal pulled The Compass out of his pocket and opened the lid. For the first time since he’d found It on the bathroom floor of his uncle’s country house, Its soft pulse did not comfort him. What could It possibly show him that would save Balder? He flipped up the magnifier and peered through It anyway.

The lapping and rustle of waves vanished and the only sound was his own heartbeat, ticking like a clock in an empty room. His vision swarmed with a breathless, rushing whirl of colors. Slowly, the visions solidified into flickering images, thoughts, emotions, and indescribable things. He saw himself and Balder, having their lighthearted snowball fight in Romania. Parsifal’s heart ached at the image. Blissfully, it was quickly replaced by a strange red-plumed bird with blazing eyes, then a train. He saw a storm-tossed airship and a whirl of masked dancers.

Suddenly The Compass slowed and Parsifal was looking down upon a mass of broken boards and masts. The Port? No…The Weather Casters’ ship, surrounded by towers of wreckage. There were tiny figures swarming everywhere, and fire and smoke and cries of agony and flashes of green light. The air rippled above the ship’s stern with a shivery peal. With a roar, the air was rent open and blackness swallowed Parsifal’s view. A two-headed snake slithered out of the dark and wound itself around a silver and purple shield with a seven-pointed star in its center. Seven silver knives flashed in the sunlight. A small black bookcase with glass doors nestled in the shadows of towering bookshelves beneath a glass ceiling. The lights of the mermaid city twinkled in the deeps and their strange music sparkled through his mind. He saw Fou — his mother — holding him as a baby.

Parsifal snapped The Compass shut and rubbed away the tears with his wrist. He’d thought he was drained of all his rage and grief. He was so exhausted after sailing around the Sea, finding his long-lost mother, losing her, trying to kill Dioktes and freeing Vroanen in the process. He should be broken, empty. He was, but even that was a sensation — and it hurt. Every time he breathed, it stabbed at his chest. Fou…Balder…lost at Sea…he was crying again and sobs shook his shoulders, which were reddening in the sun, despite their thorough burning weeks before. This time he didn’t care if Dioktes heard or saw him cry.

But Dioktes wasn’t watching Parsifal.

Parsifal looked up and saw the old man standing rigid in the prow, pointing with a shaking finger. Parsifal squinted through his tears and the glaring sun. The water splayed bright stars on the waves and Parsifal could see nothing in the water.

“What?” he asked.

“It is His Wickedness,” Dioktes rasped.

Parsifal stood, his heart beating unevenly, loudly. His head pounded as he stood and wiped snot from his nose. He peered again at the shining water. This time he saw an arm break the water and stroke, pushing a pale human shape through the Sea.

“Quick!” Parsifal gasped. “Grab a board, keep him off the boat!”

Dioktes did not move.

Parsifal scrambled about their wreck, looking for something. He picked up a broken bit of the yardarm and pushed Dioktes away from the prow.

Vroanen was swimming closer. His head broke the surface and stared at them, black hair streaming over his face. The head ducked back beneath the water and the body shot forward, swimming below the surface. Parsifal and Dioktes had helped this wicked being escape his ancient prison and now Parsifal had to do something to rectify his mistake.

Parsifal’s heart sped up, his lungs heaving to keep up and he gripped the shattered wood, driving splinters into his hands. Vroanen’s white limbs flashed in the Sea like blades, one hand clenched in a fist. Parsifal raised the rail overhead. Waves of blood roared against his brain. Vraonen surged closer. Parsifal’s hands shook.

Vroanen’s fist lit up, blinding green, and Parsifal dropped the piece of yard. It would do no good here. He fumbled with his pocket. Vroanen’s white hand lashed out and caught at the Scylla’s prow. Parsifal scrabbled inside his pocket, trying to pull out The Compass.

The Wicked One’s head burst from the water with a gasp.

Parsifal yanked out The Compass and flipped the lid open.

A hand flew up from the water, green light shining out between his fingers, droplets of glinting Sea water streaming down beneath it. Parsifal raised The Compass.

Vroanen heaved himself up, sliding onto the prow like a lithe white mollusk, clad only in a loincloth of silvery white. He lashed out at Parsifal with his Compass. Both Compasses flashed. Parsifal was thrown back by the power of Vroanen’s Compass and crashed into the deck. Vroanen dashed across the deck while Parsifal was still trying to blink the afterimage from his eyes. Vroanen struck down at Parsifal’s head w’s’ith his glaring Compass. Parsifal brought up his own Compass and the two met in a clash of green lightning, their thunder rolling away across the calm Sea.

Just in time, Parsifal rolled out of the way as Vroanen struck again. Vroanen’s Compass smashed into the deck with a flare of light that set the boards on fire. Parsifal scrambled to his feet, striking out blindly with his own Compass.

Vroanen spun towards him, arm outstretched. Pulses of light surged from his hand, pushing Parsifal back, blinding him, scattering his vision, his balance —

Drunkenly, Parsifal charged forward, swinging The Compass at the Wicked One. Vroanen raised his glowing fist. Parsifal caught the flashing blow with his Compass. Thunder and lightning. Crack. Boom. Like the ice in Siberia when Vassilissa had opened the portal.

The Wicked One was close, towering over him in the afterimages of the green flashes. Parsifal jumped closer still, into the chilly air that surrounded Vroanen and smacked him in the head with The Compass. Its light shimmered back from Vroanen’s dark, vengeful eyes. A strange electric saltiness filled Parsifal’s nostrils, a dankness that rolled from Vroanen’s clammy, pearlescent skin.

Vroanen grabbed Parsifal by the throat in his free hand and squeezed. Parsifal choked. Vroanen lifted him off the deck. Parsifal kicked at him desperately, but nothing would break the immortal’s unnatural hold. Black stars clouded his eyes. Green light burned them away as Vroanen’s Compass flashed down at his head. Parsifal’s Compass flashed back, protecting him from the light. Vroanen snarled and hurled Parsifal against the deck.

Parsifal smacked down and skidded through the flames, large splinters digging into his skin. He howled and struggled to his knees. Burning tar stung his nostrils as he lifted his head to see Vroanen’s figure through the flames, tall and half-naked, striding towards him, glowing Compass in hand.

Parsifal staggered to his feet and backed away. Vroanen stepped through the flames without flinching and thrust his Compass forward. Parsifal parried with his, and the flashes shattered into thousands of green stars. Parsifal stepped back again – and tripped on an outstretched foot.

Parsifal fell flat on his back and Dioktes leaped out of the way. Parsifal tried to lift his Compass but Vroanen was already upon him.

A green blaze filled his head. His hand fell limp at his side, The Compass rolling from his fingers with a loud thump. The green faded slowly and Parsifal could see the sky…so beautiful and blue, striped by gossamer clouds like a parade of ghostly figures drifting across the empyrean. He couldn’t feel his body. Something tingled somewhere at his core, but otherwise he could just as easily have been floating among the clouds as lying on the deck of a wrecked boat. He could be sailing to Heaven.

The silhouette of Vroanen blacked out the sun, a faintly luminescent Compass in each hand. The Wicked One crouched over him and Parsifal saw his blue lips moving. Slowly, the sound rippled into Parsifal’s head, lapping gently at the shores of his mind until he could understand the words.

“Who are you?”

Parsifal couldn’t move his lips to reply. Nor did he know how to answer that question. Who was he?

It didn’t matter anymore; he’d lost. Vroanen examined The Compass that had once been Parsifal’s, peering through the magnifier, shaking It. Its light had slowly faded and It did not relight. Vroanen narrowed his glistening eyes at Parsifal.

“What’s wrong with It?” Vroanen asked. Parsifal still couldn’t move his lips. He couldn’t even move his eyes to follow Vroanen as he stood and stepped back.

“Your Wickedness.” Parsifal heard Dioktes’ voice.

“Who are you?” hissed Vroanen.

“Vassilissa sent me; she has set you free,” Dioktes said.

“You lie!” Vroanen snarled. Parsifal heard Dioktes yelp.

“I do not! Vassilissa sent me here with the Lone Sailor and The Compass to free you! The time has come to destroy the Weather Casters!”

Slime, thought Parsifal bitterly.

“Think I would not recognize you, Dioktes? You serve the Selure Tartania!” Vroanen roared. His voice was shiny and did not crack even when laden with so much rage.

“Your Wickedness,” begged Dioktes. “She has cast me aside, mortal that I am, no longer of use to her.”

“Quiet!” snapped Vroanen. There was a flash of green on the edge of Parsifal’s vision and a thump. No more sound from Dioktes. Just the shivery panting of Vroanen.

Parsifal’s eyes were starting to tingle and water but he still couldn’t move them. His vision swam in unshed tears. Vroanen leaned over him again.

“Was the mortal lying about you, too?” he asked. “Are you the Lone Sailor? You can’t be a mere mortal. Speak!”

Spit landed on Parsifal’s cheek. It was icy cold. His feet tingled now, as though they’d been asleep. He blinked and tears poured down his cheeks. The glare of the sun beat on his eyeballs and he managed to drag his eyelids shut.

Parsifal heard the creaking as Vroanen paced the burning deck. Slowly, he was starting to process all that had just happened. He’d been stunned by Vroanen’s Compass. Now Vroanen had both of The Compasses and Parsifal was helpless. Even once he got back his powers of locomotion, there would be nothing he could do. He licked his lips.

Suddenly Vroanen grabbed him by the hair and dragged him across the deck and slammed him against the stern, beside the shattered door that led below.

“Where did you get The Compass? Who are you?” Vroanen demanded in his silky voice. Parsifal imagined it would have made many singers jealous. He frowned. His brain was still addled from the flash.

“Long story,” he choked out.

Vroanen laughed. “We’re stranded, aren’t we?” he said, squeezing Parsifal’s neck in his icicle fingers. “We have all the time in the world. You may as well start with your name.”

“I’m Parsifal.”

Vroanen’s fingers relaxed a little.

“How nice,” Vroanen said, “a regular name. No title. You’re like me — a nobody. A nobody who wants to be somebody.”

“I guess so,” Parsifal said, looking down. They were silent a moment. Parsifal glanced at the limp forms of Balder and Dioktes lying on the deck.

“Go on,” Vroanen said quietly. “I haven’t heard another being’s voice in a thousand years. Speak to me.”

Parsifal didn’t know what to say. The waves lapped at their doomed vessel. The sun beat down silently. Vroanen’s fingers tightened again on Parsifal’s throat.

“Speak to me!” Vroanen hissed, a tear sprouting from one of his glossy dark eyes. “Please!”

“I – c – can’t!” Parsifal gasped. Vroanen’s fingers loosened.

“Tell me your story,” Vroanen said.

Parsifal paused, staring into the depths of Vroanen’s shimmering blue eyes. It seemed that brightness lurked somewhere in their darkness, sparkling like lights in the night. Where to begin?

“I found The Compass in my uncle’s water closet, one of his guests left it there by accident: Sir Oaktree,” Parsifal said.

“Water closet?” Vroanen said, looking confused.

“Yes, a — a sort of fancy waste disposal chamber back on Land.”

“So you are a mortal? How’d you come here?”

“My uncle’s expedition. He said he was exploring Siberia, but it was all Lady Vasille’s plot to get back to the Sea.”

“Lady who?”

“Vassilissa.”

Vroanen’s eyes widened. “Vassilissa…” he whispered. “They banished her to Land … she swore she’d rescue me. She sent you to do it?”

Parsifal looked down, his cheeks burning. “I guess so,” he said quietly. His head could move…and he didn’t have to look into those icy, dark eyes anymore.

“And Dioktes?”

“She made a deal with him, to trick me.”

Vroanen chuckled. “How like her. What about you? Are you in truth the Lone Sailor? Did she trick you into freeing me when you’re supposed to rule the Weather Casters?”

“I’m mortal,” Parsifal said hopefully, twitching his fingers experimentally. He did not look back up at His Wickedness.

“Mortal is transmutable, my friend,” Vroanen said. “Take Dioktes, for instance. He’s still dragging his miserable carcass around.” Vraonen’s face was uncomfortably close to Parsifal’s. Parsifal supposed he might converse in a similar fashion if he’d been trapped underwater for a thousand years. It certainly made it easier to punch His Wickedness in the jaw.

Parsifal struck.

Vroanen howled, reeling back. Parsifal tried to push himself to his feet. Vroanen recovered and lunged with a snarl. He punched Parsifal in the chest, knocking him back to the deck.

“Feels good,” Vroanen said, licking blood off his lip. “Haven’t felt anything but cold, wet, ice, water…Pain, fire, heat. I feel alive!” Vroanen threw back his head, mouth open wide. Parsifal expected a howl or insane laugh to come out. Instead a high-pitched wail of joy soared into the sky. It was that strange dolphin sound he’d heard Vroanen make as he swam out of the hole in the sea.

It sent chills through every nerve in Parsifal’s body. He shook and curled up on the deck, pressing his hands over his ears. The pealing sound echoed into silence.

“If I use this on you enough,” Vroanen said, waving The Compass in the air, “I can kill you. I know. I killed Themetho with It. I struck again and again and again. At last he lay still and never moved again. If you are the Lone Sailor, you will never supersede the Casters.”

Parsifal uncurled and looked up at Vroanen, looming above him, blotting out the sun. Green gleamed from his fist.

“I’m not,” Parsifal said quietly. “I could never do it. I’ve failed already. I’ve done so much wrong. I’ve lost too much. Kill me, then. It’ll be easier.”

“For both of us,” Vroanen agreed, raising The Compass. “Not that you could stop me.”

“Wait,” Parsifal said, looking at Balder. “Save him. He’s been poisoned by Tan Noz. Heal him.”

“I’m not granting last requests,” Vroanen said coldly. The Compass flared angrily in his hand.

“Please,” Parsifal begged, tears springing to his eyes. “He doesn’t deserve anything that’s happened to him. Give him a second chance.”

“Don’t speak to me of unjust punishments,” Vroanen snarled. He was about to swing The Compass down when the sound of roaring water made them both look to the East.

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