Joy to the Worlds: Mysterious Speculative Fiction for the Holidays

by Maia Chance, Janine A. Southard, Raven Oak, G. Clemans

Genres: Science Fiction Fantasy; Holiday books; Sci-fi Anthologies & Collections

Synopsis

What do you get when you mix mystery and speculative fiction, then toss in the holidays for good measure? A mobster Santa, genetic hanky-panky, Victorian villages, time-travelling detectives, Krampus, eerie bell spirits, and more–this collection of short cross-genre fiction is the perfect counterpoint to traditional holiday reading!

This collection stars four authors, each with their own distinct style. National bestselling mystery author Maia Chance, who is famous for her cozy mysteries, dazzles with humor and folklore. IPPY award-winning science fiction author Janine A. Southard beguiles with unexpected time-travel science. Science fiction and fantasy bestseller Raven Oak offers a look into the gothic past. And for a whole new perspective, debut fiction author and art expert G. Clemans dives into the intersections of creativity and mystery.

Joy to the Worlds brings together eight short works that explore mysteries across time and space. Ranging from dark dystopian worlds to comedic retro-futures, four diverse writers find new ways to combine these disparate worlds into something everyone will enjoy.

Release date: November 26, 2015

Publisher: Grey Sun Press

Print pages: 298

Sample

WILD HUNT  BY JANINE A. SOUTHARD 

 

“In ‘Wild Hunt,’ Janine layers Germanic myth and a hard-boiled detective’s voice to spin an astonishingly clever romp of a tale. Delinquent pixies, mistletoe like ‘milky miniature eyeballs,’ and quirky clues lead Tyson Walenstein——a preternatural sleuth in polarized sunglasses——on a hunt through a kitschy, snowbound land- scape. With a little skill and a lot of tingling in his dead bones, Tyson might crack the case...unless he kills the perpetrator and eats his soul instead.” –Maia Chance   What do you hunt, little lamb, little lamb? When the night darkens early 

And ghosts roam the land. What do you hunt?  My dead bones rumbled, signaling a supernatural crime nearby. The minis- cule vibrations were barely shivers but still evident. No long-timer in our company would bother with such a tiny tingle, but it could be my chance. I’m Tyson Wallen- stein, the newest member of the Wild Hunt. Just died last year. So when we rode past a cottage on the snowy forest’s edge—black horses gal- loping in the black night, our black dogs baying and howling—I paused. The rest of the Hunt slowed with me. A few old ones snorted, and no Hunt dog trotted up to join my investigation. King Herla, however, said only, “Good luck, Tyson. We’ll check in with you at the next mid-night.” Then the rest of the Wild Hunt galloped away, leaving me alone at my crime scene. They were after larger game, on the trail of some delinquent pixies whose families had begged King Herla for his help. Of course he’d agreed. King Herla was on a crusade to make the Hunt more useful to the supernatural community. Even if those pixies were just spray-painting winter gardens or eating the life force of one little farm’s sheep, he was hunting them down and bringing them to justice. In the old days, the Wild Hunt had chased beautiful women and trolled disrespectful human men. So they told me. These days, we recoiled from stalking un- willing ladies or “gifting” plague-ridden carcasses to anyone who didn’t lower their eyes when we passed. We still have to hunt something. Changing times have meant changing prey, and now we’re the best detectives you’ll ever meet. At least, the others are. I’ve only been with the Hunt a year, so I’m still learning. The fact that they left me alone on this case...either King Herla believes I’m going to prove myself worthy, or none of the long-timers want to hitch their star to my blazing comet. I left my centuries-dead horse to stamp his black hooves alongside the 

disappearing human footprints in the snow. My rumbling bones had led me to a wooden cottage, and I stepped inside a classical-Christmas party zone. Next to an antique sideboard bearing a sticky punch bowl, an old-fashioned Yule log crackled in the brick fire- place. The oaky smoke gave a Christmassy tex- ture to the décor even if the place was clearly warmed with central heating. Strings of lights dripped from the ceiling highlighting the nutshells abandoned on the wooden floor. Pinecone wreaths adorned every single door, and red-and-white stockings hung over the fireplace. And the ubiquitous mistletoe? It was stuffed in a dead man’s mouth. The body lay on the leather couch under a nubby blanket, and I checked him out as best I could without moving him too much. Some human investigator might be along later, and I didn’t want to mess up the crime scene before a forensic scientist had a chance at it. If only I had my own forensic scientist! Someone who could do DNA typing or, failing that, some fingerprinting. But I was with the Wild Hunt, not some city’s On the table next to the body lay a tumbler half-full of potent amber liquid. Next to it a white plastic inhaler mocked the victim’s permanent inability to breathe. It certainly looked like an accident, like a boring human had died of asth- ma in his sleep after too much drinking and foolishly putting mistletoe in his mouth. The berries are toxic, buddy. Not that it mattered when he was already dead. But it couldn’t be an accident. Not with the rumbling in my bones...not with my reputation among the Hunt at stake. If I couldn’t solve this crime, I’d be mocked at best. At worst, I’d be shunned from the investigative arm and join the subset of Hunter who could never touch the ground again without crumbling to dust. But if I did solve it, I might get my own hound.