After years spent in Wonderland, Alice Reeve learned the impossible was quite possible after all. She thought she left such fantastical realities behind when she finally returned to England.
Now Alice has become a member of the clandestine Collectors’ Society, and the impossible has found her again in the form of an elusive villain set on erasing entire worlds. As she and the rest of the Society race to bring this mysterious murderer to justice, the fight becomes painfully personal.
Lives are being lost. Loved ones are shattered or irrevocably altered. Each step closer Alice gets to the shadowy man she hunts, the more secrets she unravels, only to reveal chilling truths. If she wants to win this war and save millions of lives, Alice must once more embrace the impossible and make the unimaginable, imaginable.
Sometimes, the rabbit hole leads to terrifying places.
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Heather Lyons has always had a thing for words—She’s been writing stories since she was a kid. In addition to writing, she’s also been an archaeologist and a teacher. Heather is a rabid music fan, as evidenced by her (mostly) music-centric blog, and she’s married to an even larger music snob. They’re happily raising three kids who are mini music fiends who love to read and be read to.
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The van door behind us slides shut. A click signals Marianne’s adherence to my wishes, and then we three descend upon the front door, the crunch of dead leaves and twigs beneath our feet cutting through the uneasy silence the gloom sunrise has brought. In a surprising show of gentlemanly manners, the A.D. moves to open the door. When the handle does not depress, a half smile curves his lips. “It’s locked. But no worries. I can have it picked open in no time.”
“There is no need.”
Darkish-blonde brows scrunch together. “But—”
“Stand to the side, please.”
When he fails to move at my thinly veiled order, Mary not so gently yanks our companion away.
The door before us is thick. The handle is ornate. It is a beautiful door, no doubt chosen specifically to adorn a building as fine as Bücherei. It takes me three strong, measured swings of my war hammer against the handle and its surrounding area to break it apart and permanently scar its beauty. Picking a lock is kind, respectful even. A picked lock can be relocked. I do not wish this door to close behind me. I do not wish to be respectful of Bücherei.
The time for genteel manners is gone.
The A.D. is in danger of catching flies with his mouth as he ogles the door’s remnants. For someone who professes to be so clever, he certainly underestimates ladies far too often.
Stale darkness, oppressive and opaque all at once, looms before us. I am unafraid, though. I am not even taken aback. I believe in the impossible, after all. I have seen, lived the impossible. I step past the wreckage into the house.
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