Betrothed to a member of Londinium’s ruling class and daughter of the scientist behind the drug to which half of the city is addicted, Lyra Vega has always had her life mapped out for her. But when she’s framed and found guilty of murdering her family, her life takes a terrifying turn.
Sentenced to life in the Sídhe, a prison from which no one ever returns, Lyra soon discovers she has been transported to a parallel world. She is determined to escape and find her parents’ killer, but first she must survive.
Lyra is captured by men working for the Sídhe’s warden and trained as a gladiator. Her feelings toward Bones, her master-at-arms, become increasingly contradictory and volatile but she can’t deny their attraction. She no longer knows who the real enemy is.
When the warden comes to the Sídhe, Lyra will have to choose between avenging her family and the man she loves.
WRAITH interweaves mythical aspects with alt-history to create a dark fantasy in the vein of Poison Study and The Girl of Fire and Thorns.
Lyra cowered in the shadow of her cell in the bowels of the Star Chamber. She was exhausted and terrified, waiting for her sentence to be carried out. The heavy metal door banged open and a fearsome-looking sentry appeared.
“Come!” he barked. The guard bound her hands and forced a scratchy, black hood over her head. He reeked of onions and power.
He shoved her down a corridor and then up a flight of stairs. When, at last, her hood was removed, she was seated in an oddly shaped room. A sour-faced Navvie woman stared at her.
"Where am I?” Lyra asked.
“Transit.” The middle-aged woman’s tone was curt. She pointed at her blood-drenched party dress. “Strip.”
Uncertainly, she did as she was told.
The woman huffed grumpily, her navy-blue uniform expanding and contracting. It was emblazoned with the insignia of the Star Chamber. She handed Lyra a roughened washcloth and a pail of soapy water. Apparently, they wanted her to be clean before they transported her to the Castellum.
She scrubbed her skin raw, carefully avoiding the IdemStrap and the new status it displayed. The female prison guard fetched a pearl-grey jumpsuit from a lacquered wardrobe. Then she thrust it in her face.
“Change,” she commanded in a thick Navvie accent.
Obediently, Lyra pulled on the fresh garments. The woman stepped back, crossing her arms, and examined her charge. “We almost never get Regents, Lady Vega,” she said in a mean-spirited manner.
Lyra bit her lip. She was in no state to make conversation. In the prison uniform that pooled around her she felt minuscule, like she was being swallowed whole.