The imPerfect Cathar

One moment I'm a heretical priest in the twelfth century, hunted, hated...The next, I'm waking up in the nearest corpse. Stuck in a cycle of instant reincarnation, popping back up like a tarnished penny. Fast forward eight hundred years, and you might think I've learned a thing or two. Nope. All I've learned is how to die far too easily, far too often. Now my territory in the South of France is under threat and I find myself trapped by impossible angel-made runes. If the angels have gone full red lightsaber evil, it might not only be my territory in danger, but the whole of reality itself...

One moment I'm a heretical priest in the twelfth century, hunted, hated...the next, I'm waking up in the nearest corpse. Stuck in a cycle of instant reincarnation, popping back up like a tarnished penny.

I’m exhausted. Done in. Needing a stiff drink and about a week’s sleep. But that’s not going to happen. Because Franc is dying, struck by a curse placed on him by the Sistren Of Bordeaux, one of the most powerful groups of Talented in France. And because of our deal, it’s on me to find out what the hell is going on, and how Franc has offended the Sistren. Apart from by simply existing, of course.

After the last few misadventures, I’m not so much broken as ruined, a shell of my former self. But I can’t stop. The trail of those who betrayed me is getting cold, and if I’m going to get any answers, I need to keep following it. Except it leads to Faerie. And the way is barred to all but the Fae.

The good news? There’s a way out of Fairie. The bad news? It’s through the heart of the Unseelie Court of Winter. And that’s not all. Maeve, Winter’s ruler, has been stealing human kids for her own twisted delights. Not only do we have to find a way to sneak into her lands, but also we’ve got to break in, rescue the stolen children and get them out again without her knowing. Or...we go to war with the entire nightmarish Unseelie Court.

We’re back in Toulouse, and for once we have the upper hand. Our foe has no idea I’ve escaped from his trap in Fairie, and we’ve got an actual lead. The famous discovery of a certain hunchbacked English king’s remains gives us a tantalizing clue, and now we’re hot on our enemy’s heels, with him none the wiser.

We’ve got an inkling of what the scumbag we’re up against is after. Enough to know what his next target is. Enough to know it’s probably his last one. Enough to know it’s everything he needs to complete his nefarious plans. If we don’t get there first, he wins. Simple. And I’m not sure...but my gut says if that happens, every living thing in the universe loses.

In the months since our battle on the top of Bugarach, I've been obsessed with the search for those taken from us, to find a way to bring them back. But my single-minded obsession means I've not noticed the trouble brewing closer to home. Except I ignore a friends cry for help, and they disappear. What might my refusal cost? And what else have I missed in my blinkered state? What other threats that I never saw, right under my nose?

We’ve got our friend back, but we’re still facing a terrifying threat, one not afraid of exposing the Talented world to get what they want. And with Isaac still sick, time is running out. But a clue sets us on the trail of a legendary sword. One wielded by the Father of Europe himself. Joyeuse. The sword of Charlemagne.

The road leads back to the Pyrenees. But that trail may turn to trial, to a testing and a proving of our worth.

Toulouse is a war zone. The secret world of the Talented teeters on the edge of exposure, and the entire world may be teetering on the brink of extinction. Or perhaps something even worse. So we’re returning home one last time, for one last fight. A last face-off against our enemy, a desperate dice throw where they’re not just loaded against us, but each side’s decorated with double ones. Snake eyes. Or demon eyes.

Getting trapped in a psychotic fae’s twisted game isn’t my idea of a fun Friday afternoon. When one of them shows up in my territory of Toulouse uninvited, I was never going to just let it slide. Now I’m stuck, in a locked room mystery in another dimension.

France’s papers are haunted by the specter of the Algerian War of Independence. But that still doesn’t explain why they’re silent about a child’s skeleton, washed up on a French beach. No stories, no breaking news. Nothing but a set of police photos, delivered anonymously to my hands. And bite marks on the skeleton, too big for any human to have made.