Exile. Princess. Thief.
After years of running from the Emperor of Russia's assassins, Ekaterina "Kat" Dashkova has finally found an unlikely home in Philadelphia under the tutelage of Benjamin Franklin.
When a mid-level government official is found wandering colonial Philadelphia without his clothes—and his last two years of memories—Ben and Kat suspect otherworldly forces at work. Neither of them know that a dark revolution lurks beneath the veneer of civilization, ready to unleash its malevolent magic unless Kat makes a grim sacrifice.
Thomas K. Carpenter has appeared in three volumes of Fiction River and two volumes of Fiction River Presents. In addition to his story in Recycled Pulp, one of my favorites and the inspiration for the entire Darker Realms volume of Fiction River Presents, I asked him to include Revolutionary Magic, a historical fantasy about a dark revolution that might just let you think about a different kind of political climate for a time. – Allyson Longueira
"Doctor Who meets Revolutionary America"– Amazon Review
"'Revolutionary Magic' is a combination of things—alternative history, steampunk and an almost Cthulhu-esque sort of urban fantasy."– Amazon Review
" —a fantastic work of fiction."– Harbin Reads
Some revolutions begin with the gunpowder sonnets of cannon fire, others with the fiery words of tyrannical men. This one began with a middle-aged gentleman wandering the cobblestone streets of Philadelphia in his knickers—and nothing else.
Ben Franklin and I had been called to investigate, not because half-naked mid-level functionaries of the Custom Hall were particularly interesting to the pair of us, or because he'd broken into a Quaker family's home on an idyllic spring afternoon and was caught trying to put on the oldest daughter's beige dress and petticoat. What drew us was the way the man's memory had been cleaved like an apple struck with a saber, suggesting an air of sorcery.
"You say he has no knowledge of what happened to him?" asked Ben with that familiar twinkle in his eye.
The horrified wife, one Harriet Cooper, tugged on the neckline of her muslin gown and glanced at her husband, who was slurping porridge in the other room at the dining table. Her brow knotted and raised, then bunched in the middle with a concern that bordered on exasperation.
"He still thinks it's 1798," she said, then raised her voice. "That was two years ago."