In an exciting
collaboration with Wattpad, an online community for readers and writers to
publish and enjoy each other’s work, Wednesday Books will be publishing WHITE STAG (Wednesday Books; January 8,
2019) by Kara Barbieri.
Based in a dark and violent world, Janneke’s
journey in the Permafrost is addicting and immersive. This expansive fantasy
already has a strong online following. Thousands of fans immediately jumped on
board when Barbieri first posted her story to Wattpad. Using their own Story
DNA, Wattpad was able to see that readers were spending more time reading WHITE STAG than any of their other top
fantasy works. Today, the story has over one million reads with Wednesday Books
publishing a revised and expanded version in print.
As the
last child in a family of daughters, seventeen-year-old Janneke was raised to
be the male heir. While her sisters were becoming wives and mothers, she was
taught to hunt, track, and fight. On the day her village is burned to the
ground, Janneke—as the only survivor—is taken captive by the malicious goblin Lydian
and eventually sent to work for his nephew Soren.
Janneke’s
survival in the court of merciless monsters has come at the cost of her
connection to the human world. And when the Goblin King’s death ignites an
ancient hunt for the next king, Soren senses an opportunity for her to finally
fully accept the ways of the brutal Permafrost. But every action he takes to
bring her deeper into his world only shows him that a little humanity isn’t
bad—especially when it comes to those you care about.
Through
every battle they survive, Janneke’s loyalty to Soren deepens even as she tries
to fight her growing attraction to him. After dangerous truths are revealed,
Janneke must choose between holding on or letting go of her last connections to
a world she no longer belongs to. She must make the right choice to save the
only thing keeping both worlds from crumbling.
Based
in a wintery world with a frosty cover, it’s the perfect book to get into for
the coming winter season. As the launch of a captivating new series, WHITE STAG is all a reader could want
in a fantasy—brave characters, vivid worlds, and smoldering romance. Barbieri
says, “[Janneke’s] journey of forgiving herself, letting go, and finding
strength inside her own self and her own scars mirrors mine.” Her characters struggle with issues that are
close to her own heart making the reader connect with the characters in
unexpected ways.
Praise for White Stag:
"Janneke’s epic
journey to overcome past horrors and seize her rightful place in the world is
packed with equally gripping action and emotion. Readers will flock to this
compelling debut." —Booklist, STARRED Review
"A promising debut
from a gifted young writer!"
—Anna Todd, New York Times bestselling author of the After series
EXCERPT:
MASQUERADE
THE FIRST THING I learned as a hunter was how to hide. There was a skill in disappearing in the trees like the wind and merging into the river like stones; masquerading yourself as something you weren’t was what kept you alive in the end. Most humans didn’t think the masquerade was as important as the kill, and most humans ended up paying for it with their lifeblood.
Here, as the only mortal in a hall of monsters, I was
very glad that I was not most humans.
I kept my steps silent and my back straight as I passed
beneath the white marble pillars. My eyes flickered around me every so often,
counting hallways, retracing my steps, so I could escape at a moment’s notice.
The Erlking’s palace was treacherous, full of twists and turns, stairways that
led into nowhere, and places where the hallways dropped to gaping chasms.
According to Soren, there were also hollow spaces in the walls where you could
slink around unnoticed to the mundane and the monstrous eye, but you could hear
and see all that went on in the open world. The lair of a king, I
thought bitterly. I dared not say it out loud in case someone was near. But
beside me, Soren sensed my disgust and made a sound deep in his throat. It
could’ve been agreement.
Soren examined his king’s palace with the usual contempt;
his cold, calculating eyes took in everything and betrayed nothing. His lips
turned down in a frown that was almost etched permanently into his face.
Sometimes I forgot he was capable of other expressions. He didn’t even smile
when he was killing things; as far as goblins went, that was a symptom of
chronic depression. He lifted his bored gaze at the gurgling, choking sound
coming from his right, and it took all my willpower not to follow his line of
sight. When I felt the subtle whoosh of power transfer from
one body to the next, my fingers twitched to where I’d slung my bow, only to
remember too late that it had been left at the entrance of the keep in
accordance with ancient tradition.
A scream echoed off the cavernous passageways as we made
our way to the great hall where everyone gathered. It sent chills down my spine
with its shrillness before it was abruptly cut off. Somehow, that made me
shiver even more. Ancient tradition and custom aside, nothing could stop a
goblin from killing you if that was what they desired. My hand reached for my
nonexistent bow again, only to be captured by cold, pale fingers.
Soren’s upper lip curled, but his voice was low and
steady. “The next time you reach for a weapon that isn’t there might be the
last time you have hands to reach with,” he warned. “A move like that will
invite conflict.”
I yanked myself away from his grip and suppressed the
urge to wipe my hand on my tunic like a child wiping away cooties. “Force of
habit.”
Soren shook his head slightly before continuing on, his
frown deepening with each step he took.
“Don’t look so excited. Someone might get the wrong
idea.”
He raised a fine white eyebrow at me. “I don’t look
excited. I’m scowling.”
I bit back a sigh. “It’s sarcasm.”
“I’ve told you before, I don’t understand it,” he said.
“None of goblinkind understands sarcasm,” I said. “In
another hundred years I’m going to lose my understanding completely.”
Another hundred years. It
hadn’t hit me yet, not until I said it out loud. Another hundred years. It
had been a hundred years since my village was slaughtered, a hundred years as a
thrall in Soren’s service. Well, ninety-nine years and eight months,
anyway, but who’s counting? Despite the century passing by, I still
looked the same as I had when I was forcefully brought into this cursed land.
Or, at least, mostly; the scars on my chest hadn’t been there a hundred years
ago, and the now-hollow spot where my right breast should have been burned. The
four months when I’d belonged to another were not something I liked to think
about. I still woke up screaming from nightmares about it. My throat went dry
and I swallowed. Soren isn’t Lydian.
“You look tense,” Soren said, breaking me out of my
thoughts. I’d crossed my arms over my chest. Not good. A movement like that was
a sign of weakness. It was obvious to everyone that I was the weakest being
here, but showing it would do me no good.
“I’m fine,” I said. “I just don’t like this place.”
“Hmm,” Soren said, eyes flickering around the hall. “It
does lack a certain touch.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“The entire design of the palace is trite and overdone.”
I blinked. “Okay, then.”
By now we’d entered the great hall where the reception
was held. Every hundred years, the goblins were required to visit the Erlking
and swear their fealty. Of course, their loyalty only extended to him as long
as he was the most powerful—goblins weren’t the type of creature to follow
someone weaker than themselves.
The palace, for what it was worth, was much grander than
most other parts of the goblin domain. Soren’s manor was all wood, stone, and
ice, permanently freezing. Nothing grew—I knew because I had tried multiple
times to start a garden—but the roots never took to the Permafrost. Here, it
was warm, though not warm enough that I couldn’t feel the aching chill deep in
my bones. The walls were made of pure white marble with intricate designs far
above what a goblin was capable of creating, and streaked with yellow and red
gold like open veins. It was obviously made by humans. Goblinkind were
incredible predators and hunters, gifted by the Permafrost itself, but like all
creatures, they had their flaws. The inability to create anything that wasn’t
used for destruction was one of the main reasons humankind were often stolen
from their lands on raids and put to work in the Permafrost.
Soren’s scowl deepened as we passed under a canopy of ice
wrought to look like vines and flowers. “I feel like I need to vomit,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks. “Really?” I swore, if I ended up
having to clean up Soren’s vomit …
He glanced at me, a playful light in his lilac eyes.
“Sarcasm? Did I do it right?”
“No.” I forced myself not to roll my eyes. “Sarcasm would
be when you use irony to show your contempt.”
“Irony?” He shook his head, his long white hair falling
into his face.
“Saying one thing when you mean the other, dramatically.”
“This is beneath me,” he muttered. Then, even quieter, he
said, “This place is in dire need of a redecoration.”
“I’m not even entirely sure what to say to that.” With
those words, he flashed me a wicked grin that said little and suggested much. I
turned away, actually rolling my eyes this time. For a powerful goblin lord,
Soren definitely had the ability to act utterly childish. It could be almost
endearing at times. This, however, was not one of those times.
In the hall, the gazes on the back of my neck were sharp
as knives. I kept my head straight, trying my hardest not to pay attention to
the wolfish faces of the other attendees.
From a distance they could almost be mistaken for human.
They varied in size and shape and the color of their skin, hair, and eyes much
like humans did. But even so, there was a sharpness to their features, a
wildness, that could never be mistaken for human. The figures dressed in
hunting leathers, long and lean, would only seek to torment me if I paid them
any attention. As the only human in the hall, I was a curiosity. After all,
what self-respecting goblin would bring a thrall to an event as important as
this? That could very easily get me killed, and I wasn’t planning on dying
anytime soon. My hand almost twitched again, but I stopped it just in time,
heeding Soren’s warning.
We finally crossed the floor to where the Erlking sat.
Like Soren’s, the Goblin King’s hair was long. But unlike Soren, whose hair was
whiter than the snow, the Erlking’s hair was brown. Not my brown, the color of
fallen leaves, underbrush, and dark cherry wood, but murky, muddy brown. It was
the color of bog mud that sucks down both humans and animals alike and it
somehow managed to make his yellow-toned skin even sallower. He was the
strongest of all goblins, and I hated him for it. I also feared him—I was smart
enough for that—but the fear was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears as
I locked eyes with Soren’s king.
Soren turned to me. “Stay here.” His eyes turned hard,
the glimmer of light leaving them. Whatever softness he had before drained away
until what was left was the hard, cold killer he was known to be, and with it
went the last shreds of warmth in his voice. “Until I tell you otherwise.”
Subtly, he jerked his pointer finger at the ground in a wordless warning.
I bowed my head. “Don’t take too long.”
“I don’t plan to,” he said, more to himself than to me,
before approaching the Erlking’s throne. He went to one knee. “My king.”
I eyed Soren from underneath the curtain of my hair. His
hands were clenched in fists at his sides. He must’ve sensed something from the
Erlking, from the other goblins, something. Whatever it was,
it wasn’t good. Cautiously, I directed my gaze to the Goblin King himself,
aware that if I looked at him the wrong way, I might be inviting my own death.
While the behavior and treatment of thralls varied widely among goblins, I had
a feeling submissiveness was required for any human in the Erlking’s path.
This close, the Erlking’s eyes were dark in his shriveled
husk of skin and there was a tinge of sickness in the air as he breathed his
raspy breaths. His eyes flickered up to meet mine and I bowed my head again. Don’t
attract attention.
Soren spat out the vows required of him in the old tongue
of his kind, the words gravelly and thick. He paused every so often, like he
was waiting for when he would be free to drive his hand through his king’s
chest, continuing on with disappointment every time.
The tension around the room grew heavier, pressing down
on those gathered. Somehow, like dogs sniffing out blood, they all knew the
king was weak.
Beautiful she-goblins and terrifying goblin brutes were all
standing there waiting until it was legal to kill him.
Beside the weakened king’s throne, a white stag rested on
a pile of rushes. Its eyes were closed, its breath slow. Its skin and antlers
shone with youth, but the ancient power it leaked pressed heavy against my
shoulders. That power was older than anything else in the world—maybe older
than the world itself.
Goblins were, before all things, hunters. Born to reap
and not to sow. Cursed with pain upon doing any action that did not in some way
fit into the power the Permafrost gave them, the goblins fittingly had the
submission of the stag as the symbol of their king’s ultimate power. Until
it runs.
I didn’t want to think about what happened after that.
Soren continued to say his vows. The guttural language
was like ice shards to my ears, and I shuddered. Catching myself about to
fidget, I dug my fingers into my thigh. Control yourself, Janneke, I
thought. If they can do it, you can.
A soft voice whispered in my ear, “Is that you, Janneka?”
His breath tickled the back of my neck, and every muscle in my body immediately
locked. Icy dread trickled down my spine, rooting me in place.
Don’t pay attention to him. He’ll go away.
“I know you can hear me, sweetling.”
Yes, I could hear him, and the sound of his voice made me
want to vomit. My mouth went dry.
CREDIT: WHITE STAG by KARA BARBIERI Copyright © 2018 by
the author and reprinted by permission of Wednesday
Books.
My Review:
A young girl, seventeen-year-old Janneke as the last child
in a family with only daughters was raised as a boy and taught to hunt, track
and fight. After her village was destroyed Janneke was taken hostage by a man
in the world of the goblins. The man who took her treated Janneke viciously.
Janneke waited for the day she could escape and return to
her own world. She fought for her life, to be free and to be what she wanted to
be day after day. The Goblin king grew tired of Janneke and gave her to his
nephew Soren. Janneke just assumed that Soren would treat her no different than
his uncle but she was truly and surly mistaken on that one as Soren turned out
to be the opposite of his uncle.
Janneke wanted to return to the human world but was thrown
into a hunt across the Permafrost. If she could survive the Permafrost then she
would be able to choose where she wanted to live and who she wanted to be. Janneke
body was changing wanting to become something that she wanted no part of and
was determined to stop it. All she had to do was survive the hunt and she would
be free.
Janneke wanted to go home but the humans could see that she
was different and wanted no part of her. If she returned to the human world
they would hunt her. In the human world she would become the hunted and not the
hunter. But there were always someone hunting her in the goblin world too.
Janneke’s journey through the Permafrost is definitely not a safe one. There
are all kinds of monsters that live in the Permafrost just waiting to have a
piece of her.
White Stag kept me enthralled from beginning to end with all
the excitement of the fights, the hunts, the chase, and the hunted. Who was
going to come out on top? Watching and waiting to see which direction Janneke
was going in. Would she survive? If she did, what would she do with her life?
Where would she go? It warmed my heart to see Janneke falling for Soren to
finally find someone she could care about and who cared about her. If anyone
deserved to find love she did.
If you like your stories filled with fighting, hunting and
dark fantasy with a little love thrown into the mix then I highly recommend
White Stag.
About
the Author:
Kara
Barbieri is a writer living in the tiny town of Hayward, Wisconsin. An avid
fantasy fan, she began writing White Stag at eighteen and posting it to Wattpad
soon after under the name of ‘Pandean’. When she’s not writing, you can find
her marathoning Buffy the Vampire Slayer, reviving gothic fashion, and jamming
to synthpop.
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