The Moonsteel Crown

“Pastries! Pastries! Lovely fresh pastries!” Seth waved his tray of stale pastries left over from last night’s kitchen in the Unruly Pig with increasingly forlorn hope. The Sulk had the city of Varr in its grasp like a butcher about to throttle a chicken, the air a crisp murderous cold that made his lungs ache. It was the same every winter, the long silent smothering of cold, the three or four months spent desperately trying not to freeze. If you were poor, frankly, winter in Varr was a bit shit.

- The Moonsteel Crown

They say that time heals, but for me it festers. Where your scars fade, mine stay raw. On good days, my memory will take me to places that others can only dream of finding. On bad days, it rips the soul from my chest and shreds it in front of me. Right now . . . ? Right now, the phone is ringing. My hand hovers over the receiver. Whatever happens next, I will remember its every detail for the rest of my life. It’s been a long, long day and I have a sense that something terrible is coming.

- I Know What I Saw

Welcome to the website of Stephen Deas,  SK Sharp, SJ Deas, Nathan Hawke and Sam Peters, authors of fantasy, crime, historical, and science fiction. Other releases include The Silver Kings (Gollancz), Elite: Wanted (Gollancz), and Bulldog Drummond: Dead Man’s Gate (Piqwiq), and of course the The Protector, a historical mystery thriller set in the English civil war. Nathan Hawke has his own site too, although he seems to mostly be in a coma at the moment.

It’s been a while, I know, so bear with me as I try to remember how this web-thing works. There’s a lot of old stuff here. Almost none of it is relevant to what really matters – the enjoyment of a good story – so wander the site if you have inclination, but if there’s anything new and important, it’ll be on this page on the right. News is anything directly relating to books and competitions, while Critical Failures pages contain the odd review and other random outpourings.

Forthcoming Appearances: None planned. COVID.

I stand on stone, on the rim of this eyrie. It is mine now. It flies through the air, a half-finished castle made long ago by some half-god craftsman and filled with his spectres. The sea churns and boils below. We are closing on the brooding violet curtain-cloud of the storm-dark. The Black Moon will carry us through, and on the other side is the land where I was born. The Black Moon is a silver king trapped in the flesh of a man who still wrestles to cast him out, but the man will lose. One does not deny a half-god.