Books cover reveals Read the First Two Chapters of Death in Verse by Julie Lew A dark academia mystery arriving fall 2026 By Reactor | Published on May 13, 2026 Photo credit: Monte Simard Comment 0 Share New Share Photo credit: Monte Simard When Bronte Cade’s mother vanishes, the only clue she leaves behind is an invitation to a retreat for magical poets… We’re thrilled to share the cover and preview an excerpt from Julie Lew’s Death in Verse—available September 22, 2026 from Union Square & Co. The first ferry of the new term arrives in six days. Let us hope it finds you alive and well.When Bronte Cade’s mother vanishes, the only clue she leaves behind is an invitation to a retreat for magical poets. Determined to find answers, Bronte attends in her mother’s place by masquerading as the esteemed Dr. Sappho Cade.​But when Bronte arrives at the Radley School of Poetry, she finds the island abandoned—save for six other confused poets, one line of an unfinished poem, and an anonymous host who issues a chilling ultimatum through an enchanted gramophone: complete the spell, and they may return home on the next ferry. Fail, and they die.​There’s another problem: Bronte isn’t magical.​With escape impossible, the body count rising, and her mother still missing, Bronte forms a wary alliance with the infuriating yet brilliant Marlowe Fang. Together, they race to unmask their host before Bronte is exposed—or worse, the next victim.​But beneath the host’s sinister scheme lies an even more insidious plot, one decades in the making. It bleeds beyond the shores of Radley like an ink stain, and no one’s hands are clean. Least of all the people Bronte trusts most. Cover illustration by Marcel Bolivar; Design by Jill Turney CHAPTER 1 December 28, 1920 Bronte drops her tattered suitcase before the rust-speckled boat at the end of the pier. No more than a large uncovered rowboat with an engine jerry-rigged to it, it cowers before the waves engorgingthemselves on the thrashing rain. This must be it. No other boat bobs at the mercy of the raging Atlantic. No other skipper in black oilskins slouches nearby. Someone at the Radley School—which reportedly spares no expense in educating the next generation of magic-wielding poets—could have put in a little more effort when arranging tonight’s transportation to the island. The skipper extracts his cigarette from his clenched teeth and feeds it to the ink-black water. Bronte sucks in a breath as he steps toward her, the stale scent of brine wrapping around her. White gnarled whiskers spill from his scarred face, his eyes buried beneath his hood. “Yer Sappho Cade?” “Yes,” Bronte stammers, swallowing back the acid creeping up her throat. The first lie, she tells her galloping heart, is the hardest. She scours the pockets of her raincoat and presents the invitation addressed to her mother, throwing in a scowl she hopes will sharpen the curve of her round cheeks and give her the world-weary air of someone much older than seventeen. The man isn’t paid enough to care. Instead, he hoists her trunk onto the back of the rickety boat before offering her a hand. Bronte refuses, lest the tremor of her own betray that she doesn’t belong any-where near an elite magical school. The thud of her landing on the deck sends a shiver down the craft. Fear tightens its fingers across her chest as she spots two other passengers on the boat’s narrow benches. More people to poke and prod at her flimsy alias. The young woman—surely no more than a handful of years older than Bronte—keeps her back to her, but the elderly gentleman flashes a half-formed smile, which she takes as invitation enough to slip into the gap beside him. As the engine sputters to life, Bronte wonders why the skipper doesn’t power his vessel by magic. A quick verse uttered before casting off would be easy enough. She supposes, at least. The craft careens into the open waters, obeying the whims of the hostile wind more than the hiccupping engine or the sea-battered skip-per. Enraged waves breach the sides and scurry across the deck, slithering up Bronte’s stockings and pooling at the bottom of her brown leather boots. What the ocean leaves untouched, the rain finds, pawing at the front of her dress and soaking everything but the suffocating dread eating away at her. Because—it wriggles into the crevices of her mind—what if this is all for nothing? What if you never see her again? Bronte yanks the collar of her coat up to cover her face—a meager defense against the storm, but it affords her the privacy to study her fellow passengers. Calm, rational thought to drown out the fearful whispers. By the scant light of the boat’s sole lantern, she spies a sliver of the other girl’s profile across from her. Her dark curly hair is pinned into a low, prudent bun that huddles beneath the shallow rim of a red cloche hat. Sharp eyes survey the horizon, though the night offers nothing but violent rain and vicious fog. Magic is fickle like the wind, or so her mother’s drivel goes. It touches whom it pleases, discriminating against no one. This dark-skinned girl before Bronte seems to prove her mother right. Even though the Consortium, self-proclaimed “enlightened” organization it is, permitted women to legally practice magic only fifty years ago. Poetry may not discriminate, but poets do. The white man beside her bounces a soggy volume of verse on his jittery knee, a leathery finger tucked in its pages to hold his place. The doddery type of academic she assumes litters Radley’s classrooms. “I see you came armed.” She nods at the book. “What kind of dinner parties do you usually attend?” The start of a laugh creases his mouth, not quite powerful enough to reach his tired eyes. “Guilty as charged. I’m Ambrose, by the way.” Bronte’s name catches in her throat. Best to wait and reveal the truth once she’s inside Radley. When it’s too late to slam the door in her face. Though she’s had the lie prepared for weeks now, her stomach still drops into free fall. “I’m Sappho.” See? The second lie’s not so bad. “Sappho.” The name trickles off Ambrose’s tongue, like he is test-ing it and matching it to her face to see if they fit. Sweat blooms in her knotted fists. If he asks what work she does for the Consortium, could she concoct something convincing? If he asks about their host, how fast would she trip over her words and confess she doesn’t even know his name because the invitation in her pocket is unsigned? “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Ambrose says at last, granting Bronte the ability to breathe once again. The girl across from them keeps her gaze fixed on the night, preferring to remain a mystery. Bronte embraces the silence that seizes the boat as the Atlantic lashes at them, its black waters as smudged and turbulent as the stormy night sky. We’ll be at the dinner party soon enough. The thought sinks inside her like a stone, dragging the tattered remains of Bronte’s composure with it. Introductions can’t be avoided. One glance at her and their host would demand an explanation. But she’d make demands too. To a room full of poets—her mother’s Consortium colleagues, her fellow faculty at Radley. What did you do to her? Her plan was born from desperation, but she has exhausted all other leads. Her inquiries are wasting away at Consortium headquarters, collecting dust in a filing cabinet or wastebasket. Her letters left unanswered. Phone calls met with dial tones or excuses. “Dr. Sappho Cade is away on a business trip,” a man’s shrill voice buzzed over the line. “For four weeks without telling her daughter?” Bronte flared up. “I’d know.” The man drew in a skeptical breath and hung up. Bronte even bit the bullet and headed to her mother’s studio apartment on the Upper West Side. She dug out the key from the bot-tom of her school satchel, discarded there months ago after Sappho insisted she take it. She wrinkled her nose as the lock clicked open, the stale air inviting her into her mother’s lair. Her home away from the real home they shared, tucked away from the bustle of city life. Her mother’s apartment adhered to the Spartan minimalism beloved by single women married to their careers. One frayed arm-chair, older than the building itself, performed the duties of an absent sofa. The pantry door squealed on its hinges to reveal no food inside. The pipes screamed as she forced the sink on, brown water voiding into the drain before anything approaching drinkable dribbled out. There was a cot for sleeping, one plate and one set of utensils for eating, a lone tin mug for drinking, and a table whose legs wobbled. On this, she found the invitation, requesting her mother’s presence at a poetry retreat and private New Year’s Eve party for the Radley School’s most distinguished faculty and alumni during winter break. Because her mother didn’t have the decency to warn her before dropping off the face of the planet, here Bronte is, risking death on this infernal boat and regretting passing over her thick woolly stockings for these ridiculous silk ones she deemed festive. Who is she trying to please, anyway? Surely not a party of pompous poets. The boat crests a wave and crashes back into the murky abyss. Bronte clutches the bench to remain seated, a prayer passing through gritted teeth. Let this be for something. Please. She doesn’t know what else to do if tonight leads to yet another dead end. Where else to look for her mother. The acid in her belly churns, clawing for a way out. Please let me find her. Craggy cliffs pierce the fog, and the girl across from Bronte stiff-ens as Baron Rock’s pine-dotted silhouette emerges from the night’s shroud. A hint of ash tinges the storm-laden air, a residue of magic Bronte is well familiar with. The musty smell has forever coated her mother’s clothes. Panic surges against her rib cage. For goodness’ sake, she’s less than three hours from home, not in some foreign realm. No matter what the Consortium would have her believe. What better way to study poetry than by isolating yourself on a remote island for eight years? Something to that effect appears in every advertisement for the school. Not that Radley needs much advertising. The rate at which it funnels graduates into coveted Consortium positions ensures thousands of applications flood the school every year. But what would Bronte know of that? Normies never touched Baron Rock’s shores. Never crossed Radley’s threshold. Fast approaching the weathered dock on the desolate beach that leads to her mother’s broken dreams for her, Bronte wonders if she should turn and run back to her own life. Chapter 2 Bronte jumps to the dock and squints through the rain-laced fog at the monstrous outline of the mansion perched on the island’s highest cliff. Its lights extinguished, she’s barely able to carve out its silhouette from the storm and shadow around it. No one seems tohave told the place it’s about to host a party. A string of fairy lights, their weak glow winking in sporadic spasms, twists up the thread-thin staircase leading to the school’s entrance. In all honesty, Bronte expected a little more fanfare. To be a smidge more impressed, considering her mother’s endless praise of Radley. The skipper tosses their trunks onto the soaked sand, the boat’s motor still whirring as if it might need to make a quick escape. “When will you return?” Bronte yells above the roaring waves. She has no intention of spending a single second longer than necessary here. He shrugs. “You’re the last boat of the night.” “But you will be back?” Bronte’s mysterious travel companion shouts. The boat merely slips back into the fog. “Fantastic.” The girl’s vexed sigh mirrors Bronte’s. “A true Radley welcome.” The trail of steps crawling up the scraggly cliff fades into the gloom above them and sets Bronte’s head spinning. She grimaces at her frayed suitcase with its finicky handle. Ambrose catches her gaze. “I’m sure there’s staff inside to help.” In lieu of an absent handrail, he grasps the side of the cliff as he begins the ascent. “How I did not miss this climb.” Setting her suitcase down, Bronte digs her fingernails into the rock face, muddy rain streaking down her hands. Answers better await her at the top of these hellish stairs. After the first few creaky, slippery steps, her calves cramp and sweat drenches the inside of her coat, despite the bite of the December storm. If she had been warned of her mother’s imminent disappearance and the physical exertion required to find her, she would have scrapped her physics textbooks and run a lap or two to prepare. How do hundreds of students come up and down these stairs each semester and not get swept into the ocean? The school no doubt prided itself on its natural, “unrefined” setting inspiring heaps of magical verses, while demoting safety to the bottom of its priorities. Bronte tries to imagine her mother climbing, sweating, and holding on to jagged rocks for dear life as she probes the darkness before her for the next step. She can’t. Her mother knows these stairs and the house stooped above them well. Certainly better than the home she ditched Bronte in. Mom can be home by New Year’s. She goads herself to take the next step, and then the next. As long as you scale this cliff. Ahead, Ambrose’s shape vanishes from view, and Bronte realizes he’s reached the top. The promise of relief spurs her burning legs faster. The stairs at last give way to slick mud snaking a treacherous path to Radley. Hanging, unlit lanterns squeal in the wind on either side of the school’s massive arched door. Bronte catches the flash of worry on Ambrose’s face, but it disappears in an instant. “You don’t think this is a—” She breaks off. What does she think it is? A joke? A trap? Laid for her missing mother, who was smart enough to steer clear of Baron Rock, so it ensnared her foolish daughter instead? She could picture her mother shaking her head. Darling, whatever did you think you could do? “Is one of you the host?” A sandy?haired man stomps from around the side of the school, hunkering beneath the tweed jacket he holds above his head. “We’re guests,” Ambrose replies. “Is someone from Radley here?” Rain spatters the man’s gold-rimmed spectacles, but Bronte can feel his glare. “The place is deserted and cold as a tomb.” He darts beneath an eave of the house and shakes his sopping coat. “A fuse blew, and of course only I knew where the box was. Honestly, I bet they were all lying so I’d have to do all the work.” The man frowns at her. His brown argyle vest, dripping wet trousers, and mud-speckled oxfords screech, I am a poet and therefore better than you. No, Bronte prods herself. Until someone tells the group otherwise, she, too, can write magic. Her disguise as a competent poet, as her mother, might be the one thing keeping her ragged nerves stitched together. Calm, rational thought. Her mother’s reprimand washes away some of the fear. “There must be an explanation inside.” Her boots squelch in the muck as she approaches Radley’s front door. The man snorts but follows Bronte and her traveling companions. “No one else could find anything, but sure, take a stab at it.” The door leaps open at Bronte’s timid push, shepherding them into an entryway bedecked in dark wood paneling and a blood-red rug spilled across the waxed floor. A chill grips Bronte, settling into her bones. Two poets bicker in urgent whispers at the foot of a giant stair-case. They glance up as the front door bangs shut. The ill-tempered man steps around Bronte with a sniff. “Lights are working.” “Thank you, Percy,” one of the duo, a boy sporting thick spectacles that enlarge his eyes like an owl’s, says. “Are you three more guests?” Beside Bronte, Ambrose nods. “No party, I see.” The two both shake their heads. Their eyes roam about the room in the same methodical manner before finding their way back to one another that Bronte assumes they must be related, or at least close. But while the owlish boy is robust and assured, his friend is not, with a lean, angular face, crowned by an explosive shock of shoulder-length black hair. “Perhaps we’ve been forgotten?” Ambrose extracts his damp invitation from his jacket pocket, his brows furrowing as he scans it. “Radley wouldn’t forget us,” peevish Percy retorts, offended on the school’s behalf. “It does seem unlikely,” a calm voice agrees. An elderly white lady with silver-streaked chestnut hair, half-moon glasses, and a pink shawl draped over her shoulders enters from an adjoining room. The quintessential grandma, Bronte thinks. “I have a fire going in the common room,” the woman adds. “I thought we could use a good defrost.” “So we just make ourselves at home?” The mysterious girl from the boat eyes the school warily. “Something’s off, and we should get the hell out of here.” “Ah,” Ambrose sighs, “but didn’t the skipper say we were the last boat?” Calm, rational thought. Calm, rational thought. Bronte breathes the reminder in and out. “I guess we’re stuck here and should decide what we’re going to do,” the owlish poet says matter-of-factly, though his fingers toying with the cuffs of his shirtsleeves betray his nerves. The elderly woman nods. “We could at least see if there’s dinner.Nothing good can be decided on empty stomachs.” As the lone stranger to the school, Bronte lags behind, following the swarm down the main hallway. Newfangled electric bulbs nestled in wall sconces light their path, flaunting the deep pockets of Radley’s funding. Bronte’s own normie school is still penny pinching to con-vert their two-room schoolhouse to electricity one day. Ambrose breaks the oppressive silence by clearing his throat. “I’m Ambrose Hurst. Class of… well, too many years ago to admit without a blush.” Behind him, Percy straightens his posture and turns to face the group, chin hoisted high. “Percy Barrett. Consortium auditor. Main branch.” A cocktail of hope and fear gurgles in Bronte’s stomach at the mention of her mother’s office. “Agatha Plath.” The elderly lady continues the chain of introductions. “A former nurse now enjoying retirement.” The owl-eyed poet jumps in next. “Eliot Fang. I’m also an auditor but in District Three.” Bronte tries to recall the district map in her mother’s home office. If she’s not mistaken, that’s out in the countryside. While Percy at headquarters would deal with the poetry-related offenses of spell writers in primarily corporate and governmental positions, Eliot must mainly investigate farmers’ illegal uses of magic. “Didn’t realize they hired you lot now,” Percy mutters. “First colored people, and now Orientals. Who’s next?” He wilts under the scathing glare of Eliot’s companion. “Not saying it’s a bad thing. Just pretty damn open-minded of the Consortium.” Eliot’s friend arches a scornful brow but doesn’t continue the introductions. As Ambrose leads them through the bowels of Radley, all eyes hover on the mysterious poet Bronte traveled with. The girl sighs. “Freya Blake. Not one of the colored people blessed to be chosen by our open-minded Consortium. I don’t practice magic.” A doddery old man, a pompous braggart, a retired nurse, a spell writer supervising farmers, and now a nonpracticing poet. Are these people truly all of Radley’s top graduates? Everyone looks to Bronte next. She gulps. Whenever she imagined this night, she anticipated revealing her true identity, begging for help, and then promptly leaving with the knowledge of where her mother is or how to find her. But these drafty corridors and darkened rooms they pass don’t seem to promise much in the way of help or hospitality. Something sinister coats the school’s musty air. Or maybe she’s searching the shadows for monsters where there are none. Don’t reveal yourself until you know the game you’re playing. “I’m Cade.” At least this first part is not a lie. She scans the smug disdain stamped on Percy’s face for a reaction. “Sappho Cade.” He blinks but turns away. “Sappho Cade.” The sharp eyes of Eliot’s friend devour her. “Now, that is interesting.” Bronte stiffens, waiting for her mask to be yanked off. Though she assumed pouty Percy would do the yanking, not whoever this pompous poet is. “And this,” Eliot interrupts Bronte’s staring contest with his companion, “is my twin. Marlowe. A Consortium researcher. District Three as well.” Bronte snorts, imagining Marlowe supervising the verses of farmers. She must have been louder than intended, for Marlowe’s glare scrapes over her. “I should add,” Eliot rushes in, “to avoid any awkward apologies, they identify as neither a man nor woman.” “Pretty damned open-minded,” Percy reminds them in an arrogant whisper as they shuffle into the dining hall. “Yes, thank you.” Marlowe cuts through the tension with a dry laugh. “Thank you for avoiding any and all awkwardness there, El.” Eliot claps to hurry the conversation along. “Look, dinner!” A feast welcomes them, laid out in a buffet style along the hall, a cavernous room filled with rows of long tables with bench seating. The “nonpracticing” poet, Freya, hangs back in the doorway. “No host, no party, but there’s dinner?” Marlowe leans against the wall as Percy elbows past Agatha to grab a plate. “Let Percy stuff himself first, and we’ll see if he kicks it.” “Come on, Mar.” Eliot taps his twin’s shoulder. “Play nice.” Marlowe’s gaze pivots back to Bronte, so she scrambles to the back of the line to create space between them. She fills her plate with mashed potatoes and roast beef. Steam still spirals from the silver serving dishes, as if the feast was set out by their gracious host mere moments ago. Though upon closer inspection, she notices words etched into the metal: Thou, sun, are half as happy as we…Thine age asks ease, and since thy duties beTo warm the world, that’s done in warming us. “Clever use of Donne.” Eliot chuckles beside her. “Doubt he imagined his poetry would be used to warm some overcooked beef.” She might normally find Eliot’s dogged happiness grating, but given their situation, it soothes her. If someone could laugh at their predicament, then it couldn’t be dire. It’s an added bonus that the cheerier Eliot is, the grumpier his gloomy twin grows, proof that families operate in weird ways. One person can look upon the world and see rainbows and sunbeams, the other graves and goblins. One person can weave magic in verse, but her daughter could be ordinary. Normal. “Here’s something.” Ambrose’s voice pulls Bronte’s attention across the room to where he and Freya hunch over a cabinet, on which looms a massive gramophone. “There’s a record inside.” The older woman—Agatha, if Bronte remembers correctly—sets her plate down to join Ambrose and Freya’s examination. “Should we play it?” “Music is at least better than this entire conversation,” Percy grunts from one of the tables between bites of beef. Ambrose rotates the machine’s crank, and the needle falls into place. Nothing happens at first. Then a buzz of static pops and circles the room as the record plays. “Good evening, distinguished alumni of the Radley School of Poetry.” The greeting erupts in a low growl, something filtered over the voice to distort it and strip it of humanity. “You must forgive me for not being present to welcome you myself. I do hope dinner meets your satisfaction.” “What the hell?” Percy slurs, his mouth full of potato. What the hell indeed. Bronte abandons her plate, stepping closer to the gramophone so she doesn’t miss a single warped word. Static swirls for a few beats. “I am sure the seven of you have a few pressing questions.” “You bet your ass,” Percy snorts. “Please,” Ambrose scolds. “There are ladies present.” “Quite simply, you have been invited under false pretenses.” “Shocker,” Percy grumbles, sulking as curt shushes are thrown his way. “You must forgive my ruse. I summoned you here because I need your help. A spell has come into my possession of which I only have the first line. You will find it tucked among your napkins at the dining table.” Marlowe strides to the table and rips apart a napkin. A small card of stiff creamy paper flutters out. “You have until the beginning of term to complete the poem and deliver the spell. Even a simple quatrain will do, as long as it produces the desired effect. If you do this, you will have my eternal thanks.” “This is illegal!” Percy cries, and Bronte’s not sure if he means their host luring them to Radley or the plea for help writing a poem without his beloved Consortium’s knowledge or authorization. “If you do not…” The scratchy voice hesitates. “Well, I’m afraid you can’t leave until you do. The first ferry of the new term arrives in six days. Let us hope it finds you alive and well.” A crack of static and then silence. “That was cryptic as hell,” Percy mutters. Freya’s nails dig into the cabinet beneath the gramophone. “That was a threat.” Nobody has anything to add, so Ambrose shrugs. Bronte notices Marlowe’s gaze is still locked on the card from the napkin. “What’s the stanza?” They look up at her, then scan each occupant of the room. “Go on,” Eliot prods. Marlowe clears their throat. “On evening tide, my love departs to sea.” Buy the Book Death in Verse Julie Lew Buy Book Death in Verse Julie Lew Buy this book from: AmazonBarnes and NobleiBooksIndieBoundTarget Julie Lew loves all things fantasy and horror, the darker and queerer the better. Death in Verse is her debut young adult novel, and she is also the author of adult gothic horror, The Wives of Herrick Hall. When she’s not writing books about the magical and the monstrous, she’s likely exploring the Pacific Northwest with her partner, or playing endless games of fetch with her chihuahua-terrier pup, Kody. You can find her online at julielew.com or on Instagram @julielew. The post Read the First Two Chapters of <i>Death in Verse</i> by Julie Lew appeared first on Reactor.