by: Christine Amsden
Genre: Urban Fantasy
Release Date: May 20, 2025
Two souls, one body …
When Joy wakes up in an alley, she knows three things: she was brutally murdered, she has somehow come back to life ... and she is not alone. She’s been possessed by an inhuman presence, a being that has taken over her dying body. That being is powerful, in pain, and on the run from entities more dangerous than he is.
Shade, a Fae prince on the run, didn’t mean to share the body he jumped into. Desperate and afraid, accused of a murder he didn’t commit, he only sought a place to hide—but if he leaves Joy now, he faces discovery and a fate worse than death.
Forced to work together to solve multiple murders, including her own, Joy and Shade discover hidden strengths and an unlikely friendship. Yet as their souls become increasingly intertwined, they realize their true danger might come from each other … and if they don't find a way to untangle the knot their souls have become, then even the truth won't set them free.
Knot of Souls is a stand-alone buddy love fantasy that forces two very different beings to work together … and come out stronger on the other side.
The World of Knot of Souls
by: Christine Amsden
I can’t remember the moment when writing about the Fae occurred to me. It wasn’t an obvious choice because Fae don’t normally possess people, but I had run into interpretations of Fae as aliens before, an interpretation that brought me full-circle back to my initial inclination. I did mention that the line between fantasy and science fiction is fuzzy, right? I even make this observation explicit in a brief getting-to-know-you exchange in Chapter 17:
“So … you’re an alien?” Joy asked.Once the notion of Fae as aliens clicked into place, the world sort of exploded in my mind. They’re not corporeal, they’re beings of energy, of light and sound, and their magic works through sound, through the Songs of the Fae. They can possess people … and animals and plants (although plant possession doesn’t come up in the book) … and some of them do this regularly. Some of them live in the real world, human lifetime after human lifetime, and some of them absolutely refuse to do so. This is the big rift between them. And where would incorporeal Fae hang out? Probably not somewhere where humans tend to live, so I put them on the frozen continent of Antarctica. An insight that, in a flash, had me reconnecting my interpretation with the traditional notion of the Winter and Summer Courts.
“That’s what you got out of my story?”
“I’m curious about your powers and how they work. I thought it was magic, but if you’re an alien, then maybe not?”
“What’s the difference?”
From there, well … I tend to build worlds through my characters, so I began creating a backstory for my possessing entity, who I named Shade for spoilerish reasons that will become apparent when you read the book. Shade is a young Fae, only a couple hundred years old, one of four siblings Sung into existence by the King and Queen of the Fae. These four siblings were not raised together, but rather each raised by a different faction and sub-faction of the High Court (which will ultimately fragment into Winter and Summer as a result of the events of the story).
Shade was raised in Antarctica by the Fae who will become the Winter Court, a group that disdains becoming flesh, calling the corporeal host “a prison of flesh.” He grows up hearing stories of some far-off origin planet he doesn’t know and will never know, and he’s desperately lonely. His only friend is his sister, Astra, who is raised by a faction that wants to go back into space and leave Earth in search of a new, more hospitable homeworld. (There is rather a lot of iron here.) But Astra betrays him, trapping him in a cave to try to kill him and setting off a chain of events that leads to Shade on the run, accused of the murder of his own maker, Queen Titania.
He jumps into Joy’s body after he watches her being murdered. He jumps, as he was taught to do, in that brief window after her soul is gone but before the body is too far gone to heal (with Fae magic). At least, that’s what he thinks he did. By the time he realizes Joy’s still in there, his accusers have placed sentries in the Kansas City area, waiting and watching and forcing him to stay put.
Joy is not a normal human. Ultimately, she becomes the answer to the question: What happens when a Fae has a child in corporeal form? And it’s no coincidence that Shade chose her. He did, after all, give birth to her great-grandmother – and he has a soft spot where family is concerned.
There’s more, of course. Much, much more! Begun through the point of view of Joy, a “normal” human, this story attempts to walk you gently into a vast new world of the Fae that takes some inventive liberties while paying homage to the source lore.
I hope you enjoy this fast-paced and imaginative story full of mystery, magic, and a powerful connection between two damaged souls.
Chapter 1
Joy
The first thing I realized, after I died, was that my body could walk and talk and no longer needed my help for any of it. I was in there, able to look through my eyes and hear through my ears, but even the simple task of aiming my gaze had slipped outside my control. I was a passenger inside my own mind, an observer along for the ride.
Kristen had been right, I thought numbly as I struggled to make sense of my new reality. Had it only been lunchtime today when she’d told me I’d never get ahead if I didn’t learn to assert myself? “Take control of your life,” she’d said, “or others will take it for you.”
She couldn’t have been thinking of anything quite so literal. Whatever was happening to me, it wasn’t because I’d failed to advocate for a promotion at work or refused to ask out a coworker.
Right?
My body reached my car and slid behind the wheel. A rattled thought—not my own—cursed as it tried to understand how the contraption worked. How much can cars have changed in only a century? Visions accompanied the thoughts, memories—again not my own—of a classic car, gleaming black and elegant, its top down, my bobbed hair whipping around my face as I laughed with glee, a white-faced young man at my side gripping the door, begging me to slow down. I did not.
Which brings me to the second thing I realized, after I died: I was no longer alone inside my own mind.
Whoever was in there didn’t seem to have noticed me yet. Fine. I slid into the smallest corner of my brain I could find, ignoring the intruder as they struggled to figure out how to work an automatic transmission. Maybe they’d get frustrated and give up and go find someone else’s body to possess.
Holy shit! I’ve been possessed by the ghost of someone who died in like 1930.
But why?
I tried to remember what had happened, but the images danced just out of reach. I recalled that the night had been unseasonably cold for October, the chill biting through my inadequate jacket as I hurried to my car, parked in a garage two blocks away from the shelter where I’d been volunteering. Hugging my arms around my torso for warmth, I took a shortcut through an alley and …
There was a noise. I’d startled, my heart pounding in my throat, already on edge because of the argument.
Wait. Back up. There’d been an argument. That seemed significant, but my scattered thoughts couldn’t piece it together as yet, not when a bodily intruder fumbled at the gearshift of my two-month-old Hyundai Accent with only fifty-eight “low monthly payments” left to go.
Low is such a relative word.
My beautiful new, inexpensive (also relative) car jerked suddenly backwards out of its parking spot as the voice in my head grew angrier and more frustrated and … afraid. I saw flashes, images I didn’t understand of multi-colored ghosts who seemed to be singing. The more they sang, the more desperate I felt as fear, my own and somehow not my own, made it hard to breathe.
We streaked across the nearly empty parking lot in reverse, almost colliding with the only other vehicle in the place—a red SUV with scratched paint and a dented front bumper suggesting it regularly attracted unwanted attention from other cars. I tried to scream, but didn’t have control of my voice. I tried to hit the brakes, but instead the possessing spirit shifted from reverse to drive without stopping. The grinding of gears made me want to weep, but we came to a stop, breathing heavily, muscles tensed as if in expectation of attack.
They destroyed her. They tore her apart.
I had no time to wonder what any of that meant before the thing possessing my body channeled its anger and grief into a force I’d never experienced or even known existed. One second, the battered red SUV was parked inches from my back bumper, the next, it flew through the air, smashing against a far wall, its frame crumpling like an accordion.
I tried to make myself even smaller, a nearly impossible feat, but I couldn’t let it know I was in here. If it could do that to an SUV, I didn’t want to think about what it might be able to do to me.
Now what?
For one, panic-filled moment, I thought I’d asked the question. Then I realized I wasn’t the only one trying to figure things out.
My car rolled forward again, its speed uneven, first too fast and then—I slammed on the brakes. Well, maybe I didn’t do it, maybe the thing inside me had the same idea as me, but the car skidded to a halt so it just kissed a large concrete pillar. At least it’s just the paint, I tried to tell myself, but rage welled up within me and my fist slammed into the center of the steering wheel, eliciting an angry honk.
An ominous crack formed in the concrete pillar, more evidence, in case I needed it, that the thing invading my body had powers beyond belief. Then came more rattled thoughts that were definitely not my own:
Who thought it was a good idea to build obstacle courses in the sky? Is there not enough room on the ground? Too damn many humans …
Once again, I drew away from the voice in my head. If I hadn’t lost all connection to my body, I’d be trembling, but even so, I felt the sort of cold that seeps through to the soul.
The third thing I realized, after I died, was that the thing possessing me wasn’t a ghost. Or at least, not the ghost of a human.
My car backed away from the concrete column and maneuvered around it to continue the winding path down … down … down to the exit.
Where was my body going and why? More importantly, what would happen if I made myself known and asked?
I reeled at the thought, mentally slinking all the way back to the homeless shelter where I’d been volunteering in the hours before my death. I’d had a crappy day and needed to channel that into a sharp reminder that plenty of people had it much, much worse. Their circumstances, their personalities, their trials and tribulations didn’t fit neatly in the lock box some tried to label and forget, but all of them struggled in some way. They needed help, and sometimes I needed to be needed; it helped me feel less alone.
Tonight, though … tonight there’d been a problem. I remembered having a nice chat with one of the regulars, Roger, big-hearted and with a certain excited energy about him. He’d found a job and was working hard to get back on his feet, but he still couldn’t find a place to rent after being evicted from his old apartment. Now, he lived in his car except when the nights grew too cold, and he was always there to lend a helping hand or just to listen. He had a way of getting people to open up, even me.
He’s the one who jumped in when Thomas started getting belligerent, ranting and raving about false witnesses and evil spirits. The whole thing was so sudden and confusing, I’m not even sure how it happened. One second I’m chatting with Roger about the crappy end to a crappy day—accidentally seeing porn on a coworker’s computer—the next Thomas is in my face, grabbing a fistful of my shirt as he accused me of being a liar, of being in league with the demon spirits, demanding I admit that I could see them too. I was off balance;, I don’t know what I said, I only know what I felt. There was a moment when I looked into his eyes and saw fear and desperation reflected back at me. Then he was being dragged away, thrown out of the shelter …
But he hadn’t been the one to sneak up behind me and kill me. I thought he was, at first. When I heard the noise in the alley, I jumped and looked around, sure it would be Thomas. But it was someone else.
No, not someone else, something else. The thing possessing me wasn’t the first nonhuman I’d encountered tonight. That honor belonged to a blur, a shadow, a … the only way I could think to describe it was as if a small child had found a gray crayon and colored over an otherwise human shape.
I knew I’d died. The bright light I’d only heard about—never believed in—had beckoned and I’d known it was over. Dead in a cold alley; would anyone notice before morning? Who would even mourn me? I had few friends and fewer attachments. No husband or kids, not even a boyfriend. My cat would probably find someone else to feed her. Some might say that was a blessing, not to leave anyone behind, but all I saw was lost potential. If only … the words that would follow me into my lonely grave.
Where had the light gone? I’d seen it, I’d hesitated, I’d wondered if there really was a god after all, and then…
… my body was walking and talking and thinking and acting and I was along for the ride.
My beautiful blue car, none the worse for wear, exited the garage without running into anything else and turned onto the empty city street. Fewer cars might mean lower odds of getting into another accident, although it was clear the thing in my body had little experience driving. It swerved left and right, unable to center itself in the lane, and braked suddenly at a flashing yellow stoplight, which bent backwards in reaction.
That’s when I reached the final—and belated—realization of the most bizarre night of my life. (Afterlife?) If I didn’t take over the driving of this vehicle, I’d die. Again.
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Speculative fiction is fun, magical, and imaginative but Christine believes great speculative fiction is about real people defining themselves through extraordinary situations. She writes primarily about people, and it is in this way that she strives to make science fiction and fantasy meaningful for everyone.
In addition to writing, Christine is a freelance editor and political activist. Disability advocacy is of particular interest to her; she has a rare genetic eye condition called Stargardt Macular Degeneration and has been legally blind since the age of eighteen. In her free time, she enjoys role playing, board games, and a good cup of tea. She lives in the Kansas City area with her husband and two kids.
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