Whisper (Philtres of Balkirk Series)

A Fugitive Alchemist. A City on the Brink.

In the grimy alleys of South-Central Balkirk, Horatio brews philtres that grant temporary powers no one should have—least of all an outlaw like him. Addictive and illegal, these potions are stolen from the Oligarchy, and every dose pushes Horatio one step closer to being caught—or consumed.

Now hiding out in the volatile Splendor District with his girlfriend Rin and best friend Devon, Horatio takes on a risky job: uncover why gang leader Marlini Fives is tearing apart a fragile truce with her rivals, the Brass Horns. The deeper he digs, the clearer it becomes—this isn’t about gang territory. It’s about control. Of minds. Of power. Of the district itself.

As enemies close in from all sides—old, new, and inhuman—Horatio must choose: stay hidden in the shadows, or risk everything to stop the spread of a philtre more dangerous than any he’s ever brewed.

WHISPER is the gritty, fast-paced first entry in The Philtres of Balkirk series, a steampunk noir that blends alchemy, addiction, and rebellion in a city that never forgets.

Read WHISPER now and follow Horatio into the Mire.

Excerpt from the book

Horatio rolled over in his sleep and realized he’d rolled out of bed right before his face hit the gritty wood floor. He untangled his legs from the damp sheets still tying them to the mattress and sat with his back against the bed, rubbing his face. Nemma, the calico cat who’d been with him almost as long as Rin, sat watching him with what he imagined was amusement. She licked her side twice, gave him one more brief glance, and sauntered into the other room with her tail in the air, looking pleased about something.

Rin wasn’t there. Not that he’d expected her to be. Her most recent disappearance had begun less than a week ago, but still, he missed her. She always thought it was hilarious when he fell out of bed.

Another pounding on the door made him realize what had woken him. He wondered who could be bothering him at this forsaken hour until he noticed the trickle of gray light dribbling from behind the faded drapes. It must have been close to noon. He scrambled to his feet and tugged on his pants from where they lay crumpled at the end of the bed.

“Just a minute!” His voice was hoarse and phlegmy, coming out as a croak as he stumbled over to his desk and rummaged in one of the hidden drawers for a philtre—any philtre. Nemma jumped onto the desk and meowed, but he didn’t have any raw lyx with him to give her, so he pretended he didn’t know what she wanted and scratched her head with his free hand while the other foraged in the drawer.

His fingers closed on a small vial of clear, amber liquid. Blink. It would do. He should have gotten up earlier to make something else, but now it would have to wait. He pulled out the little rubber stopper and downed the contents in one swallow. It burned on the way down, but a second later, everything came into sharp focus, and his frazzled mind honed on every detail.

His office, which doubled as their living room and Devon’s bedroom when he was around, was cluttered with a leather sofa, once black, now gray with wear, and a round, wobbly wooden table with four chairs that were so uncomfortable they rendered the entire set little more than a bad sculpture. His plain, massive wood-and-stone desk crouched in front of the dirty square window, ripe with secret compartments, because, as he’d told Rin when he’d insisted on bringing it with them from the Telgado District, “you can never have too many secret compartments.”

The bedroom had no door, only a faded curtain that shifted from purple to a tired pink-brown depending on the light and the time of day. A narrow door on the right, next to the curtain, hid the bathroom—a squat-hole and a shallow wash basin above which a cord could be pulled to fill it with water that was sometimes even warm, although this far south, nobody cared much either way. There was even a drain in the floor so they could take some facsimile of a shower.