A forest valley that shouldn’t exist, filled with creatures the world forgot; a rambling castle, home to the tattered dregs of a vampire family, their servants and their toys; and one battered English rose.

Saved from childhood terminal illness by a mysterious and beautiful lady in the night, Catherine Blackwood grew up haunted by strange passions, chasing a high she couldn’t define, a thirst for a dream at the cliff-edge of mortality. She tried to be the sort of hero her lost saviour would have wanted, but cheating death had a price; Cata’s life has sunk into obscurity and loneliness, plagued by thirsts she could never slake — until she found a real cause, as an international volunteer in war worth fighting. Or so she thought.

Now, three years later, she’s back in England, with nasty scars, dubious skills, and no idea how she’s still alive. On the run from the law and the wreckage of her own meagre life, a chance meeting at a train station thrusts her together with a girl who seems to understand what she’s going through — and offers her a place to hide, out in the countryside.

But Rothramn Castle isn’t really in England; reached by a leap of faith with your eyes closed and a mouthful of blood from a stone cup, a leap into a valley shown on no maps.

Oh, and it’s full of vampires.

And sexually frustrated werewolves, polite ghosts in suits of amour, reclusive mudmen in the rivers and screeching harpy-women in the mountain crags. Dripping zombie constructs lurk in the stagnant forest lakes, while twisted gremlin-things with black eyes and too many teeth insist on dressing like maids and keep trying to eat all the books.

And Lady Karolin Rothramn looks so very familiar, fangs and all. Cata’s blood cries out for more, but this is a dangerous place to lose oneself.

A supernatural gothic soap opera of vampire sisters and running away from life, sipping tea with monsters and dealing with trauma, Rothramn is a web serial about lesbian romance, drinking blood, and healing life-long wounds.

Long live the new Demon Queen!

After the passing of the the XIIVIX Demon King, Lord Gloomdark Deathcloud of Evilgrin Fortress — yes, in battle, with his wounds in the fore. No, he wasn’t running away from some human rabble, who told you that? I want names.

Ahem. After the unfortunate death of the previous Demon Monarch, the coronation summoning ritual is now complete. Angramish has reached from the heavens and blessed all Demonkind with a fresh leader, incarnated in a new body. The Demon Kingdom (or Queendom, as the new Queen insists) is once again complete with its head, ready to march forth under her orders. Her horns are a bit small and she lacks Gloomdark’s stature, and his magic, and history of alliances, and his silver tongue, and his way with numbers, and the sheer experience built up on his stat sheets. But she’s got a mean right hook and moves like a butterfly. She’s even taking to some of his former consorts, which is odd, since she’s a woman and all. She’s a bit confused but she’s got the spirit. Glory be! All hail, etcetera and so on.

Except, our legions are still in full retreat, scattered before weapons we’re quite certain the humans didn’t possess last year. The queen has funny names for them, but I don’t know where she got those from.

And the Queendom is riddled with mortal ‘heroes’, all after the new queen’s head. They’re like rats, coming out of the wainscotting and getting into everything. Some whisper they’re even here, inside Fortress Evilgrin. The queen’s instituted a catch-and-release policy, so shh!

But worse than all that, the queen isn’t even a real demon. Neither was Lord Gloomdark. It’s the best kept secret in history. They’re both just souls plucked from the aether between worlds. Everything you believe is a lie, little demon.

The new queen knows nothing of strategy, economics, or rulership. Pretty much all she knows is how to throw a decent punch. Everything in this world is obviously fake to her, especially our stat sheets and our magic. But she has the horns and she has the dark halo, which means she has my— ahem, I mean, she has Angramish’s favour. Unless some brave demon was to win that from her.

She says her name is ‘Suvi’, that she’s from somewhere called ‘Inger-land’, and that all this must be a dream she’s having while dying.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe we’re all butterflies. In any case, something is very, very wrong with her stat sheet.

And it seems her grip on this world isn’t as solid as her devil-deal suggested it would be.

Pan-demon-aeon is a web serial about ridiculous demons, court intrigue, unrealistic warfare, the blurred line between fiction and reality, and the value of making friends even when they’re all wearing masks. And a dash of lesbian romance.

What’s worse than waking up in a metal coffin, with your body stitched back together from spare parts, while a dozen other wretches scream beside you in their own ressurection boxes? What’s worse than being undead and marooned on the muddy shores of time, surrounded by malfunctioning murder machines, revenant abominations, and wandering waves of mindless corpses? What’s worse than being a conduit for nanomachines and necromancy, a ghost barely inhabiting your own mutable flesh?

What’s worse? Finding out the whole world is dead too.

Humankind is done. History is ended. Nothing walks the black cinder of Earth but the undead leftovers, reanimated by science so advanced it may as well be magic. Accompanied by rusted war-machines still holding the posts of a thousand conflicts, twisted into unimaginable forms by flesh-shaping and machine-grafting, the undead are the only remnant of a civilization reduced to ash and organic slurry. Zombies shuffle through the ruins of nuclear fire and biological warfare and far worse, dwarfed by god-machines turned so alien that even the extinct necromancers would have run screaming.

But here and there things scuttle furtively through the rot and rust, beneath the acid rain and the forever-winter, things that still carry weapons and wear gas masks — though they have no need to breathe, not really. Things that sometimes stoop to help each other up, to hold hands, to cling together. Things that still have minds.

Elpida doesn’t know this world, but she’s up on her feet — along with a dozen other fresh Frankensteins who found themselves ripped from the oblivion of eternity, deposited on cold slabs in a lab of blinking lights and blaring alarms, by machines running some ancient program to spit them out into a world long dead.

In her own time, Elpida was meant to be a leader. Vat-grown, trained from birth, given a cadre. In her own time — failure, death, execution. But somebody must have backed up her memory engram, because now she’s here, copied and rebirthed a million years later, with something much more important to lead.

Her sisters — for sisters they must be, if they are to remain whole and sane — are not trained for this. Most of them were barely adults in their own times. Some come from eras before nanotech, others from before powered flight, one or two from before the wheel. And some of them aren’t right at all, some of them seem to come from elsewhere …

Their new bodies are a nightmare miracle of nanotechnology. Stitches and staples work like magic on fresh limbs, and forget antibiotics or the need for an immune system. Death never comes, not even when pulped brains are regrown with mycoprotein and raw electricity. But holding onto yourself under such conditions is not easy.

And they aren’t the only ones awake after the end.

Necroepilogos is a web serial about body horror and alienation, weird zombie-girls gluing themselves back together, mad science beyond mortal ken, and trying to cradle the flower of companionship in twitching, undead fingers.