T. Frohock (she/her)

@tfrohock.com

2481 Followers 507 Following

CI-borg and Wellman award finalist--author of the Los Nefilim series from Harper Voyager US. I've long been accused of telling stories, which is a southern colloquialism for lying. Repped by Lisa Rodgers, JABberwocky Literary Agency www.tfrohock.com

Lucian detected a subtle shift beneath the resonance of the old magic. This was no echo. Whatever caused the change was different from anything he’d ever felt before—something old but still very, very powerful. He started walking again. The slope grew steep. Each step was agony. He stopped to rest, leaning on his cane with both hands, his boot tight around his calf. Lucian, the sudden whisper was right at his shoulder. A cover shot of the novel Miserere on a mauve background accompanied by the following excerpt: The wind snatched at his hair. He raised his head and saw nothing, no one. The words weren’t spoken aloud. He wanted to touch the hilt of his sword but feared releasing his cane. The pain in his hip and back became an agony.
A beautiful gift wrapped with brown flowered paper and reading stickers with a tiny copy of little women and a black ribbon.
One of the Bolsheviks' great strengths at a time when the masses had little political sophistication was to make their orators repeat slogans, not to try to convince their audience through argument (a technique which still seems to work). On a train to Orel, a right-wing relative of the composer Rimsky-Korsakov found himself in a carriage with a group of apprentice agitators. One or two had little Bolshevik-fashion goatees. "They repeated slogans aloud in order to memorize them: "Peace to the ..."
In the name of womanhood and of humanity, I earnestly ask that a general congress of women, without limit of nationality, may be appointed and held at some place deemed most convenient, and at the earliest period consistent with its objects, to promote the alliance of the different nationalities, the amicable settlement of international questions, the great and general interests of peace. JULIA WARD HOWE. Boston, September, 1870.
Photo of a keyboard with a cat’s claw between the F4and F5 keys
Email Address: info.aota.radiostatiion@gmail.com Message: Hello, Unless I have a severe brain disorder, we haven’t met before. Your work surfaced during our programming review for an upcoming global broadcast sequence, and that is the specific reason I am reaching out. Specifically, our team was reviewing: "Lasts and Firsts" We were moved by your "tacit emphasis on transitions" and the way you’ve captured the annual mile markers that define a child’s year. The sensory richness of June bugs hitting screens and the "last snow day" announcement via radio is exactly the kind of evocative, rhythmic storytelling that we believe belongs in a high-end auditory landscape. I am Pam Stack, Founder of the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network. I am not here to occupy your inbox, so I will get straight to the point. We are preparing for our next production rotation and we are moving beyond standard interviews. We are selecting a limited number of master storytellers to feature through "Theatre of the Mind" audio experiences, transforming your narrative into an immersive feature paired with professional voice talent and custom sound engineering. The Scale of the Network: Global Footprint: We broadcast and stream across 153 countries, engaging a sophisticated community of readers, educators, and families who value literary thoughtfulness. U.S. Dominance: Through our partnership with iHeartRadio, your feature enters a stream reaching 158 million monthly listeners. Market Impact: iHeartRadio reaches 9 out of 10 Americans every month, providing the elite social proof required to bridge the gap between a celebrated author and a globally recognized media personality. I do not invite just anyone. Because we maintain strict production standards to protect our broadcast quality, we only open a few slots for this cycle. Would you like me to send over the short breakdown of how this works for your book and your audience? A simple 'Yes' or 'Interested' is perfect. Pam Stack
A short video with no sound but the following text: Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, who was kept captive in a tall tower by an evil witch. She lived in innocence until a handsome prince found her and scaled her tower. They fell in love as only two adolescents can—passionately and sweetly. This isn’t that story... This story is about a priestess and an exorcist. They fall in love as only two adolescents can—passionately and brutally. But when they part ... and they do ... he leaves her in Hell, where she is possessed by a demon. They meet again in the wilderness of a doomed city guarded by white roses with human faces. But the exorcist’s sister hasn’t forgotten her brother or his betrayal. And when she finds him ... and she will ... ... she vows to turn his heart to glass, grind it to powder, and crush the souls of everyone he loves. It ends with a cover shot of the novel Miserere: An Autumn Tale.
A post from Threads by meghanannrose, which is John Singleton Copley's painting: Ascension, which depicts the ascension of Christ before the disciples and angels. Meghanannrose's caption reads: "My doctor telling everyone he's now out of network."
A forest obscured by a dark red background and the following text: The residue of Lucian’s magic tingled through her veins. Ever since his exile, she’d starved her heart of his love and purged her flesh of his touch. All she kept were his notes, because somewhere in those words lay her freedom from the creature eating her brain. But Lucian her lover? He was dead to her. Until tonight. She slammed her hand against the wall and strangled her angry cry, afraid her emotions would resurrect the demon. The dead don’t come back. But sometimes they did.
A picture of the cover of Miserere (A man kneeling between two woman all are dressed in armor) and the following passage: Grabbing Caleb’s sword, Lucian whirled. He couldn’t leave the man there. If Caleb returned to consciousness during the exorcism, they’d all be helpless against him. One strike would suffice. The death would be quick, almost painless. Lindsay grabbed his arm. “We said no more killing. We said that. You promised, Lucian.” He looked from the girl’s horrified eyes back to Caleb. “They’re the killers. Not us.” Lindsay dug her fingers into his forearm.
A montage of two white roses, a raven, text from a Slavic psalter against a brown and blue background of spooky trees.
And what does that misplaced reverence say about us, about our capacity to contend with real mystery? AI is predictable by its design; that is how large language models work, through probability. Premodern mysticism was not concerned with the predictable or the probable, but with the opposite: with moments of irruption, of disabling wonder. Why do we want our gods to be so bland, our oracles so anemic? Do we get the gods we deserve?
I think we ought to guard against an impulse to mystify artificial intelligence. I learned a lot from James Gleick’s piece in this paper (“Bad Readers”), in which he explains how artificial intelligence models “string together words based on comprehensive statistics on how people have previously strung together words”: there is no miracle here, only the “uncanny” appearance of one. AI is not an oracle and not a god, and to describe its effects in terms of either the human or the divine—hallucinations, for example—is imprecise. It is true that the textureless authority of AI-generated writing makes us feel as if we are in the presence of an omniscient being. But we lose something important about being human if AI becomes our primary contact with the unknown, our primary experience of the inexplicable.
An excerpt from Los Nefilim: “I’ve already seen everything you have to offer,” Miquel sang softly as he buckled the straps of his shoulder holster. Grabbing his favorite tie, he put it around his neck. “I’ll show you what I have to offer later. If you’re sweet.” “Let’s see what Juanita has to say about that.” Still unhappy about being bullied into a visit to the clinic, Diago snapped at his husband. “I might be too injured to engage in show and tell.” “Now you’re just being cruel.” He edged close and parted Diago’s robe to press his palm against his hip. “Besides, I can be very gentle.”
A brindle put bull with blue and purple leads.
Art deco frames on a purple textured background. Cover art for Los Nefilim by T. Frohock and the following text: Diago lowered his voice. “I won’t leave him like my father left me. If you don’t want to stay—” I will sorrow for ten thousand years. Diago swallowed hard. “I’ll understand.” Miquel made no sign he heard. He glared at Prieto, his fist working at his side. Afraid he might forget himself and attack the angel, Diago eased in front of him and waited until Miquel met his gaze before he whispered, “Please. I need you.” Rafael wiped the corner of his eye with the sleeve of his coat. “I don’t want to go back to Sister Benita.” “You won’t,” Miquel snapped as he turned his dark gaze to Diago. “And you, you know why I’m angry.” “I know.” Diago exhaled and bowed his head as he clutched Rafael’s hand. “You’re right. We’ll talk. I promise.” Miquel maneuvered the child between them. “Later.” “That’s so sweet.” Prieto rolled the red marble beneath his palm in small circular motions. “But you won’t get to keep him, Diago. He’s ours. Candela hid him from us. We were looking in Sevilla, but here he was in Barcelona, tucked behind the black skirts of the nuns. Such a waste.” He ran his tongue over his upper lip. “Sister Benita was more than happy to turn him over to me. She thinks he is the devil’s son. I made sure she knew he was merely a daimon.” Prieto chucked at his own joke. “You think this is funny?” Miquel's face flushed crimson. “What do you want, Prieto? You didn’t stage this little drama for your own amusement. You need something from us, or we wouldn’t be here.”
A vintage shot of Paris behind the cover for A Song With Teeth and the following quotes: A Beautiful Marriage of LGBT Fiction and Historical Fantasy. In a time where stories can often at times feel formulaic, this novel dares to be different and wears it with pride. --Charlie Ceates, Culture Vulture
No sound. It's the image of a battered notebook with the phrase: 1939 Catalonia has fallen, Los Nefilim is in retreat. The next section shows a bombed crater with the text: Winter hit the Pyrenees hard with ice as treacherous as postwar loyalties. Both could kill with a single slip. The next section is the battered notebook with COMING SOON stamped on it and the last reel is of the battered notebook with Carved from Stone and Dream's cover on superimposed over it (an occult symbol with a skull in the center).
Diago stands in a room ravaged by his song. Frigid air chills his lungs. The drifts of parchment around his feet are all too real. Rushes, freshly woven into mats and sprinkled with meadowsweet can’t quash the odor of scorched glyphs tracing veins of silver over the stone walls. Tapestries lay crumpled against the floor, splashed with blood. A quill lands by the open window; the feather trembles like his heart.
Diago: She needed his dreams, she said, the whisper of his darkness. His father had been a nefil, the son of a daimon, and his mother an angel, who took her mortal form to give birth to him. He was the only nefil who carried the power of both angel and daimon in his voice. Candela insisted that his unique heritage gave him the ability to understand the song. No other nefil would do.
Supernatural Action in 1930s Barcelona! A picture of a gangster holding a gun and the cover of Los Nefilim by T. Frohock with one of my favorite quotes: "I say Nefilim, but really, they are more of a supernatural mafia." --Para, To Other Worlds
[no sound] Coming Soon is over an old film reel. Cover art for 4 novels hits the screen one at a time: Los Nefilim, Where Oblivion Lives, Carved from Stone and Dream, and A Song with Teeth. The caption over the novels reads: LOS NEFILIM and beneath the covers is the phrase: WATCH FOR THEM. Find out more at www.tfrohock.com
Black on the arm of the couch in a living room.
Lucian took one look before he stepped back from the rank odor of rust and mold flowing out of the darkness. He had no chance of escaping his sister’s guards on foot, especially through damp caverns. This was a cruel joke. “Are you mad? You expect me to crawl into that hole and go where?” “I thought you wanted an opportunity, or are you still looking for an easier way?” Father Matt’s voice turned as frigid as the air flowing out of the pit. “Perhaps you’d rather crawl back to your sister and throw yourself to her mercy. Obey her every command.” A pit of ice opened in his stomach at the thought of Catarina’s rage. Suffering upon suffering would result from his walking out on her this morning. “I thought so.” The priest held the little ball of light up before Lucian’s fearful eyes. “The light comes from our souls, Lucian, and you know by my light I am Katharos, because the fallen can’t make light—” “They only steal it,” he whispered.
A pit bull napping on my lap.
Run: Lucian kept his right leg away from her and leaned heavily on his cane. Blood seeped into his beard from a wound on his cheek. Beneath his tan, his skin was sallow, the circles beneath his eyes black. In his gaze Rachael immediately recognized the agony no drug could heal. She knew that look well. She had broken all her mirrors so she wouldn’t have to see her own distraught stare day after day. Now her pain looked back at her through his dark eyes, and for one blind moment, she wanted to run him through with her sword. Just to make their anguish stop. www.tfrohock.com #BookQW
A screen shot of five novels beginning with Miserere: An Autumn Tale and people that liked Miserere also liked BLOOD TRAIL by Tanya Huff, DEATH MASKS by Jim Butcher, THE WITCH ROADS by Kate Elliott, and THE DAUGHTERS' WAR by Christopher Buehlman.
Night shadows deepened when Lucian extinguished the candle beside his bed. The cry beyond his chamber ended too soon for him to determine its source. He listened for the noise to repeat itself. The hearth fire crackled. The blaze saturated the room with heat, but Catarina forbade open windows. His twin was always cold. Sweat crawled through his hair. The seconds ticked into minutes. He remained still. Listening. Wondering if they intended to come for him.
A beetle crawls over the letter "o" and two panels of wood frame half a woman's face as she stares out at the reader.
Black background and a nun holding her hands up in supplication. The nun's body is in shades of ombre white to red.
A sailing ship floating on a sea of blood into a cove.
A young woman's face: she is crying and flowers are sprouting from her lips.
A woodcut drawing of a twisting oak with a hangman's noose twisted on one branch.
A black and white image of whale bones on an artic beach.
A buffalo head in profile against a tan background.
The novel Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica has red devil horns obscuring the upper half of a woman's face.
In the throes of her possession, Rachael is helpless against the demon's assault on her mind ... She parted her lips, but the daemonium sensed a shift in the power. It slithered through her memories to distract her, firing a montage of images into her brain. Helpless against the onslaught, all she could do was ... … remember … Her father stood in her bedroom door, a swath of moonlight illuminating his naked body … she burrowed beneath her covers and feigned sleep, but his hand found her breast and … Tanith came close, whispering of traitors and monsters in the night … do not fear them, they are not here, but … Mastema’s eyes are full of poison, don’t look in his eyes, never look in his eyes … where cracked mirrors fell from the walls, shattered and broken like her faith … and John stood over the Eucharist, stained-glass light bathing his robes in shades of azure, crimson, and gold … and he spoke of God, of God, God, God, God …
A window under showing where to find the Bluesky Moderation Service, XBlock Screenshot Labeller, and the AI Imagery Labeler in Moderation settings under Advanced.
Dinosaur – Life Sized – Pterodactyls Quetzalcoatlus $850
A vent cover freshly painted in a buttery cream is on a table drying.
Caleb already had Lucian convicted and hanged, but the constable wasn’t proving trustworthy himself. When they examined the golem together, the fading glow around each of the wounds indicated strikes by a Citadel blade. Caleb had to know the truth even without seeing the insignia on Lucian’s scabbard. Yet he insisted Lucian had used Mastema’s power to create and then destroy the creature. Did he believe she was so taken by the daemonium she couldn’t analyze the evidence before her? A shadow rippled in a far corner of the nave. Her father's ghost stepped from the darkness, leaving wet footprints in his wake. “That dog don’t hunt, does it, baby?” No, sir. That dog be lying. Placing Lucian’s blade on the altar, she struck a black mark in Caleb’s column. The stove’s metal door screeched when he closed it. Rachael shivered. Her vision blurred, and when she looked again, her father’s ghost was gone. She took a ragged, shallow breath and unbuckled her sword to lay it beside Lucian’s. “Give me your sword.”
A china cabinet to the left of a dried flower arrangement. To the right is an open door leading to my living room.
A brindle pit bull lying with her head in my lap while I hold an ice pack on her tummy
A Blessing Tanith gives Rachael a blessing from the Goddess before she leaves for the Wasteland: “Then take my blessing with you.” “I’d be honored.” Tanith held Rachael’s gaze as she spoke the ritual words. “Blessed be thy lips, that shall utter the sacred names.” She kissed Rachael’s lips. “Blessed by thy third eye, that sees all.” She kissed Rachael’s brow. “The Crone rides at your side and She will protect you. May She bring you home to us safe. Here. Where you belong.” The hair on Rachael's arms rose at Tanith’s eerie echo of John’s parting words. The older woman stepped back and melted into the crowd before Rachael could whisper goodbye. Alone again, she mounted Ignatius and turned his head toward the gate. She rode away without looking back.
A pair of fawns lying Dow in the grass
Beige cover with rainbow images of Lucy Schwob and Suzanne Malherbe and a bottom image of Nazi soldiers marching.
A black background with bright yellow words "WARNING! Bear sighting in the area" with a Reidsville police badge and the silhouette of a bear and the address is near my house so there is that.
A black cat swatting beside a pit bull that is looking very distressed.
A tall tree with wisteria over a dogwood in bloom against a cloudy sky
When Lucian lived with Catarina, he would conjure the quiet times he and Rachael once shared, replaying them in his mind to soothe his anxiety. A slow ache of regret spread across his chest. Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I missed you. Every day.” Rachael said nothing, but he knew she wasn’t asleep by her sharp intake of breath. “When I was in prison, and I didn’t think I would last another hour without going mad, I thought of you. Of us.” “Stop,” she whispered. He looked up where a few stars blinked against the silken sky. A falling star arced through the air before the scattered clouds swallowed it. “Make a wish,” she said. “Anything?” “Make a wish.” Lucian closed his eyes. Lord, give me the time to win her back.
I've been MIA on social media lately. My husband needs a shoulder replacement, so I've been taking on all his responsibilities around the house (shopping, animals, yard work, etc.) around my full-time job. Tl;dr: Pls buy my books: https://www.tfrohock.com/fiction2
Agony soared through her. She couldn’t escape the visions assaulting her mind … her mother smiled through the bloody grin on her throat, and her father’s knife rose, and the Crimson Veil opened, but her father’s voice followed her through, and she wasn’t safe, never safe, even where Woerld held shadows, and deceit broke the night with eyes as dark as a storm, and she should never look in his eyes … “Rachael!” Lucian’s voice led her back to herself. “Say the words, Rachael! You know the words; you studied the rites!” “Deus …” The name burned her lips. “Deus exaudi orationem meam.” God, hear my prayer. Blisters burst across her tongue. “Auribus percipe verba oris mei.” Let your ears hear the words of my mouth. Lucian seized the demon’s spirit with his words. “I command you, moreover, to obey me, I who am a minister of God despite my unworthiness; give me your name.” Her heart seized, and for a moment, she was afraid it stopped beating, and then she was afraid she would never die.
Winter hit the Pyrenees hard with ice as treacherous as postwar loyalties. Both could kill with a single slip. Dark clouds smoldered over the jagged peaks, threatening a storm before the twilight ended. The wind blew in savage gusts, ready to rip all four nefilim from the old chamois trail and toss them into the valley far below. As Guillermo navigated a difficult climb to the summit, Diago waited on a narrow ledge with Feran and Carme. Barely sixty centimeters separated the trio from a sheer drop. Three hundred meters below, coniferous trees hid the valley’s floor. At their backs was a wall of stone that offered them no cover from either the wind or their enemies.
Guillermo went to the wall map. “What’s happening to you is extraordinary. I can’t find a single case where a nefil’s instrument has been used against them like this. Come here. See the black pin?” Diago joined him. “Blue for angel, red for daimon, black for . . . ?” “The unknown. Sabine Rousseau’s Les Néphilim reported strange music in the Strasbourg area, near the Rhine. Rousseau sent her people to canvass the French side of the river, but they found nothing. On a hunch, she sent three Néphilim into Germany. The music was the strongest here”—Guillermo’s blunt finger moved to the edge of the Black Forest—“about six kilometers northeast of Offenburg in the municipality of Durbach.” Diago considered the area. “Let me guess: the Grier estate is also in Durbach.” “You would guess correctly.”
Photos of the three novels Where Oblivion Lives, Carved from Stone and Dream, and A Song with Teeth against a red background.
Dark blue cover with riders silhouetted against a full moon
Art by Michael C Hayes of three warriors, two women flanking a kneeling man in a gothic setting.
Art by Michael C Hayes of three warriors, two women flanking a kneeling man in a gothic setting.