{"product_id":"lady-or-the-tiger-isbn-9781984816733","title":"Lady or the Tiger","description":"\u003cb\u003eA twisty, darkly seductive anti-hero origin story, starring a teenage killer whose trial in the Wild West is upended when her first victim, her husband, arrives alive with a story to tell.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“An evocative, ferocious exploration of darkness and truth—this one will come at you with a roar.” —Kerri Maniscalco, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eStalking Jack the Ripper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eA BOOKLIST BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSummer 1886—When nineteen-year-old Belle King turns herself in for murder, the last thing she expects to see is her abusive husband Reginald standing outside her Dodge City jail cell, impossibly alive. He’s there to take her back, but Belle is not going without a fight. Reginald was the first man she ever meant to kill, but certainly not the last . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow, while there are still bars between them, Belle is forced to resort to all the tricks in her arsenal to prevent her husband from ever being in control of her again. But in the 1880s, the last soul anyone will believe is a girl—even when she confesses to her own crimes.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWith the seductive horror of a fairy tale, \u003ci\u003eLady or the Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e is the dark, twisty story of how one mountain girl from Kentucky became the wickedest woman in the Wild West and an ode to girls with tigers in their hearts who can save themselves.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eLady or the Tiger\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA 2025 \u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003eEditor’s Choice Pick\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA 2026 Rise: A Feminist Book Project List Pick\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e “Herrman has created \u003cb\u003ea rare kind of book\u003c\/b\u003e: a \u003cb\u003etwist-filled murder mystery\u003c\/b\u003e dressed up in leather boots, spurs, and a cowboy hat. . . The writing is \u003cb\u003ecompelling and visceral\u003c\/b\u003e, with a multitude of colorful, complex characters, including the ferocious, canny protagonist. For readers who enjoy a \u003cb\u003epropulsive narrative\u003c\/b\u003e, this is \u003cb\u003ea special one indeed\u003c\/b\u003e. —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★ \u003c\/b\u003e“A \u003cb\u003edark, compelling\u003c\/b\u003e exploration of Alice’s dreams pitted against men’s demands on her. . . The \u003cb\u003eswiftly paced\u003c\/b\u003e writing is \u003cb\u003eintriguing, pulsing with danger and desire\u003c\/b\u003e. . . Full of constant twists and turns of love and terror. . . A very strong first buy.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“An \u003cb\u003eevocative, ferocious \u003c\/b\u003eexploration of darkness and truth—this one will\u003cb\u003e come at you with a roar\u003c\/b\u003e and stay with you long after the final page.” —\u003cb\u003eKerri Maniscalco\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eStalking Jack the Ripper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e“Herrman’s sophisticated exploration of the impact of men’s abuse of power are \u003cb\u003echilling\u003c\/b\u003e . . . but Belle’s individual strength and continued resistance prove \u003cb\u003einspirational\u003c\/b\u003e. The nonlinear timeline enhances the larger-than-life vignettes that are reminiscent of tall tales, maintaining a \u003cb\u003equick pace\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eadding tension to each dramatic beat.\u003c\/b\u003e . . \u003cb\u003eIntense hardship and adventure compellingly intertwine \u003c\/b\u003ein this Old West feminist journey.” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Corpse Queen\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003c\/u\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA 2023 Rhode Island Teen Book Award Nominee\u003cbr\u003eA 2022 YALSA Best Fiction for Young Adults Pick\u003cu\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003eA Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e★\u003c\/b\u003e “\u003cb\u003eStylishly smart and macabre\u003c\/b\u003e, the story . . . \u003cb\u003esparkle[s]\u003c\/b\u003e with class-defying friendships and warmth. \u003cb\u003ePart mystery\u003c\/b\u003e,\u003cb\u003e part thriller\u003c\/b\u003e, and part family discovery, this is \u003cb\u003ea delicious horror story\u003c\/b\u003e from which \u003cb\u003ethe reader can’t look away\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003cb\u003estarred review\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This historical thriller is \u003cb\u003edark, twisty, and perfect for a spooky fall read\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eBuzzfeed\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eDark. Glittering. Dangerous.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003ci\u003eThe Corpse Queen\u003c\/i\u003e is \u003cb\u003edeliciously macabre\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eutterly decadent\u003c\/b\u003e. Like a well-placed scalpel, Molly’s sharp mind and cool determination in a male-dominated world will slip under your skin and snip at your heartstrings. A \u003cb\u003ecinematic\u003c\/b\u003e story \u003cb\u003ecleverly plotted\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003eintoxicatingly addictive\u003c\/b\u003e; I gulped it down in one sitting.” —\u003cb\u003eKerri Maniscalco\u003c\/b\u003e, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eStalking Jack the Ripper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The plot \u003cb\u003erockets\u003c\/b\u003e along, greased by the rot of the dead, to a \u003cb\u003esatisfying\u003c\/b\u003e, and somewhat surprising, conclusion. \u003cb\u003eIf Poe’s daughter told a story, this might be it.\u003c\/b\u003e” —\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eDripping with Gothic decadence\u003c\/b\u003e and \u003cb\u003edark romantic allure\u003c\/b\u003e, this novel \u003cb\u003ehits all the right notes\u003c\/b\u003e. . . It’s \u003cb\u003ea must-read\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eHypable\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A historical mystery that \u003cb\u003ewill give you goosebumps\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003ePop Sugar\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eSmartly written\u003c\/b\u003e with a decidedly \u003cb\u003edark demeanor\u003c\/b\u003e . . . this \u003cb\u003eimmersive, \u003ci\u003eFrankenstein\u003c\/i\u003e-tinged\u003c\/b\u003e novel considers misogyny, socioeconomic divides, and social norms at a specific moment in modern surgery’s beginnings.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eA wonderfully macabre thriller\u003c\/b\u003e that mines considerable \u003cb\u003etension and chills\u003c\/b\u003e from the grotesqueries and disturbing lack of ethics in nineteenth-century medical inquiry, leaning as much on various characters’ utter lack of compassion as on blood and guts for its horror. Molly is \u003cb\u003eappealing in her complexity\u003c\/b\u003e . . . [and] as taken by new science as any clever girl would be. . . \u003cb\u003eA winner for fans of Bray’s Diviner series\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Bulletin of the Center for Children's Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Set in 1850s Philadelphia, this \u003cb\u003emacabre\u003c\/b\u003e novel is full of death, corpses, and anomalies. It highlights the dark practice of body snatching that was historically used to study anatomy. The writing is \u003cb\u003efast paced\u003c\/b\u003e and highlights Molly and her aunt as independent feminists. \u003cb\u003eThe dark plot flows well\u003c\/b\u003e with a surprise ending, keeping readers intrigued. . . \u003cb\u003eA great YA addition \u003c\/b\u003eto libraries serving high school students, \u003cb\u003ethis gothic fiction title will appeal to young adult fans of the horror genre\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eSchool Library Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003cb\u003eFull of scares and surprises\u003c\/b\u003e.” —\u003ci\u003eGirls’ Life\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[For] fan[s] of the \u003cb\u003edark and macabre\u003c\/b\u003e. . . [and] stories that dig into the earthy underbelly of society.” —\u003ci\u003eMuggleNet\u003c\/i\u003eHeather Herrman's fiction blends beauty and the macabre. She loves prairie winds, tales of wicked women, and landscapes that look like they could eat you. She holds an MFA in fiction from New Mexico State University and is an active member of the Horror Writers Association. Heather currently lives outside Dallas, Texas.\u003cb\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe End\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNow—­Summer 1886\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDodge City, Kansas\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot all little girls are born murderers, but every woman becomes one.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost simply destroy pieces of themselves—­their dreams, their desires, their right to speak to whom and what they please.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI kill men instead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYou see, I rather like my dreams, dark as they are. And my voice is my own. In fact, it has made me a fortune, slipping and sighing its way across the world’s greatest stages, then rising to steal unapologetically from the private opera boxes of the rich. I’ve ruined many a silk shirt with my glass-­shattering operettas.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMany a man too.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs of this, my nineteenth year, I’ve killed a dozen men. More, if you count the time I helped my \u003cbr\u003emother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut right now, there is only one man on my mind. And if I’m not careful, he’ll catch me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is midnight, and I stand in the middle of a dirty street in Kansas, letting the ebb and flow of humanity swell against me. The air smells of cow shit and danger. Ladies of ill repute who have been flung here by careless fate, buffalo hunters who kill hundreds of beasts a day without a spark of remorse, and men with no names come to seek riches. Amongst them travel a very few of the land’s original people, nearly washed away now by this crushing wave of greed and guns.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFor a moment, I think of running.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI could be in Boston by midweek. Paris in four. I have friends all over the world. Palaces to harbor in. Ancient manors with priceless wine cellars eager to fling their doors open to me. No one could stop me. I could run forever.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut then I see it. The single shadow of a bird, its daylight wings pressed against the moon, where it should not be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe’s close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I know. There is only one place I will be safe.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAs for all my performances, I have dressed for the occasion. Wrapped around me is a blanket of pure emerald silk, given to me by a king’s nephew in London. He paid an unspeakable sum for the treasure, hoping I would lay myself upon it like a fine treat waiting to be consumed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, I’ll spoil it here.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I was a little girl, I wore a single dress for three years, my mother letting out the hem with each inch I grew until the dirty yellow calico finally fell away from me like a skin I was shedding.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNow I have money enough to buy a dressmaker’s factory. A dead empress’s trousseau if I so choose.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNot that it matters anymore. The dead don’t need dresses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOverhead, the night is the kind of black that is almost clear, as if someone painted it on the back of a crystal plate. Tiny holes of brilliant light poke through, scattering the sky with stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA perfect necklace. Tilting my head back so that they lace my throat, I open my mouth and scream.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere, on the prairie, there is nothing to stop it, no trees or hills or rivers to dampen the sound. Only a tiny spill of buildings, laughably small against the endless flat land, cobbled together like children’s toys with pasteboard and bricks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy voice, trained for crowds of thousands, rises easily into the night, filling it, but no one seems to notice.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eScreams, in this town, are apparently as common as spurred boots and tobacco spit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA cowboy brushes against me, stumbling drunk and following the guiding red light of a trainman \u003cbr\u003ewho uses his lantern’s glow to lead new arrivals to the town’s brothels. Because of this, they’ve started to call this collection of watering holes and entertainment the red-­light district. The sound of a shot is followed by the crescendo of a player piano’s canned notes as a saloon door swings open and two gamblers tumble into the street, fists swinging.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt is, overall, a rather rude audience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe people here are a mix of outlaws and citizens trying to maintain their morals in Gomorrah. Dodge City, the Wickedest Town in America, according to the papers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut I’m the wickedest of them all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd I don’t like to be ignored.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let go of my silk and step into the street. In this moment, I want them to see me in all my power.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI scream again, lifting my voice to the sky like a wild animal. Which is exactly what I am.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFinally, someone pays attention. A startled man with a curled mustache nearly falls off his horse trying to get a better look before stating the obvious. “That girl’s stark naked!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA ruddy-­faced woman who’d been hanging off the porch of the Long Branch Saloon steps out from under a man’s arm and raises a curious eyebrow, sister to sister. She gives a sharp whistle that brings two other girls to her side. One of them is no more than thirteen, black curls frizzing about her pretty brown face. I hope she is not working there, but I know she is. The whistling woman’s hand goes to the breast of her gown, where I’ve no doubt she’s got a pistol tucked between her large breasts, but I ignore her unspoken offer of assistance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBesides, it’s too late. A crowd is beginning to form, a circle of twenty or so of the wayfarers who’ve swollen this town like a tick on the blood of the frontier’s trade. Two men in dirty miners’ overalls, their reinforced pockets heavy with rocks, press eagerly toward me. It’s not hard to read their thoughts. Why pay for something you can get for free? To them I am a gold nugget glittering in a stream, ready for the taking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI let them get close enough to touch me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd then I begin to sing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI thought long and hard about this, my last song. What should it be? In what key should I sing it? I could give them Offenbach’s \u003ci\u003eMadame Papillon\u003c\/i\u003e or something from Purcell. Perhaps “Dido’s Lament,” which sent men away from the opera house in Vienna weeping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eInstead, I choose a folk tune. One that used to be sung to me by my mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOne that, once upon a time, I sang to the first man I killed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGo to sleep now,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ego to sleep now,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebirdini, birdini\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eGo to sleep now,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ego to sleep now,\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ebirdini, birdini . . . \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That ain’t no girl.” The cowboy’s gaze flicks to the Wanted posters with my face stamped upon them. \u003ci\u003eDead or Alive. \u003c\/i\u003eI watch dozens of other eyes skitter over.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt’s a poor rendering, unfortunately. There’s a painting of me hanging in a gentleman’s boudoir in Bruges, worth thousands, that’s far more flattering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHere my chin is far too sharp, and my eyes appear small and close together. There is a hunger in them. A feral innocence that I thought I erased long ago. If I stare too long at the posters, I feel like I might cry. The girl in the drawing does not look like a woman at all. She looks like the frightened child I used to be.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSo I don’t look. Instead, I sing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLouder now, and I know that I have chosen the right song by the silence that surrounds me. It’s a simple song, for simple people, but it is one many of them have heard since they were babies. One their own mothers sang to them. One of love. Of lost innocence. Here, in the moonlight, I see the glint of tears in a cowboy’s eyes, a man, I’ve no doubt, who would not hesitate to put a bullet through the brain of any unwise enough to insult him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut in this moment, I could reach out and touch his forehead, kiss his cheeks and demand he \u003cbr\u003elay down his guns for the rest of his life, and he would.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is power in a woman’s voice. More power still when it reaches the ears of men unaccustomed to listening.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI finish the song, and the hush that follows swallows us whole. Crickets and the far-­off rumble of thunder, my coda.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere is a disturbance in the crowd as a man steps forward.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe is short, which is why, I’m certain, his hat is so tall. He walks with the tilted swagger of a man with lifts in his too-­new boots. And on his chest is a gold star, so shiny I know it’s freshly pinned. This must be the man I’m looking for. Dodge City’s newest sheriff, the man who replaced the famed Wyatt Earp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you Belle King?” He clears his throat like an awkward schoolboy. “Are you . . . the Seamstress?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI straighten to my full height, which is a head taller than his own but, in the moonlight, appears two. It’s a trick I used onstage, throwing my head back and spreading my legs hip distance, sliding my shoulders down on my spine to appear larger than I really am. I’ve heard that cobras do much the same thing before they eat their prey.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI won’t go unnoticed. Not for this, my final performance. I answer him. “Yes.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA man of more experience would already have taken me into his possession. Or tried to, anyway. This man stands with his mouth hanging open, like he can’t decide whether to cry or fight. Finally, though, he speaks. The crowd around him leans in closer. This is a story they will pass down to their children and their children’s children to come.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sheriff’s voice is trembling, but to his credit the hand on his gun remains steady. “What do you . . . what do you want?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd, naked, nineteen, and with my whole life in front of me, I hold out my wrists and whisper so that only he can hear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I want you to arrest me.”","brand":"Nancy Paulsen Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301678108901,"sku":"NP9781984816733","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781984816733.jpg?v=1767731085","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/lady-or-the-tiger-isbn-9781984816733","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}