Seers featured prominently in ancient Greek culture, but they rarely appear in archaic and classical colonial discourse. Margaret Foster exposes the ideological motivations behind this discrepancy and reveals how colonial discourse privileged the city’s founder and his dependence on Delphi, the colonial oracle par excellence, at the expense of the independent seer. Investigating a sequence of literary texts, Foster explores the tactics the Greeks devised both to leverage and suppress the extraordinary cultural capital of seers. The first cultural history of the seer, The Seer and the City illuminates the contests between religious and political powers in archaic and classical Greece.

It's February 1942. War grips the world. Asian hate runs rampant, and New Orleans is a dangerous place for Chinese-English scientist Thomas Ling as he collides with self-proclaimed psychic Beatrix Patterson. She's a good liar with an excellent memory, which in truth is her only gift—well, that and conning the well-heeled out of their money and secrets. Hired by the US Army to use her connections to expose Nazi saboteurs and sympathizers, Beatrix recruits the reluctant Thomas. Together, they pit their skills against a government conspiracy, terrorist cells, kidnappings, and murderous plots. As Beatrix grapples with the truth of her own past, she must come to terms with her ruse. Exposing the Nazi war machine about to invade the country could cost Beatrix everything she's worked so hard to build. But the information she and Thomas uncover could change the outcome of the war. The question remains: will anyone believe a liar and a suspected traitor?

The Seer By David Stahler Jr. HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 David Stahler Jr. All right reserved. ISBN: 9780060522902 Chapter One The great ringed moon had come and gone, moving across the sky with a speed one could almost trace if the eyes were patient enough to follow. And now even its sister moon, small and pink, tagging slowly along behind, had begun its sinking, and as the morning light crept back into the world, Jacob Manford stirred within his damp pocket of grass and dreamed. He had been following her too long--for what seemed like hours, maybe even days--along the streets of Harmony, moving from tier to tier, from north to south, east to west, cutting through the heart of the colony each time, then twisting along unfamiliar lanes before coming back around. At first he kept losing her. She kept fading around the corners and he, running to catch up, seemed to just miss her each time. Maybe he waited, maybe he turned back--it didn't matter, she always reappeared. That was at first. Now she no longer vanished and he knew that he was gaining, that it was only a matter of time. He was close now, close enough to hear her breathing, almost close enough to touch the dark strands of hair that floated behind her though there was no breeze. He was close enough that he knew he only had to whisper her name and she would hear him. "Delaney," he called, "please stop. I'm tired." He thought she might have laughed. Or maybe it was the sound of chimes, for as he looked ahead he could see the council house before them. He picked up the pace as they climbed the ramp toward the opening set into the hill, the gaping darkness of the portal framed by the great chimes that now clamored in alarm at his approach. He had been there only once before, to be judged in the shadows of the chamber, and he knew he had to stop her. He could only imagine what they would do to her. "Stop, Delaney. You can't go in there!" he hissed. She must not have heard him above the clanging of the chimes, for she plunged into the gloom, spreading out her arms as if to touch the edges of the doorway before being swallowed up. He raced to the opening, then paused, reaching out a hand toward the dark only to see his fingers disappear as they breached the inky surface of the entryway. He yanked his hand back and hesitated on the threshold. He had to go in after her. The chimes ceased and still he wavered. What was he waiting for? I wouldn't go in there if I were you , he heard a voice say. He snapped his eyes up to where a striped cat reclined above the doorway, its bulk still stretched along the ledge as it had been the morning that the listeners hauled him inside before the council. Then it had greeted him with a moment of understanding, but he felt no sympathy from it now as it peered down at him through slitted, yellow eyes. You remember what happened last time, don't you? its voice sounded in his mind. Maybe this time you don't come out. "How can I leave her in there?" he replied. "I have to go get her!" Suit yourself. But don't say I didn't warn you. The cat yawned, its tongue curling between needle teeth, and then stretched back against the shelf to resume its endless nap. He shook his head, angry at the creature's indifference, and reached for the darkness again. This time his hand went deeper. Something grabbed him and began drawing him in. He gasped at the fiery touch. Try as he might, he couldn't pull away. He could only feel a burning spreading through his arm as it disappeared inch by inch, as his face came closer and closer to the opaque surface. The last thing he heard before being swallowed up was the cat's voice, a distant echo of disdain: Foolish boy, why did you return? Then he was falling. It was only a moment, but long enough in the silent void to feel as if he were slipping away from life. He had no sensation, only an impression of absence, and in that moment he was sure that he was blind again, this time for good. It's all been for nothing , he thought. But soon a mild jolt of impact shook him, and he discovered he was back on his feet and running. There was no council chamber, no council. He was in a tunnel now instead. He could see her before him once more, very close, the thin shadow of a girl, her hair flowing back, brushing the tips of his reaching fingers. There was a strange glow before her, illuminating her profile, lighting up the rough-hewn walls of the tunnel around them. He called out to her again, trying not to cough as smoke began trailing behind her. "Stop, Delaney! Don't run! You don't need to!" he called out, trying to wipe the tears from his blinking eyes as the smoke thickened. She seemed to hear his cry, for suddenly she slowed, then halted before him in the tunnel. He slowed too and came up behind her. He reached out, put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around, desperate to see her face. He had never seen her face before. He recoiled, blinking not from smoke now but from the erupting brightness as she turned toward him. He squinted, unable to see her face, only the twin sparks of brilliance that shone from the sockets of what were once her eyes. "What's happened to you?" he gasped, moving closer in spite of his horror. The light dimmed slightly, but she didn't answer as a plume of smoke rose from each eye, thick black smoke that curled up and then down, winding around his legs, fixing him in place. He could barely make out any part of her face, but her mouth seemed to curl into a smile as her eyes brightened again, growing more intense every second. He peered even closer and saw how the eyes were flickering, little tendrils of light that curled out and around her face. They were flames. Continues... Excerpted from The Seer by David Stahler Jr. Copyright © 2008 by David Stahler Jr.. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Horace Carpetine does not believe in ghosts. Raised to believe in science and reason, Horace Carpetine passes off spirits as superstition. Then he becomes an apprentice photographer and discovers an eerie—and even dangerous—supernatural power in his very own photographs. When a wealthy lady orders a portrait to place by her daughter's gravesite, Horace's employer, Enoch Middleditch, schemes to sell her more pictures—by convincing her that her daughter's ghost has appeared in the ones he's already taken. It's Horace's job to create images of the girl. Yet Horace somehow captures the girl's spirit along with her likeness. And when the spirit escapes the photographs, Horace discovers he's released a ghost bent on a deadly revenge. . . .

"Surveying all kinds of evidence—historiographical, literary, dramatic, and visual—Flower provides a comprehensive, readable, and engaging account of the operations of 'seers' during the Classical period."—Mark Griffith, editor of Prometheus Bound and Antigone "In a page-turning tour de force of anthropological reconstruction, classicist Michael Flower revisits hundreds of ancient texts to tease out his case for the absolutely central role of seercraft at all levels of ancient Greek society. Thanks to Flower's invitingly-woven tapestry of their mesmerizing stories and anecdotes, we can now savor, and comprehend through his lucid and persuasive interpretations."—Peter Nabokov, author of Where the Lightning Strikes: American Indian Ways of History

For generations the prophets have foreseen the birth of the Shadow Seer, an oracle of dark visions and fallen kingdoms. Prince Candale has discovered the truth about himself. He is the Shadow Seer, foretold prophet of dark visions and fallen kingdoms. The witch Mayrila tried to teach him control but she lay dead, struck down by Candale's own hand. The ever-watching shadow has begun to speak with him, urging him to go to the Seer's Tower in the kingdom of Idryan. What he learns there will change everything. The shadow promises rewards for obedience...and severe punishment if he refuses. Does the voice of the shadow belong to the demon Ellenessia and therefore he must obey? Or does it presage the beginnings of Candale's foretold descent into madness?