We’re thrilled to share the cover and an exclusive excerpt from An Academy for Liars, a new dark academia novel from Alexis Henderson—forthcoming from Ace / Penguin Random House September 17, 2024.
Lennon Carter’s life is falling apart.
Then she gets a mysterious phone call inviting her to take the entrance exam for Drayton College, a school of magic hidden in a secret pocket of Savannah. Lennon has been chosen because—like everyone else at the school—she has the innate gift of persuasion, the ability to wield her will like a weapon, using it to control others and, in rare cases, matter itself.
After passing the test, Lennon begins to learn how to master her devastating and unsettling power. But despite persuasion’s heavy toll on her body and mind, she is wholly captivated by her studies, by Drayton’s lush, moss-draped campus, and by her brilliant classmates. But even more captivating is her charismatic adviser, Dante, who both intimidates and enthralls her.
As Lennon continues in her studies her control grows, and she starts to uncover more about the secret world she has entered into, including the disquieting history of Drayton college, and the way her mentor’s tragic and violent past intertwines with it. She is increasingly disturbed by what she learns. For it seems that the ultimate test is to embrace absolute power without succumbing to corruption… and it’s a test she’s terrified she is going to fail.
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An Academy for Liars
Alexis Henderson is the author of House of Hunger and the Goodreads Choice Awards finalist The Year of the Witching. When she’s not writing, you’ll find her tending to an assortment of houseplants or nursing a hot cup of tea.
Lennon kept driving for hours on end, as if powerless to stop. Following the directions on her GPS, she entered a small historic district in the shadow of a large mountain, used for skiing in the wintertime. There, the streets were narrow, canopied by the lush branches of the trees that grew on either side. She found her destination at the curve of a large cul-de-sac: an imposing, red-brick mansion set far off the street, half shrouded by a copse of overgrown hawthorns. Its roof was low slung over the second-story windows, and it made the house look like an old man frowning at Lennon’s approach.
She parked in the empty driveway and checked her phone. Seven missed calls (three from Wyatt and four from her mother) and twelve text messages (one from Wyatt, five from her mother, six from her older sister, Jaqueline). Lennon left everything unanswered—the text messages, the voicemails, and the countless questions she’d asked herself through the duration of her drive—got out of the car to rifle through the contents of the trunk, until she found the grease-blackened crowbar resting below the spare tire. She weighed it in both hands, nodded to herself as if to summon what little courage she had to muster, and then slammed the trunk shut.
The yard was large and covered in a dense carpet of grass. The hedges that lined the house were round and well-shaped. Lennon tramped through the plush grass, crowbar in hand, and stepped up onto the porch. The front door was set with a small window of stained glass that distorted the glimpse of the foyer behind it. Hanging on the wall beside the door was a large plaque that detailed the extensive history of the house (apparently it had been owned by some oil baron millionaire from the 1800s). The door’s knocker was brass and shaped like a quail.
Lennon knocked three times, hard and in quick succession. A brief pause then footsteps. The door creaked open. A man stood in the threshold, barefoot in a loose linen shirt and pants to match. He was only a little taller than Lennon, maybe six feet even, with lively blue eyes that wrinkled at the edges when he smiled, with all the warmth and fondness you’d expect from a friend who hadn’t seen you for some time. He appeared to be in his mid-forties and Lennon found him to be almost excessively good-looking. It was almost startling to see a person like that in real life, instead of on the screen or perhaps gracing the cover of a magazine.
“Well,” he said, still smiling at her, his teeth so straight and white they looked like a set of dentures, “you must be Lennon.” He glanced down at her crowbar. “Can I take that off your hands?”
Lennon handed over the crowbar with some reluctance. In retrospect, she wasn’t sure why she did it. She didn’t know or trust this man. She wasn’t sure if he was the only one in the house. But when he’d asked that question, and made to reach for the crowbar, her resolve had abruptly softened…and a calm had washed over her, as though she’d taken a valium.
He stooped slightly, leaning her crowbar against the wall by an iron coatrack. “I’m Benedict. Just like the breakfast dish,” he said, straightening, and ushered her inside with a grand flourish of the hand. He closed the door behind her but didn’t lock it.
The walls of the foyer were paneled in the same dark mahogany as the floors, and the house smelled of polish and potpourri. There was an ornate birdcage elevator to the left of the door, just beside the stairs. Benedict led Lennon past the elevator and down a narrow hall. As they walked, the floors groaned beneath their feet, in what seemed like a begrudging welcome.
Benedict led her past the kitchen and through the parlor to a little study off the back of the house, with a wall of windows and French doors opening out onto a small, sun-washed solarium. The study was covered in a grid of shadows cast from the window stiles and bars. Benedict settled into one of the two wing-back armchairs in the room. Lennon sat down in the second, on the opposite side of the desk. “I suppose I should tell you about Drayton,” said Benedict, and his eyes took on the faraway look of someone moved by memory. “I graduated years ago. You might’ve been just a fluttering in your mother’s womb back then. Maybe less than that, even. Little more than an egg and an idea.”
Benedict’s eyes came back into focus, and he blinked quickly, like he was only just remembering that Lennon was sitting there. “Tell me, what do you know of Drayton?”
“Nothing. I’ve never heard of it. I didn’t even apply.”
“Of course you did. Everyone’s applied whether they know it or not.”
“But how is that possible? Don’t I need to present a portfolio or take some sort of exam?”
“You’re already taking it. The first phase of testing begins at birth.”
“And the second?” Lennon asked, pressing for more.
“This interview.”
“And the third?”
“The entrance exam, but you shouldn’t worry about that,” said Benedict, looking mildly irritated. “Candidates always have so many questions when they come here, but most don’t make it past the interview. Besides, there’s little I can say to ease your curiosity. Drayton is to be experienced not explained. All I can tell you is that Drayton is an institution devoted to the study of the human condition. At least, that’s what they put on the pamphlets they passed out at my orientation. Perhaps its ethos has changed since then. It’s been many years.” Benedict stood up, one of his knees popping loudly. “Before we begin, let me make you something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“And yet, you must eat,” he said, waving her off. “You can’t interview on an empty stomach. Besides, you’ll need it for the pain.”
“I’m not in any pain.”
“It’ll come,” said Benedict, and a sharp chill slit down her spine like the blade of a razor.
Excerpted from An Academy for Liars by Alexis Henderson Copyright © 2024 by Alexis Henderson. Excerpted by permission of Ace. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
