My brother and I co-write novels about ghouls who are obsessed with Martha Stewart, socially awkward vampires, and middle-aged witches who develop crushes on foul demons.

Fitz mistakenly maintains that I should be spending my time writing rather than reading sexy vampire books, Gothic romances, and elderly versions of The Joy of Cooking, but he is wrong.

Didn’t I put in equal work on The Crypt of the Magi? When I told those ghouls to jump, they said, “How high, and can we wear kilts?” When I hired the special effects crew for the lightning in An Accidental Necromancer, I got them to throw in the moat alligators FOR FREE. And, finally, the dueling scene in The Unbearable Exile of Eldrin Gorst—that was all me. I blocked it, coached the characters, AND found the self-releasing chandeliers.

Now, go away and let me read.

Fitzwilliam Quilliams is the quieter, nether half of Sibling Ribaldry Publishing.

While his sister, Sultana Dietrich, yells at fog machines and threatens to fire the ghouls, Fitz keeps the spreadsheets from spontaneously combusting and tries (mostly in vain) to stop her from abusing the help.

He is co-creator of The Ember Years, a humorous fantasy series set in Chicago’s sticky, sarcastic underworld of ghouls, witches, and accidental necromancers. Imagine if Terry Pratchett’s razor-sharp satire, What We Do in the Shadows’ lovable idiots, and Christopher Moore’s monster madness had a baby, which was raised in the sewers by the Black Plague.

Fitz’s natural habitat is dusty myth cycles, ancient eddas, and grimoires that smell like poor life choices. He reads the footnotes first, annotates in Old Church Slavonic, and still ends up writing about ghouls who run pyramid schemes and necromancers who are mostly a danger to themselves.

Latest release:

Crypt of the Magi: Second Edition, a freshly rewritten Ghoul Christmas story, now with 37% less vile glop and 100% more festive disasters.

He and his sister currently reside on their estate in the Chicago suburbs, with one inexcusable rodent (currently missing), a houseful of frightened servants, and a growing collection of props that Sultana keeps stealing from the set.

(For readers who believe every good story needs socially awkward monsters, sarcasm, and at least one explosion that was technically avoidable.)