In the aftermath of the Nuremberg trials, most people want to move on from World War II stories. But British journalist Ian Graham, who lost his brother, Sebastian, in the war, has given up writing to spend his life hunting down Nazi criminals. Ian and his business partner, Tony, join forces with Ian's estranged Russian wife, Nina Markova, in a quest to track down Seb's murderer, a woman known as die Jägerin: the Huntress. Kate Quinn's gripping novel follows the trio as their story intersects with that of Jordan McBride, a young aspiring photographer in Boston, and her stepmother, Anneliese, whom Jordan suspects isn't telling the whole truth about her past.

Building on her success with The Alice Network, Quinn constructs three intertwining narratives: Ian's no-nonsense investigative work (which keeps getting inconveniently hijacked by his emotions); Jordan's hunger to follow her passion for photography and to figure out what Anneliese is hiding; and Nina's journey from her half-feral childhood on the banks of an isolated lake in Siberia to her career as a decorated Soviet pilot. Nina's story, based on the real-life flying exploits of female aviators during the war, is by far the most dramatic. Fiercely independent, mistrustful of others and completely in love with her plane, Rusalka, Nina becomes an opponent worthy of the titular huntress.

While readers may guess the huntress's identity long before Ian and his team can prove it, Quinn's narrative is full of suspense. Expertly plotted, with questions of justice at its center, The Huntress is a dark, riveting account of war, revenge and deep human compassion in the face of both. --Katie Noah Gibson, blogger at Cakes, Tea and Dreams

Moving from modern-day Manhattan to the icy arctic of second-century Northern Canada, Jordanna Max Brodsky tells the epic tale of an Inuit girl born with the soul of a man. Omat's destiny is decided the night her widowed mother dies while giving birth to her. The Inuit believe a baby comes into the world with the soul of an ancestor, and Omat's is her brave hunter father. That soul, combined with the spirit of a wolf, means she is destined to succeed her grandfather and lead her tribe as their angakkuit, or shaman.

However, Omat's tribe is isolated in the frozen wilderness, and their food supplies are dwindling. They are slowly starving with no help in sight. When Omat's tribe encounters another nomadic Inuit group, they celebrate, hoping their newfound friends will help things change for the better. In reality they bring deception and evil, then carry Omat away, where she ultimately encounters a band of Viking warriors and even greater consequences. All along her journey, Omat fights for her survival and the survival of her tribe, putting to the test the true strength of both her body and soul. 

Brodsky's examination of gender and gender roles in the ancient Inuit tribe is dynamic and layered, challenging readers' traditional conceptions of male and female. Likewise, the human relationship with nature is dissected through the tribe's taboos, their rituals and the way they live. Meticulously researched to bring the audience as close to her magical realm as possible, The Wolf in the Whale is suspenseful, engaging and thought-provoking. --Jen Forbus

The 10 stories in Carrianne Leung's collection, That Time I Loved You, all take place in the same sparkling new subdivision outside Toronto. The subdivision is composed of parallel and perpendicular streets that make neat square blocks. The houses are "almost carbon copies of each other," divided by fences on which adults leaned to discuss the suicides of 1979: Mr. Finley, a local softball coach; Mrs. Da Silva, who spoke to flowers; Janine Bevis, the woman who'd seemed so happy; Larry Lem's father, who was terrible to Larry Lem.

The suicides thread through each story, sometimes subtly and sometimes front and center, giving the collection a backdrop that reveals the messes and imperfections hidden away behind the outwardly perfect suburban façade of each perfect block. In "Fences," a childless housewife finds herself drawn to the stay-at-home dad next door. Middle school-aged June, daughter of Chinese immigrants, observes the racism and fear packed into her small neighborhood's world in "Grass," and again in "Sweets." The neighbors discover a magpie-like thief in their midst in "Treasure."

Though each story in That Time I Loved You can stand alone, they are cleverly interconnected. Secondary characters become primary ones; events alluded to in one story are fully explained in another; a child's interpretation of a strange occurrence is retold through adult eyes later on. The effect mirrors subtly yet precisely the feeling of living in a close suburban neighborhood: that of lives stacked atop one another, entirely separate and walled off and yet closely intertwined by both proximity and culture. --Kerry McHugh, blogger at Entomology of a Bookworm

An eclectic assortment of dive bar owners, staff and patrons constitute "sixteen characters in search of a play on St. Patrick's Day, 1968" in the opening of Richard Wiley's Tacoma Stories. Following its heyday, Pat's Tavern is coasting into oblivion in Tacoma, Wash. The 13 stories that follow the introductory installment, "Your Life Should Have Meaning on the Day You Die," examine the lives of the players as they branch into the acts of their lives between 1958 and 2012.

One woman, daughter of two famous parents, visits Tacoma because "it's comfortable, it's beautiful, and it leaves me alone," wondering if a town can replace people and "hedge against the unabated loneliness of the human heart." Although place infuses Wiley's stories, it's the longing and wounded hearts that give them full color.

The search for meaning and connection is a common thread. In "The Man Who Looks at the Floor," retired spy Jonathan can't leave his spook days behind, enlisting his wife to be a "mole" and befriend a suspicious disfigured man. When Millie takes to the stranger, Jonathan begins to understand he's been paying attention to the wrong people all along. In "The Dancing Cobra," Wiley uses an accidentally misappropriated vibrator with humorous and touching effect to explore the relationships of several teens and adults.

Winner of the PEN/​Faulkner Award for Best American Fiction (Soldiers in Hiding), Wiley shines in the short form, absorbing the reader in slices of one town and its inhabitants while rendering them universal. --Lauren O'Brien of Malcolm Avenue Review

It starts with the bread: a dark sourdough rye called Borodinsky. Then tins of fish. Cucumbers. Meat stewed until it falls off the bone, its original shape mere suggestion. Cold vodka or a fiery shot of Metaxa.

These are some of the many flavors of Boris Fishman's life, which he shares in his vibrant Savage Feast: Three Generations, Two Continents, and a Dinner Table (A Memoir with Recipes). "Some people don't leave home without umbrellas or condoms," Fishman writes, "mine, without food."

Fishman (Don't Let My Baby Do Rodeo, A Replacement Life) often tackles Jewish identity and displacement in his fiction. In Savage Feast, he addresses his family's emigration from Soviet Belarus in the long shadow of the Holocaust. The decision to leave is a heavy one, plagued by the risk of being denied permission and branded "refuseniks." But in 1988, when Fishman is nine, the family makes it to the United States.

In the new country, comfort comes from the familiar--flavors in particular. The family remains tightly knit, spoiling only-child Fishman with bountiful food, love and expectations even once he's an adult. It's easy to feel at home in Fishman's writing; it's warm, reflective and frequently funny. Even more than a story of hunger, this is a story of love. Love of family and companionship. Love of romance and lore. Love of garlic, fish and the feeling of finally learning to identify and satisfy the simple but crucial loves for which everyone hungers. --Katie Weed, freelance writer and reviewer

Reading iconic fashion designer Isaac Mizrahi's witty and disarmingly candid memoir is like sitting down with a smart, warm and opinionated friend who effortlessly captivates with tales of triumphs, failures and perseverance. Mizrahi begins his memoir as a pudgy and insecure gay boy growing up in a Syrian Jewish Orthodox family in Brooklyn, N.Y. "I've always identified more as a woman than anything," writes Mizrahi, "and if times were different I might have chosen to become a female in appearance; in a lot of ways I operated in the family like a third daughter more than an only son." After eight years at a yeshiva school, Mizrahi was accepted at a Manhattan performing arts high school and began to bloom.

At 15, he launched his own fashion line, creating clothing so outrageous that the outfits gained him and his teenaged friends entrance to the notoriously exclusive dance club Studio 54. During these years, he writes, "The gay culture in that world nourished me in some ways and fed my self-loathing in others." The workload of designing also hindered his sex life. "One traded one's sex life for a life of fashion servitude," he writes. "We were referred to as 'Fashion Nuns.' " Then, his friends and coworkers began dying from a mysterious new disease called AIDS.

There's plenty of star-studded gossip and insider information (he and Sandra Bernhard considered having a child together). But mostly I.M. is a heartfelt and inspiring memoir told with candor and style. It'll be catnip for book clubs. --Kevin Howell, independent reviewer and marketing consultant

Say Nothing ticks all the boxes of an extraordinary work of nonfiction. This particular story of the political and nationalist conflict in Ireland (the Troubles) highlights a handful of spellbinding individuals whose actions changed the course of Irish history. Through meticulous reporting captivatingly relayed by investigative journalist Patrick Radden Keefe, Say Nothing offers a thrilling history lesson told through the lens of an unsolved mystery.

Murders were part and parcel of the Troubles, with more than 3,500 killed between the late 1960s and '90s. But only 16 were "disappeared"--abducted, murdered and secretly buried. Among them was Jean McConville, a 38-year-old mother of 10 when a gang of masked intruders took her from her home in Belfast in 1972. It took 30 years to recover Jean's remains.

The hows and whys of her death are spun through decades of violence, jailbreaks, movie star romance, former-felon politicians, hunger strikes, double- and triple-agents of the IRA and British police. Most incredibly, a secret cache of IRA confessionals lies waiting in the special Treasure Room enclosure of a Boston College library. Truth is undoubtedly stranger than fiction.

Any retelling of the Troubles worth its salt is necessarily lengthy and complex. By sandwiching it between arcs on the Treasure Room, the mystery of Jean McConville and how all the secrets came unraveled, Keefe breathes new life into history. As evidenced by the nearly 100 pages of notes and secondary sources, this was no small feat. Keefe's work is both anguishing and triumphant. --Lauren O'Brien of Malcolm Avenue Review

Life--and the love and absurdities therein--has proved fertile ground for acclaimed author-illustrator Lucy Knisley (Something New: Tales from a Makeshift Bride). In five published graphic novels, Knisley has turned her "pen inward to map the shifting tectonic plates" of her life and find meaning, purpose and silver linings--even with the curve balls thrown her way.

She continues in this vein in Kid Gloves, which intimately documents the thoughts and discoveries she made in conceiving and carrying a child, while also outlining the many challenges that plagued her on the rocky road to motherhood. Knisley shares her teenage experiences volunteering for Planned Parenthood. In college, she began an odyssey to find the right method of birth control, a hormone-dispensing rod implanted under the skin. Years later, the device is removed when she and John set out to conceive a child.

The graphics that accompany the travails of her hellacious morning sickness--"exorcist levels of puke" and even frightening, "insane" dreams of Donald Trump--along with her difficult labor and the harrowing complications after the baby's delivery are vivid, profound and visually imaginative. Throughout the story, Knisley adds levity by presenting illustrated factoids, myths and research about women's reproductive health. These include how Emily Brontë died from pregnancy sickness, how sexism has affected women's lives for centuries, the rise of the women's movement, and pregnancy, miscarriage and "conception misconceptions."

Knisley is a lively storyteller, and the encapsulated charm of her graphics holds equal appeal. In both arenas, her inimitable style builds suspense and ultimately oozes with hopeful optimism. --Kathleen Gerard, blogger at Reading Between the Lines

Delia, whose father left when she was young, knows that she's unlikely ever to roam far from Jackson, Tenn.--even with three jobs between the two of them, she and her mom make just enough to squeak by. Delia plans to go to community college and keep filming her cable access TV program, Midnite Matinee, with best friend Josie, who has dreamed of working in TV since she "was old enough to remember." Even though she doesn't love the terrible scary movies that Delia adores, Josie enjoys playing Rayne Ravenscroft to Delia's Delilah Darkwood on their Elvira-style show. But Josie has been offered an internship at the Food Network, which would do more for her career than performing for an audience "too high to operate Netflix." When the girls are invited to a horror convention, Delia becomes convinced that Jack Devine, the producer of a famous horror/comedy show, can be talked into producing Midnite Matinee. The girls set off on a road trip that could make or break the show--and their friendship, too.

Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee is a change for Zentner, whose The Serpent King and Goodbye Days featured teens in significantly more tragic situations. Josie and Delia are quirky, sometimes veering toward Manic Pixies, but since they and their internal lives are the focus, the trope is happily subverted. Throughout, Zentner keeps the spotlight firmly planted on his two female protagonists and their experiences growing up, creating a novel as funny as it is bittersweet. --Siân Gaetano, children's and YA editor, Shelf Awareness