If what hooked you in The Watchers was Jay Harper waking up with no memory and peeling back layers of a clandestine war in Lausanne, you’ll love how Myfanwy Thomas comes to in a London park with no idea who she is—and a letter in her pocket instructing her how to survive. As she digs into murders inside a secret agency policing the uncanny, the casework, cover-ups, and identity puzzles echo Harper’s investigation into the abductions targeting Katherine and Marc Rochat’s “angel.” It’s that same mix of dossiers, dead drops, and revelations that reframe everything you thought you knew.

You were drawn to the angelic war pulsing beneath Lausanne’s cathedral bells—Marc Rochat’s guardianship, the hunters stalking Katherine, and Harper’s brush with forces older than memory. In The Dirty Streets of Heaven, angelic advocate Bobby Dollar works the mean streets while contesting souls in a system riddled with corruption. When a routine case goes sideways, the heavenly–hellish intrigue, back-alley fights, and whispered conspiracies hit that same nerve as the clandestine power struggle closing in on the cathedral’s Watcher.

If Steele’s luxuriant sense of place—the fog around Lausanne, the night climbs in the cathedral towers, the archives that hint at older wars—kept you spellbound, The Historian channels that same immersive, map-and-manuscript vibe. As letters and research trips pull the narrators across libraries and cloisters from Istanbul to Eastern Europe, the hushed corridors and scholarly clues mirror Harper tracing dossiers and Marc decoding the old watchers’ lore, all while a centuries-old evil shadows the journey.

If the grim undercurrent in The Watchers—the brutal abductions circling Katherine, the blood on Lausanne’s cobbles, the sense that the sacred can curdle—stuck with you, this one’s for you. Investigator Thomas Fool is tasked with solving a murder in Hell itself, where every lead is tainted and every truth is dangerous. The vicious set pieces, moral rot, and bureaucratic horror rhyme with Harper’s descent through clandestine networks and Marc’s fear that the “angel” he tends may draw predators that don’t bleed.

If you loved Steele’s lush, nocturnal atmosphere—Marc Rochat listening to the bells breathe, Harper drifting through alleys where every doorway hides a watcher—The Angel’s Game delivers that same velvety darkness. In 1920s Barcelona, a writer is lured into a pact that curdles art into obsession, and the city’s churches, cemeteries, and secret rooms feel as haunted as Lausanne’s towers. The ornate sentences and slow-burn dread echo the way The Watchers lets the city itself become a conspirator.