Fated: An Alex Verus Novel Read online

  With the crisis over, the ones who’d been in hiding emerged again. Helikaon returned to his country house, and Arachne came back to her lair.

  And I went home.

  And that’s how it is.

  I still run my shop in my quiet little side-street in Camden. Most of the time it’s still clueless kids, but I get a lot more mages now. Ever since the affair at the museum, quite a few people seem interested in talking to me. Sonder drops by from time to time, and sometimes he brings friends.

  I haven’t heard anything from Levistus or Morden, or from their servants. With the fateweaver out of play, I’m not important to them any more. I’ve taken precautions though, and it’ll be a long time before I forget again to scan ahead for danger when I travel somewhere.

  Rachel and Cinder disappeared off everyone’s radar and I haven’t seen them since. No surprise.

  For a week or so after returning I was dogged by bad luck – tripping over, hitting myself, little things going wrong at the worst possible moment – all after-effects of Luna’s curse. I didn’t complain; it was cheap at the price.

  Speaking of Luna, she visits every couple of days now. She still brings me items, but that’s not her reason for coming, not any more. Instead we go to Arachne’s lair. After all, apprentices need a place to train.

  She’s started to learn how to control it, you see. That was how she was able to help me against Abithriax; she took the protection her curse gives to her and lent it to me, just for a little while. Since then, she’s begun to control the negative sides: keeping it away from people she doesn’t want to hurt, directing it where it’s safe. She can’t do it reliably yet, and her touch is still almost as deadly as ever, but for the first time she can hope that one day that might change.

  And as for me? I left something behind in Abithriax’s chamber, something that had been following me a long time. And I took away something in exchange, something harder to name. Maybe a sense of purpose, maybe simply knowing who my friends are. The memories are still there, and I still don’t fit into either world, but that’s okay. There are worse things than not fitting in, worse things than having to watch your back. Rachel taught me that.

  My nightmares have stopped too. Mostly.

  I think sometimes about Abithriax’s claim that he could cure Luna of her curse, and I remember what it felt like to wield that power … and I think about the fateweaver, resting on that pedestal within that bubble, locked away to all but those of us who know the secret. I wonder whether I killed Abithriax, or whether he’s still there, trapped in the artifact that’s become his prison, waiting for the next mage to pick him up. But then I shake it off, and go back to what I was doing.

  My world’s still not a safe place to be. The proposal to appoint Dark mages to the Council was dropped, but the Dark mages are still out there, still doing what they do in their mansions, behind soundproofed walls. Not all of them stay in their mansions, either. There are things that come out after nightfall that you’d do well to stay away from.

  But in my little corner of the city, things aren’t so bad. So if there’s something you need help with, drop by the Arcana Emporium. It’s easy enough to find if you try. You probably won’t take it seriously at first, but that’s okay.

  Seeing is believing, after all.

  extras

  www.orbitbooks.net

  about the author

  Benedict Jacka became a writer almost by accident, when at nineteen he sat in his school library and started a story in the back of an exercise book. Since then he has studied philosophy at Cambridge, lived in China and worked as everything from civil servant to bouncer to teacher before returning to London to take up law.

  Find out more about Benedict Jacka and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net

  interview

  Fated is a fabulous read, a real urban fantasy romp – what is it that drew you to write in this particular genre?

  I’ve always loved urban fantasy – something about the combination of the magical and everyday life appeals to me. I like stories that take fantastical themes and go ‘Okay, what would this be like if it was actually around in the modern world?’

  You’ve previously written YA novels, but Fated is your first novel for an older audience – what issues did you face, if any, in this transition, and did you find it easier or more difficult writing for adults?

  Easier, definitely! My previous novels were quite dark by YA standards, and I’d have editors asking me to lighten the story or cut bits out that they thought were too ruthless. I’ve always tended to write quite ‘serious’ stories, so the transition was easier than I’d thought it would be.

  Alex Verus’s London – particularly Camden – comes to life in Fated, almost as a character in its own right as he and Luna fly from landmark to landmark to solve the mystery of the fateweaver. What do you think it is about this city that is so attractive to writers of speculative fiction?

  I think it’s the sense of history. London’s very old and every bit of the city has so many stories behind it – you have layers built on layers. It’s a great setting for fantasy because there’s so much material out there waiting to be used.

  As a seer, Alex’s enviable ability to view potential outcomes comes into its own in Fated when he finds himself in increasing danger from various mage factions. If you had a superpower, what would it be and why?

  Difficult question! Alex’s power is incredibly useful, but I think it might be as much of a burden as anything else. Something like flight would be more fun.

  Did you always want to be a writer? What sort of professions were you involved in before you turned to writing?

  I wrote stories as a child, but I honestly never had any intention of becoming a writer until one day I started writing a story and it just kept going and going until it turned into a book. I kept writing through university and after – I’ve done it full-time for a couple years, but most of the time I’ve had some kind of other job to support myself. I worked in the Civil Service for almost a year, spent a while travelling as an EFL teacher, and I’ve been a bouncer too.

  Do you have a particular writing routine, or do you write as and when the muse strikes? And do you have any bizarre or unusual writing-related rituals?

  Back when I was writing full-time, I used to have a routine where I’d write for six hours every day – 12.00 p.m. to 3.00 p.m. and 12.00 a.m. to 3.00 a.m. I got a lot of work done, but I ended up sleeping at pretty weird hours!

  It’s fantastic to see that genre fiction of all sorts is finding more and more mainstream readers these days. What do you think is so appealing about fantasy in particular?

  I think it’s a combination of things – the fantastic elements, the idea of imagining how something so different would work, the danger and excitement and the focus on good and evil. I loved fantasy and especially urban fantasy when I was younger, so it’s really satisfying to me to see it become so popular now.

  Finally, when you aren’t busy working on your own novels, what kind of books do you like to read?

  Lots of things! Watership Down and The Lord of the Rings were my favourites when I was younger, and I also love Agatha Christie – I’ve read pretty much every book she wrote. Other authors I really like are Jack Vance, Jim Butcher, Paul O. Williams and Orson Scott Card.

  if you enjoyed

  FATED

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  A MADNESS OF ANGELS

  by

  Kate Griffin

  Not how it should have been.

  Too long, this awakening, floor warm beneath my fingers, itchy carpet, thick, a prickling across my skin, turning rapidly into the red-hot feeling of burrowing ants; too long without sensation, everything weak, like the legs of a baby. I said twitch, and my toes twitched, and the rest of my body shuddered at the effort. I said blink, and my eyes were two half-sucked toffees, uneven, sticky, heavy, pushing back against the passage of my eyelids like I was trying to lift we
ights before a marathon.

  All this, I felt, would pass. As the static blue shock of my wakening, if that is the word, passed, little worms of it digging away into the floor or crawling along the ceiling back into the telephone lines, the hot blanket of their protection faded from my body. The cold intruded like a great hungry worm into every joint and inch of skin, my bones suddenly too long for my flesh, my muscles suddenly too tense in their relaxed form to tense ever again, every part starting to quiver as the full shock of sensation returned.

  I lay on the floor naked as a shedding snake, and we contemplated our situation.

  runrunrunrunrunRUNRUNRUNRUN! hissed the panicked voice inside me, the one that saw the bed legs an inch from my nose as the feet of an ogre, heard the odd swish of traffic through the rain outside as the spitting of venom down a forked tongue, felt the thin neon light drifting through the familiar dirty window pane as hot as noonday glare through a hole in the ozone layer.

  I tried moving my leg and found the action oddly giddying, as if this was the ultimate achievement for which my life so far had been spent in training, the fulfilment of all ambition. Or perhaps it was simply that we had pins and needles and, not entirely knowing how to deal with pain, we laughed through it, turning my head to stick my nose into the dust of the carpet to muffle my own inane giggling as I brought my knee up towards my chin, and tears dribbled around the edge of my mouth. We tasted them, curious, and found the saltiness pleasurable, like the first, tongue-clenching, moisture-eating bite of hot, crispy bacon. At that moment finding a plate of crispy bacon became my one guiding motivation in life, the thing that overwhelmed all others, and so, with a mighty heave and this light to guide me, I pulled myself up, crawling across the end of the bed and leaning against the chest of drawers while waiting for the world to decide which way down would be for the duration.

  It wasn’t quite my room, this place I found myself in. The inaccuracies were gentle, superficial. It was still my paint on the wall, a pale, inoffensive yellow; it was still my window with its view out onto the little parade of shops on the other side of the road, unmistakable: the newsagent, the off-licence, the cobbler and all-round domestic supplier, the launderette, and, red lantern still burning cheerfully in the window, Mrs Lee Po’s famous Chinese takeaway. My window, my view; not my room. The bed was new, an ugly, polished thing trying to pretend to be part of a medieval bridal chamber for a princess in a pointy hat. The mattress, when I sat on it, was so hard I ached within a minute from being in contact with it; on the wall hung a huge, gold-framed mirror in which I could picture Marie Antoinette having her curls perfected; in the corner there were two wardrobes, not one. I waddled across to them, and leant against the nearest to recover my breath from the epic distance covered. Seeing by the light seeping under the door, and the neon glow from outside, I opened the first one and surveyed jackets of rough tweed, long dresses in silk, white and cream-coloured shirts distinctively tailored, pointed black leather shoes, high-heeled sandals composed almost entirely of straps and no real protective substance, and a handbag the size of a feather pillow, suspended with a heavy, thick gold chain. I opened the handbag and rifled through the contents. A purse, containing £50, which I took, a couple of credit cards, a library membership to the local Dulwich Portakabin, and a small but orderly handful of thick white business cards. I pulled one out and in the dull light read the name – ‘Laura Linbard, Business Associate, KSP’. I put it on the bed and opened the other wardrobe.

  This one contained trousers, shirts, jackets and, to my surprise, a large pair of thick yellow fisherman’s oils and sailing boots. There was a small, important-looking box at the bottom of the wardrobe. I opened it and found a stethoscope, a small first-aid kit, a thermometer and several special and painful-looking metal tools whose nature I dared not speculate on. I pulled a white cotton shirt off its hanger and a pair of grey trousers. In a drawer I found underpants which didn’t quite fit comfortably, and a pair of thick black socks. Dressing, I felt cautiously around my left shoulder and ribcage, probing for damage, and finding that every bone was properly set, every inch of skin correctly healed, not even a scar, not a trace of dry blood.

  The shirt cuff reached roughly to the point where my thumb joint aligned with the rest of my hand; the trousers dangled around the balls of my feet. The socks fitted perfectly, as always seems the way. The shoes were several sizes too small; that perplexed me. How is it possible for someone to have such long arms and legs, and yet wear shoes for feet that you’d think would have to have been bound? Feeling I might regret it later, I left the shoes.

  I put the business card and the £50 in my trouser pockets and headed for the door. On the way out, we caught sight of our reflection in the big mirror and stopped, stared, fascinated. Was this now us? Dark brown hair heading for the disreputable side of uncared for – not long enough to be a bohemian statement, not short enough to be stylish. Pale face that freckled in the sun, slightly over-large nose for the compact features that surrounded it, head plonked as if by accident on top of a body made all the more stick-like by the ridiculous oversized clothes it wore. It was not the flesh we would have chosen, but I had long since given up dreams of resembling anyone from the movies and, with the pragmatism of the perfectly average, come to realise that this was me and that was fine.

  And this was me, looking back out of the mirror.

  Not quite me.

  I leant in, turning my head this way and that, running my fingers through my hair – greasy and unwashed – in search of blood, bumps, splits. Turning my face this way and that, searching for bruises and scars. An almost perfect wakening, but there was still something wrong with this picture.

  I leant right in close until my breath condensed in a little grey puff on the glass, and stared deep into my own eyes. As a teenager it had bothered me how round my eyes had been, somehow always imagining that small eyes = great intelligence, until one day at school the thirteen-year-old Max Borton had pointed out that round dark eyes were a great way to get the girls. I blinked and the reflection in the mirror blinked back, the bright irises reflecting cat-like the orange glow of the washed-out street lamps. My eyes, which, when I had last had cause to look at them, had been brown. Now they were the pale, brilliant albino blue of the cloudless winter sky, and I was no longer the only creature that watched from behind their lens.

  runrunrunrunrunrunRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUNRUN!

  I put my head against the cold glass of the mirror, fighting the sudden terror that threatened to knock us back to the floor. The trick was to keep breathing, to keep moving. Nothing else mattered. Run long and hard enough, and perhaps while you’re running you might actually come up with a plan. But nothing mattered if you were already dead.

  My legs thought better than my brain, walked me out of the room. My fingers eased back the door and I blinked in the shocking light of the hundred-watt bulb in the corridor outside. The carpet here was thick and new, the banisters polished, but it was a painting on the wall, a print of a Picasso I’d picked up for a fiver – too many years ago – all colour and strange, scattered proportions – which stole our attention. It still hung exactly where I’d left it. I felt almost offended. We were fascinated: an explosion of visual wonder right there for the same price as a cheap Thai meal, in full glory. Was everything like this? I found it hard to remember. I licked my lips and tasted blood, dry and old. Thoughts and memories were still too tangled to make clear sense of them. All that mattered was moving, staying alive long enough to get a plan together, find some answers.

  From downstairs I heard laughter, voices, the chink of glasses, and a door being opened. Footsteps on the tiles that led from living room to kitchen, a clink where they still hadn’t cemented in the loose white one in the centre of the diamond pattern; the sound of plates; the roar of the oven fan as it pumped out hot air.

  I started walking down. The voices grew louder, a sound of polite gossipy chit-chat, dominated by one woman with a penetrating voice and a laugh that
started at the back of her nose before travelling down to the lungs and back up again, and who I instinctively disliked. I glanced down the corridor to the kitchen and saw a man’s back turned to me, bent over something that steamed and smelt of pie. The urge to eat anything, everything, briefly drowned out the taste of blood in my mouth. Like a bewildered ghost who can’t understand that it has died, I walked past the kitchen and pushed at the half-open door to the living room.

  There were three of them, with a fourth place set for the absent cook, drinking wine over the remnants of a salad, around a table whose top was made of frosted glass. As I came in, nobody seemed to notice me, all attention on the one woman there with the tone and look of someone in the middle of a witty address. But when she turned in my direction with ‘George, the pie!’ already half-escaped from her lips, the sound of her dropped wineglass shattering on the table quickly redirected the others’ attention.

  They stared at me, I stared at them. There was an embarrassed silence that only the English can do so well, and that probably lasted less than a second, but felt like a dozen ticks of the clock. Then, as she had to, as things probably must be, one of the women screamed.

  The sound sent a shudder down my spine, smashed through the horror and incomprehension in my brain, and at last let me understand, let me finally realise that this was no longer my house, that I had been gone too long, and that to these people I was the intruder, they the rightful owners. The scream slammed into my brain like a train hitting the buffers and tore a path through my consciousness that let everything else begin to flood in: the true realisation that if my house was not mine, my job, my friends, my old life would not be mine, nor my possessions, my money, my debts, my clothes, my shoes, my films, my music; all gone in a second, things I had owned since a scrawny teenager, the electric toothbrush my father had given me in a fit of concern for my health, the photos of my friends and the places I’d been, the copy of Calvin and Hobbes my first girlfriend had given me as a sign of enduring friendship the Christmas after we’d split up, my favourite pair of slippers, the holiday I was planning to the mountains of northern Spain, all, everything I had worked for, everything I had owned and wanted to achieve, vanished in that scream.