Fated: An Alex Verus Novel (39 page)

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.

www.orbitbooks.net

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

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

look out for

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 weights 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.