Alex Verus Novels, Books 1-4 (9780698175952) (39 page)
Read Alex Verus Novels, Books 1-4 (9780698175952) Online
Authors: Benedict Jacka
Probably the biggest surprise from my point of view was that no one tried to blame me. In fact, the report singled me out for praise for my “heroic efforts to protect noncombat-ants.” I was invited to a ceremony where I was publicly congratulated by a low-ranking Council representative. Before and after the ceremony, I was taken aside by several less public and considerably higher-ranking Council representatives and told to keep my mouth shut, or else. I did as I was told. I was fairly sure I’d made enough enemies without going out of my way to look for more.
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.
A
nd 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 anymore. 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, hitting myself, little things going wrong at the worst possible moment—all aftereffects 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 anymore. 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.
My precognition warned me just in time and I jerked my head back. Half a second later there was a high harmonic
crack
as a bullet whipped through the space that had just a moment ago been occupied by my right eye. My would-be assassin was a very good shot.
That last bit of information was enough to make me sure that I did not want to make a run for it. The ground around the tree was rolling grassland for fifty yards in every direction and I had no intention of trying my luck. I hugged the tree and waited.
Ten seconds passed, twenty. How long would the assassin stay with his sights trained on the tree? He couldn’t afford to wait forever; the more time he spent in his position the better the chance of being found. Thirty seconds. Forty. I looked into the future and saw that putting my head out wasn’t going to attract another bullet. Maybe he’d gone? No, there was another attack coming, it was—
My eyes went wide.
He’s going to shoot me with a WHAT?
FATED
“
Fated
is an excellent novel, a gorgeously realized world with a uniquely powerful, vulnerable protagonist. Books this good remind me why I got into the storytelling business in the first place.”
—Jim Butcher, #1
New York Times
bestselling author
“Benedict Jacka writes a deft thrill ride of an urban fantasy—a stay-up-all-night read. Alex Verus is a very smart man surviving in a very dangerous world.”
—Patricia Briggs, #1
New York Times
bestselling author
“Jacka deftly invents the rules of magic as he goes along, creating an emotionally satisfying story arc and a protagonist who will keep readers coming back.”
—
Publishers Weekly
Ace Books by Benedict Jacka
FATED
CURSED
BENEDICT JACKA
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
CURSED
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Ace mass-market edition / June 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Benedict Jacka.
Excerpt from
Taken
by Benedict Jacka copyright © 2012 by Benedict Jacka.
Cover photographs: Tower Bridge © Paul Knight / Trevillion;
sparkler © Patrycja Mueller / Shutterstock.
Cover design by Judith Lagerman.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of
copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-56891-0
ACE
Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the
author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
Table of Contents
chapter 1
T
he old factory was the kind of place you only find in the very worst parts of big cities. Its bricks had once been red, but years of grime and pollution had darkened them to a brownish-grey. The outer wall was topped with ragged coils of razor wire. The wire was rusted and full of holes that hadn’t been repaired in years, as if the owners had decided that they couldn’t keep the burglars out but might at least be able to give them tetanus on the way in.
The rest of the dead-end street was dark, empty-looking buildings and shops hiding behind steel security gratings. The gratings were covered in graffiti and it was hard to tell whether the businesses locked behind them were still open or whether they’d been abandoned too. The only shop that looked in good shape carried the triple-sphere sign of a pawnbroker’s. Behind the shops and factory was the sort of council estate where the muggers use broken bottles because they can’t afford knives.
It was only eleven o’clock and the rest of London was filled
with the sounds of the city, but on the street nothing moved. The road was empty except for parked cars. Half of them were missing wheels, windows, or both, and none would have looked out of place in a junkyard—except for the minivan parked at the top of the street. Its polished black paint melted into the shadows, with the orange glow from the streetlights picking out the silver hubcaps and lights along with the Mercedes symbol mounted on the grill. I rolled my eyes when I saw it. My senses told me there was no immediate danger but I stayed in the shadows of the alley and scanned the street for another minute before walking out towards the van.
Most of the streetlights were broken and the ones still working were patchy. I walked the street’s length cloaked in darkness, with only the occasional circle of orange piercing the gloom. Looking over my shoulder I could see the pillars of light of the Canary Wharf skyscrapers, visible over the rooftops. We were close to the river, even if I couldn’t see it, and as I walked I heard the mournful sound of a boat’s horn echoing off the water. Ragged clouds covered most of the sky, their cover blending with the glow of the streetlights to hide the stars.
