Sarai lived and breathed nightmares since she was six years old. For four thousand nights she had explored the dreamscapes of Weep, witnessing horrors and creating them. She was the Muse of Nightmares. Her hundred moth sentinels had perched on every brow. No man, woman, or child had been safe from her. She knew their shames and agonies, their griefs and fears, and she had thought...she had believed...that she knew every horror, and was beyond surprise.
Gone are the dreamlike lines of Laini Taylor's almost poetical writing, and in their place a waking nightmare has taken hold.
The beauty and the poetry isn't banished entirely, but it's cruel now.
Vitriolic in its doggedness.
Not one moment of peace is offered to Taylor's band of azure demigods and the humans who both fear and love them.
All they know now is loss and punishment.
And it isn't deserved.
It isn't just.
It simply is.
As are all things for those who come after.
It's easy to make people cry. Grief, humiliation, anger—there are countless avenues to tears. It's easy to make them scream, too. There are so many things to fear.
But how do you stop someone from crying? How do you lead them out of fear?
Can hate be reversed?
Can revenge be defused?
Because these godspawn, these children of monsters, these innocents are paying for the unspeakable sins of their forebears.
And they shouldn't have to.
But whoever said anything was ever fair?
Down the corridor, a little girl was asleep on the floor, locked in unguessable dreams, while a ghost army stood frozen and a city stood empty, and all their fates teetered on such ephemeral things as a green glass bottle tucked between the knees of a flighty fifteen-year-old girl who'd fallen asleep on watch.
It's a common enough trope, especially when it comes to literature surrounding the gods.
Infamous for using their power to toy with humanity for the sheer amusement of it.
In this case, enslaving an entire city, stealing its citizens away to their palace in the sky, and defiling them.
Breeding them.
And then worse.
As if that was even possible.
I've encountered this kind of story many times in Fantasy but never quite like this.
Never with such... humility.
From the first paragraph, a direct continuation from the ending of the previous book, there is almost nothing but hardship.
Twin girls shackled for being born special.
A ghost party to their own burial.
A murder set on unceasing repeat.
A people stuck between revenge and regret.
A ghost-child orphaned.
A family evicted.
A harrowing and unforgivable truth revealed.
And much, much more.
But unlike most stories involving the divine, there's no grand battle to resolve these hardships.
At least, not in the conventional sense.
There's certainly pain and sacrifice but it isn't served through bloodshed.
Instead, this particular battle is fought with grief, self-destruction, and blame.
When one woman's century-long plight is met with failure, her mourning is wielded as a weapon and our sky-skinned deities are the ones she resolves must pay the price.
Sarai felt as though she were seeing into a bottomless well of anguish. She had the feeling of falling headlong into it, and she hardly knew if it was Nova's anguish or her own. For that instant, at least, they seemed one and the same, as though all anguish exists in the same deep well, no matter what loss or misfortune leads us to it. We might be at odds, hate each other, and desire each other's destruction, but in our despair, we are lost in the same darkness, breathing the same air as we choke on our grief.
If the anguish had been black before the false hope, what Nova felt after was indescribable.
[...]
From the very first, back on Rieva, Nova's power had been a lighthouse lens, amplifying the intensity of whatever gift she wielded. It had only grown since then. Now it was more like her name: nova, a star that steals energy from nearby stars and explodes into violent radiance.
[...]
Sarai had died and cremated her own body. She had known crippling nightmares and the misery of a people oppressed by bad gods. But she had never felt despair like this before. She felt flayed open, skinned and hacked apart and left for the flies and carrion birds, like the husks of dead creatures on a desolate beach at the bottom of a faraway world.
But again, it isn't how you imagine.
She doesn't draw a blade and cut them down.
No, it's more painful than that.
In order for them to understand her pain, she takes from them the very thing that was taken from her: everything.
Their home.
Their love.
Their divinity.
One of their own.
And she does it all with nothing more than a thought.
It's devastating in its simplicity.
As is Laini Taylor's remedy.
"You can't save everyone, Sarai. You know that don't you?"
Sarai wondered of Minya remembered her coming into her dreams, unwrapping the babies, making an escape door, trying to help her and failing. "I know," she said. "But we can try. And...maybe that's how we save ourselves."
A remedy I can't tell you about.
I can't tell you much of anything to be honest because this isn't part two of a story.
So to go into any great detail would be a disservice to potential readers, because there is no way to talk about this book without revealing its secrets.
I've probably said too much already.
What I can tell you is that Laini Taylor has created an extraordinary world, full of astonishing beings, with a history that feels like something we lost and she's reminding us of.
Which in all honesty, isn't that unfathomable.
We, the human race, are raised on fairy tales.
On gods, and scripture, and stories.
Stories with an immense amount of power; so much power they inspire unwavering faith.
And my faith?
It lies with the tellers of fantastical tales.
With the written word.
With blue goddesses who spit dream-weaving moths into the night and hold dominion over unwaking reveries.
With shy librarians with nose's broken by fairy tales and the ability to change everything with their imagination.
With an unwashed, angry little girl with the weight of her people literally on her shoulders.
With girls of fire and flora, and boys who command the skies.
With angry, privileged princes finally seeing beyond themselves, and the warriors who see it first.
With women who can climb the impossible.
With the hunted who survived.
With the Laini Taylor's of the world.
That's where my faith lies.
And I think, no, I know it always will.
Once upon a time, a sister made a vow she didn't know how to break, and it broke her instead.
Once upon a time, a girl did the impossible, but she did it just a little too late.
Once upon a time, a woman finally gave up, and the sea was waiting. It was the wrong sea—red as blood and just as warm—but falling felt like freedom, like letting go of trying, and on the way down she took her first full breath in centuries.
Then it was all over.
Or maybe it wasn't.
The ones who know can't tell us, and the one who tell us don't know.
To me, this book is almost perfect.
The writing, the world-building, the lore, the dialogue, the characterisation, the everything.
It's beautiful and unassuming.
And the only grievance I have, and I do mean the only grievance, is that after basking in the glow of Sarai and Lazlo in the first book, I feel as though we lost that closeness in the second.
So much time is rightly spent trying to free themselves from undeserved persecution, that the love they kindled understandably had to be put to one side.
Not forgotten or misplaced, but it couldn't be the focal point of the story anymore.
Which I agree with.
Even though I'm grumbling.
I just missed them.
There's a certain amount of peace and comfort to be found in reading them simply exist with each other.
She came to a clearing, and it was not a crone or a cat she met but Lazlo, leaning against a tree, trying to look casual with a rather large iguana perched on his shoulder. "Oh, good evening," he said. "Are you lost, miss? Can I help you?"
Sarai bit her lip to repress a smile, and tried to look demure. "I think I am lost," she said, playing along. She looked around. It was so changed. The ceiling was high, no longer fan-vaulted but drooping with a lacework of leaves and blooms. Moths browsed among drooping bellflowers, and fireflies flitted by, their bellies lit by chips of gravestone. "Can you tell me . . . I believe there was a bed somewhere around here?"
"A bed, you say?," Lazlo struck a pondering pose. "Can you describe it?"
"Well, yes. It was big and horrible."
"I know just the one." He wrinkled his excellent crooked nose. "It belonged to the witch."
"Yes, exactly."
"It's gone." Confidingly, he said, "There's a new one, though, made especially for the goddess of dreams."
The goddess of dreams. The words filtered sweetly into Sarai's mind, and she imagined a girl with cinnamon hair facing another mirror, the one the muse of nightmares, the other the goddess of dreams. Which was real, and which was reflection? "Indeed," she said. "And do you expect her to pass this way?"
"I hope so." Lazlo took his first step toward her. The iguana's tail curled over his shoulder. "I made that path just to lure her here."
"Do you mean to tell me, good sir, that you're lurking in the woods in hopes of taking a goddess to bed?"
"I admit I am. I hope she doesn't mind."
"I promise you she doesn't."
The goddess of dreams, she thought, if there were such a person, would wear gossamer and moonlight. No sooner did she think it than she was it. Her skin let off a subtle glow. Her dress floated like evaporating mist, and a corona of stars and fireflies perched on her red-brown hair. "Show me this bed," she said, her voice low and liquid, and Lazlo took her by the hand and led her through the trees.
The iguana was not invited.
I hope, a frightening amount, that this isn't the end.
Not the end with them or anyone else in the world of Weep and beyond.
And I think Laini Taylor might just foster the same hope.
I can always rely on Duarte to bring some spoopy to the season.
.............................................
HEA/HFN:
things that can be a HEA/HFN:
Anything that works for the characters.
Marriage isn't required. It can be any number of people. It can be open or closed or anything in between. Whatever. Don't care. It just needs to be a relationship that works for the characters. That's it.
Just watched Christina Lauren's IG Live with Sarah and it was so much fun! Sarah showed off her Cheetos drawer. lol
She did talk about ACOSF🔥. 1) We'll find out what was in the box Cassian threw. 2) We will not find out Rhys's last name. 3) Mental health plays a big role in it. pic.twitter.com/7k7BuLeW0A
— Crescent City U 🌙 sunballer (@ThroneofGlassPH) October 7, 2020
The ghost's right arm twitched in our direction as if he was trying to reach for us, but couldn't get control of his limbs. His eyes closed in resignation.
"Alas," said the ghost. "I have run my course." And with that his head fell off, just dropped off his shoulders and straight through the floor of the carriage. And, before we could react to that, his arms and legs separated from his torso and fell away. For a moment his torso hung on its own and I could see the chest moving as if he was still breathing, before it too dropped out of sight.
"Okay," said Jaget after a pause. "That's the second most freakiest thing you've ever shown me."
This... was satisfying, but not a whole meal.
Like being dropped into the middle of an active story arc, promptly yanked out before the whodunnit is revealed, and left to your own bewilderment.
...
Which is pretty weird, if I'm being honest.
But.
A big but.
This is Peter "I like to toy with the fundamentals of magic for shits and giggles, and slightly to piss off my mage-as-fuck mentor because his sigh of dismay brings me unbridled joy?" Grant.
And I love him.
Deeply.
So, if given the chance to simply hang out with the nerdiest, mallowiest wizard PO in Greater London, then you can bet your ensorcelled nut-sack that I'm going to do it.
And there will be assorted snacks.
And in depth debate on whether Geralt of Rivia's armour is too tight to allow him to fight like he does.
(It's not. It juuuussst tight enough for the handsome tree)
And I will be asking whether I can rub his ghost-hunting dog's furry belly.
These things will happen.
Just... in my head while the actualstory plays out.
...
Perfectly normal behaviour.
...
Worrying brain behaviour aside, it's an enjoyable story, too.
Ghosts frantically delivering messages using London's Underground? - I don't envy them that clusterfuck of a job.
Costa kidnappings - I mean... as long as you get a muffin for the road?
Accidental water baby sightings - that glomp nearly killed my ovaries, Aaronovitch. Are you trying to end me?
Princesses trapped in glass palaces - sunscreen: a necessity.
Abigail! - if you know, you know.
Beverley! - again, if you know, you know, and you will know because Bev is very knowable.
And Peter generally being an adorable fanboy - the day TheLord of the Rings references stop spilling from his adorkable mouth will be the day I am no longer in love with Peter Grant.
When in doubt, do police work. You start with the facts you've got and work your way methodically from there. Even if some of the facts come from an unorthodox source and your Day Book reads like an extract from a Bram Stoker novel.
A post shared by Samantha Mash🎃 (@samanthamashillustration) on
Of all the Drawtobers/Drawlloweens etc. out there, Samantha Mash's are the ones I look forward to every year.
She's the queen of hipster, greyscale spook.
And her wingless Sphinx with the sawtooth smile is kind of killing me.
So soft...
.............................................
Two ways in which you get me to read a book:
my sense of humor has been so thoroughly eviscerated by the internet that I just sat laughing for 5 minutes over this passage from “the monster of elendhaven” pic.twitter.com/7O9W4ioUyr
He was the Grey Wolf in the city; the one who came and found you if you fucked up and hurt the wrong people. He helped those who needed it. He stood between those who were hurt and those who did the hurting. He removed threats, and soon his name alone would be enough of a deterrent. This new thing, it felt right. His face matched him now, matched how he felt and matched the role he chose.
Well fuck.
Derek Gaunt, you glowering son of a wolf, I didn't think I could love you more.
With your metal roses, and your trauma, and your complete lack of self-preservation but utter devotion to protecting, well, everyone.
You don't fool me with your withdrawn, lone wolf behaviour, mister.
I know under all that brooding lies a heart the size of post-apocalyptic Atlanta.
The golden woman opened her arms. [...] She smiled at him, and visions of her mouth swirled in his mind. He didn't care that it was filled with sharp serrated teeth. [...] She reached out and stroked his face with her fingertips. Her silver eyes shone. Her voice came in a shocked whisper. "You belong to someone else."
"Yes."
And you're her wolf.
Stupid wolf. Her stupid, stupid wolf.
Just not yet.
Not even the end of the Kate Daniels series yet (two books left; holy shit, what am I going to do without Kate and her band of furry idiots?), but we'll get there.
I hope?
Because this was written in 2015, and the new Julie novel coming out next year features Derek, but who the fuck knows if they'll deign to alter their bond to something other.
We don't even know if the Aurelia Ryder series is going to be a series, because my authors are cryptic motherfuckers.
And then there's the problem of Ascanio.
Fucking Ascanio; I love the little shit but I don't do love triangles, goddammit.
(I can hear you whispering: "But you will for them, won't you? You supernatural trash panda." ... And you would be correct)
...
House Andrews, they never take it easy on us.
Anyway, I digress.
So. Many.THINGS happen in this teeny tiny story.
77 pages.
That's it.
And yet it alters the trajectory of Kate's story irrevocably.
From her relationship with Julie, to the magical playing field between herself and her power hungry father.
And Hugh!
I think that little reveal shocked me the most.
And now I can't even imagine where everybody's loyalties lie.
Because with what should have been a story about Derek and his struggle to toe the line between human and wolf, became instead an introduction to Julie and the beginnings of her power.
Powers that are being nurtured by the enemy.
Powers that might even be more Kate's than her own.
Powers that could change the balance of everything.
...
Holy shit, I'm reeling.
This means Kate could win.
...
Okay, I know she'll win, the series has ended already and the fans haven't revolted, so I know everything's peachy, but from the start, we've been shown a heroine blessed with incredible magical powers.
She's special.
There's no denying that.
But she suffers for her gifts.
Physically suffers.
Has nearly died multiple fucking times from using magic she naturally possesses but her very human body cannot control or contain.
Kate isn't a god, she's human and the possibility of her not surviving has always been frighteningly present.
But now?
Now there's Julie.
Now there's Curran.
The Pack.
(Because they'll be there; of course they'll be there)
The witches of Atlanta.
Her distant relative... Baba Yaga.
(Yeah, that scary bitch-witch; who serves tea and has a pet cat/bunny/shapeshifting thing. That scary bitch)
And now there's Hugh?
Possibly?
Maybe?
...
My girl's going to win this thing.
She really is.
And she's going to do it with the family she chose and who chose her back.
Like Derek.
Who I really should be talking about in this review; it is his book after all.
But when it comes to Derek Gaunt, it's relatively simple:
He's a good man.
Life fucked him over. Repeatedly.
He's doing the best he can.
And I adore him for it.
I just hope there's more stories for him in the future of the Kate Daniels world.
And for those stories to feature Julie as well because I need my ship to sail, goddammit.
He realized then that she would've sat by him as long as it took...
I want what I want.
And I want more of this:
He heard the rough sound of metal striking stone. She was chopping at the arrowhead with her tomahawk.
[...]
"You cannot break it," a deep male voice said.
He looked down. The hunter stopped his horse midway down the floor. The four boar-hounds lined up between him and Julie.
Here you are, asshole.
"The arrowhead's stone. This is stainless steel." She sounded determined. "I'll shatter it."
Derek rose quietly in the shadows.
"That is my first arrow. The arrow is eternal and so am I. As long as there are humans and their prey, I will exist."
"Go fuck yourself." She smashed the tomahawk into the arrow.
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