H E EDGMON’s novel, Merciless Saviors, is the stunning conlcusion to the ‘Ouroboros’ series, a fantasy duology in which a teen, Gem, finds out they’re a reincarnated god from another world.
Read on for an extract.
ABOUT THE BOOK
That day at the First Church of Gracie changed everything for Gem Echols, and not just because Marian and Poppy betrayed them. Forced to use the Ouroboros knife on Zephyr, who had kidnapped their parents, Gem now has the power of the God of Air.
While for any other god things might work out okay, the Magician – whose role within the pantheon is to keep the balance – having the power of another god has thrown everything into chaos. The Goddess of Death can now reanimate corpses; the God of Art’s powers are now corrupted and twisted, giving life to his macabre creations; and, while the God of Land has always been able to communicate with creatures of the Earth, now everyone can hear their cries.
As Gem, Rory, and Enzo search for a way to restore the balance without sacrificing themselves, new horrors make them question how far they’re willing to go. In the end, Gem may be forced to fully embrace their merciless nature and kill off their own humanity – if it ever really existed in the first place.
EXTRACT
1
THE BLOODBATH THAT AWAITS WAS YOUR CHOICE ALONE
It rains in the church attic, fat drops of warm water and thick shards of stained glass, while I take the Cyclone’s life and the Reaper takes a bullet meant to end mine.
There is screaming. It could be lifetimes away, as muddled as it is, reaching for me through the bands of time and space and magic as thick and black as tar. The quiet sound of Zephyr Beauregard’s last breath seems louder. Beneath my pressed knee, beneath the callous weight of my knife cracking through the eggshell of his rib cage to pierce the yolk of him, the rich boy gurgles and spits. In this moment, I know with certainty why they call it a death rattle.
Someone grabs my knife arm. They try to drag my shoulder back, try to wrench free the weapon buried in Zephyr’s chest. Do they think to save him? Do they not realise they’re too late? Too late for the Cyclone. Too late for any of us.
His blue eyes widen until they can’t anymore, until they aren’t blue at all anymore, colour leaching away like oceans drying up, until I’m staring into ash that used to be a home. Around me, I know the world is moving, loudly and quickly, and I know it wants me to move with it. But I’m trapped here, suspended in a cocoon; my body, my knife, the skin and bones and blood that used to be a boy.
The electricity starts like a tingling in my fingertips. Like the pins and needles of sitting wrong for too long, like part of me falling asleep while the rest is awake. Am I awake? Have I not been sleeping for weeks, for years, for lifetimes? Am I not only just now beginning to open my eyes?
It starts like a tingling and it grows like a fire, a cold burning ripping its way up my arm. There is screaming, and maybe it’s mine.
Lightning touches my heart and my head tips toward my spine, eyes rolling back. The last thing I see is Christ on the Cross above me.
My last thought is that this god did not die for my sins. But others have. And more will yet.
In the Ether, I stand on the cliff’s edge overlooking the shoreside cityscape below, as it falls victim to the ravages of the Cyclone’s latest tantrum. The ocean swirls into hurricane gusts, and tornadoes of brine tear down whole houses, levelling generations of memories in seconds. Before this, the city was filled with screams of panic and disbelief as its people tried to escape what they knew was coming. Now those screams have fallen silent. There is nothing but the wailing of the wind and the cracking of wood as lumber falls.
The Cyclone is a fickle and merciless god, moving at random from one village to the next, demanding offerings from its people only to indulge in their destruction whether they sacrifice or not. There is no reasoning with him, no bargaining that may actually hold sway. He sets his course and cannot be moved from his path – unless, just as randomly, he decides to turn.
I’ve been following him for some time now. Something must be done, before he floods the whole of our world for his own entertainment.
‘What about him?’ I ask, waving my hand at the beach below. ‘You cannot look upon the Cyclone’s actions and tell me you truly see no purpose for my weapon.’
Who am I talking to? I’m alone on the cliff. At least, I thought I was.
‘The monstrousness of another does not excuse indulging in your own.’
The voice comes from behind me, though I don’t turn to face it. I must have known she was there, if I spoke to her, but . . . how? I don’t remember her being there, I don’t remember . . .
Who is she?
Some tangled consciousness, some part of me that is Gem Echols, desperately wants to turn around and face the voice. It’s beautiful. Sultry, raspy, deep, and melodic, the way I imagine a jazz singer might sound. But I have no idea who she is.
But I do. The Magician does, I do, I know her, I came here with her, I must have. Why can’t I remember who she is? If only I would turn around and look at her.
‘It is not indulgence to create a safeguard,’ I snap. My hands curl into fists so tight my nails dig into my palms. I get the impression we’ve had this argument many times, I just . . . don’t remember any of them. ‘I am the keeper of the scales. My place in this world is to keep the axis righted. How am I meant to do that if I cannot eradicate those who are bent on its collapse?’
‘You are the keeper of the scales,’ she agrees. I can feel her disappointment, and it makes my chest ache. I don’t know why, but I need her to understand me. I need her to forgive me. But more and more, I realise she isn’t going to. ‘That does not make you our warden. Nor our executioner. The bloodbath that awaits was your choice alone.’
‘I don’t know why you seem to think so little of me.’ I sniff, tilting my head back as a spray of salt water ghosts up from below, coating one side of my face in a wet shimmer. ‘After all we have meant to each other, I cannot accept that you would abandon me now. Not over this.’
A wash of seafoam begins to swirl, tumbling round and round itself like soapy suds overflowing in a bucket, until finally the swirls give way, the sea parting. From its dark depths, the Siren emerges, body rising from the abyss until she can plant her feet on the water’s surface. She tilts back her head and roars the Cyclone’s name.
Her roar is met with distant laughter, carried down on a boom of thunder.
‘It is only because of what you mean to me that I see this act for what it truly is. I know your heart, Magician, even the parts of it you would like to hide. Even the parts that you keep secret from yourself.’ Behind me, her voice cracks and I want to cry. ‘And I know the truth. It is you who has abandoned me.’
Lightning strikes me in the chest.
I don’t wake up so much as I realise my eyes are already open and I’m standing outside the First Church of Gracie. It’s not like I’m unconscious one minute and conscious the next; it’s like I’m stuck in some vivid daydream only to suddenly remember what I’m doing. Except I don’t remember, not really. I have no idea how I got here.
Here. I’m on the sidewalk. It’s no longer raining. There are cops, and parishioners, and crying parents, and old gods. Rory has an arm around my shoulders. Enzo is talking to an EMT, his parents in the back of their ambulance.
In another, my mum helps a first responder ease my dad onto a stretcher. The doors close behind them. I think I talked to her, but I can’t remember where they’re going.
Buck and Rhett are gone. Or maybe they’re still inside the church. How long have I been standing here without being in my own body?
The sidewalk quiets when someone rolls a gurney through the crowd. There’s a black sheet pulled over the corpse. I don’t know if it’s Poppy or Zephyr.
Rory’s arm tightens around me. The ambulance takes Enzo’s parents away. He walks back to us, his fingers threading with mine. None of us speak.
A cop snaps his fingers in Marian’s face. He’s trying to get her attention, but he catches mine instead. She stares beyond him, following the flashing lights as the ambulances careen away from us and toward Gracie’s tiny hospital. Is her girlfriend in one of them?
How many people survive gunshots to the head every year? More than can call themselves gods of death, probably. If the odds were in anyone’s favour, it would be Poppy’s.
The cop raises his voice. Rory tenses. Enzo releases my hand. Marian doesn’t need us. She turns her cloudy eyes on the officer. She doesn’t speak. I don’t know that she can. But a Black woman in a pinstripe suit touches a hand to her shoulder and speaks for her. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t know what she says. But the cop rolls his eyes and leaves.
The woman steers Marian away from the crowd. Toward a car parked on the street. Murphy’s in the back seat, staring straight ahead, unblinking. Is this woman Murphy’s mom? She helps Marian into the back seat. It strikes me like rotten food in the pit of my stomach that the god of battle has never looked more like a scared little girl.
Indy meets my eye from across the road, where he’s standing next to his own truck. His expression is stone, eyes cold and harsh like black ice about to send us off the road. There is a world where the god of art paints murals with the blood of those he’s massacred. I’ve never seen my friend look as much like that god as he does now.
Everything has turned upside down. Everything has gone tipped out of whack, out of order, out of balance . . .
Balance. My head hurts. I am was the keeper of the scales.
Buck’s warning is as clear now as the day he spoke it. ‘And the scales will tip . . . tip . . . tip . . . until they fall from existence.’
What does a world out of balance look like?
I don’t realise I asked the question out loud until Enzo says, ‘We’ll see. Soon enough.’
Rory kisses the side of my face. ‘Let’s go home.’
Home. I don’t know what that means anymore, either.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Westley Vega
H E Edgmon (he/they) is a questionable influence, a dog person, and an author of books both irreverent and radicalising. Born and raised in the rural south, he currently lives in the Pacific Northwest with his eccentric little family. His stories imagine Indigenous worlds and center queer kids saving each other. H. E. has never once gotten enough sleep and probably isn’t going to anytime soon. His highly acclaimed debut, The Witch King, is out now.
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