Cover reveal!

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I've been buzzing about my forthcoming novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice, for a while, and now I can finally reveal the cover! Only it's not here - it's over on Dark Continents Publishing's blog, along with my post in which I discuss my influences and the world building of the story. If you want to see the cover, and read my post, then click here. The cover is beautiful, and I'm so grateful to Daniël Hugo and Carmen Begley for their fantastic work on it.

If that's whetted your appetite, you can check out my visual influences on my Pinterest board, and read some of my Friday flashes set in the same universe.

Blurb

Though Jyximus Faire lives in a crumbling tenement in the Underground City, he escapes the squalor daily to attend lessons in magic and sorcery at the prestigious Academy in the City Above.

But the pace isn’t fast enough for Jyx. He wants to learn everything—and he wants to learn it now. Then the dread necromancer general Eufame Delsenza sets her sights on Jyx; she needs a new apprentice, and Jyx fits the bill. When she tasks him with helping to prepare royal mummies for an all-important procession, he realises this might be a chance of a lifetime.

Will Jyx’s impatience lead to him taking his education into his own inexperienced hands, and can a necromancer’s apprentice really learn to raise the dead—and control them?

Announcement - New Book Coming!

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I think anyone who knows me knows that I have a bit of a thing about mummies. You can keep your vampires and werewolves, if there's a bandaged critter lurking somewhere - I can't actually get away from them, either. If I go to a museum, I'll always end up finding the mummies. I love them! I've posted a fair few mummy stories as part of my Friday Flash activity over the past few years, and now I'm pleased to say that I've managed to place a novella featuring mummies with a publisher!

The Necromancer's Apprentice is my retelling of the fabled Sorceror's Apprentice, only it replaces the sorceror with a necromancer, and the overly helpful brooms with blood-lusting mummies. It also features dog-headed men, a fight scene involving a scythe, and a pterodactyl. It's partly set in the Underground City which has appeared in a few of my Friday Flashes (click here if you want another look) and partly in the City Above, where the hapless apprentice ends up working in the House of the Long Dead. I'm not overly sure if it's horror, or dark fantasy, but I'm pitching it as somewhere between the two.

I'm really excited to announce that Dark Continents Publishing, who also published Nerine Dorman's Inkarna and Rab Swannock Fulton's Transformation, will be putting out The Necromancer's Apprentice through their Darkness and Dismay division. My ace new editor, Nerine Dorman, reckons I'm the twisted version of JK Rowling. I'll leave it up to you to decide if you agree when it comes out!

In the meantime, expect more Underground City stories, and definitely more mummies...

#FridayFlash - Frozen World

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Jyximus Faire trudged along the street, cursing the weather as the snow seeped through the holes in his ancient boots. He couldn't remember the winter ever lasting so long before. The Underground City escaped relatively unscathed, its crumbling tenements kept warm by the smog of industry, but the City Above lay smothered by a thick blanket of white. The City mages were working flat out to clear it, but for every snowfall they repelled, two more broke through their defences. It reinforced Jyx's desire to specialise in Elemental sorcery - after all, nature was clearly stronger than the alchemy of the mages.

The huge iron gates to the Academy loomed ahead of him. A coach careered past, sending a spray of slush in its wake. The wet snow caught Jyx across the back, the soaked fabric sticking his threadbare cloak to his shirt. A head poked out of the coach's window, and Jyx recognised one of the prefects. The older boy smirked, and disappeared out of sight into the gloom.

Jyx slipped between the gates after the coach and left the driveway to cut across the lawn. The snow was deeper than it was on the road, but at least he wouldn't get sprayed by passing coaches, and his feet were already frozen. A few more minutes wouldn't kill him.

The lamps of the Academy glowed in the distance, and Jyx forced himself onward. He stumbled through snow drifts on the lawn, watchful for the low iron fence that marked the edge of the Ornamental Garden. Within a few minutes that felt like hours, Jyx saw the fence, and hurried towards it. Doctor Ermes kept the snow at bay in her garden, and only a thin crust of frost coated the twisting paths. Jyx hopped over the fence and stamped the snow from his boots.

The garden hummed with the low vibration of the Doctor's magic, entwined with the natural energy of the plants and trees. Jyx loved the garden, and couldn't wait until next year when they'd begin to study specific Botanical magick. He'd already read all of the books the library had but there was nothing like actually practising it - especially with an expert like Doctor Ermes.

A stream wound its way through the garden as it flowed from a spring beneath the Academy in the west and into the canals in the east. Jyx normally arrived at the Academy by canal but with the water frozen solid, he'd had to travel on foot. A narrow bridge carried the path over the stream.

Halfway across the bridge, a strange noise caught Jyx's attention. It sounded as though someone were pounding on glass and shouting to be heard. He looked around, but the nearest building was the Academy, and it was too far away for him to hear any of its occupants.

The pounding got louder and on a whim, Jyx looked over the side of the bridge. He saw movement below the ice, and he leaned over the rail to peer closer. The shapes below the ice moved like people, sliding to and fro like a crowd in Monument Square, but the water wasn't deep enough to hold people. Jyx had heard of lakes beyond the City where the water stole the reflections of any who dared to look into it - had Doctor Ermes enchanted the stream to do the same to ensnare unwary students?

He frowned. Capturing reflections was only one step up from the nefarious Shadow magick, and while he longed to try both of them, it wasn't right that innocent people were walking around without their reflections, especially not if they were students. He looked at the Academy, and back at the frozen stream. He was already an hour late - pausing for another five minutes wouldn't make any difference.

Jyx looked around on the bridge, and spotted a small pebble tucked in a hollow near one of the posts holding up the rail. He picked it up, wincing at the cold stone against his frozen fingers, and leaned back over the rail. He remembered a spell he'd seen in a book about Water magick, and now seemed the best time to try it. Jyx stretched out a trembling forefinger and drew a sigil over the ice. The light trail left by his finger pulsed a deep blue that grew lighter by shades the longer he stared at it. Once the light trail turned white, Jyx hurled the stone at the ice.

The ice cracked and the light trail faded. Jyx scowled, annoyed that the sigil had failed. He looked about on the bridge for another projectile, but it seemed the pebble was the only available missile.

The ice groaned. Jyx watched as the shapes congregated around the tiny fracture. The crack widened as they pounded on the underside of the ice. The air filled with a hideous cackle, and Jyx realised the laughter came from the trapped reflections. The crack heaved open and a jagged talon poked upwards out of the ice.
Panic seized at Jyx and he fled from the bridge. He didn't feel the pain in his feet as he plunged through the garden and broke out into the kitchen garden near the east wing of the Academy. The voices of students heading for the main building drifted through the air, and he ran in their direction.

Jyx reached the Academy and raced up the steps to the main doors. The other latecomers slipped inside, glad of the warmth in the entrance hall, but Jyx paused on the threshold, listening hard. A shiver unconnected to the weather ran down his back as the faint echo of a cackle drifted on the breeze.

Jyx hurried inside, hoping that Doctor Ermes would never know.

* * *

Jyximus Faire is the protagonist of my work in progress, The Necromancer's Apprentice, and I thought you might appreciate an introduction to the world above my Underground City. The other City flashes can be found here.

#FridayFlash - The Dreamcatcher

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Theophilius Hopgood sat at his desk, the quill in his hand poised above a parchment strip. He peered through his glasses at the small glass bottle on the shelf of the desk. Tiny blue particles drifted to and fro, disturbing the pale green mist inside the vial. Hopgood dipped the quill into the ink and scrawled ‘Eternium’ on the parchment. When the ink dried, he’d stick the label onto the bottle, and it would leave his workshop, destined for sale in one of the emporia far below his attic.


Three ornate cages stood near the open window. Two of the cages were empty, their occupants out working in the City Above. The third cage contained a large grey bird that slept with its head tucked beneath one wing.

A fluttering of wings at the window announced the return of one of the birds. Midway between a vulture and an owl, it squeezed through the narrow opening and landed on Hopgood’s vast work surface. Its ruby talons gripped a net of woven cobweb and silk thread. Clouds of coloured mist clung to the net, sparkling in the gloom of the workshop.

“Ah, Medusa, you have been busy!”

Hopgood petted the bird, and she raised one leg to allow him to remove the net. He picked up his tweezers and teased each of the clouds free, depositing them into small glass bottles. He counted six in total. He shook out the net and hung it from a peg on the wall to dry.

Hopgood examined the bottles. Two of them contained pale green clouds studded with floating blue particles. Hopgood smiled – he’d need to write more Eternium labels, and dreams of immortality always sold well.

The bird fluttered up to one of the empty cages and clambered inside, far less graceful on foot than she was in the air. Her ruby talons gripped the bar of the cage and she settled down to sleep, tucking her head beneath her wing to mirror the pose of her avian neighbour. Hopgood marvelled at those talons; right now, they kept the bird upright through sleep, but those same talons could also prise free the dreams of slumbering Citizens.

Hopgood settled down in the chair to write more labels for the bottles. He counted two dreams of immortality, one of love, one of success, and two of enduring friendship. Ettamora would be pleased; her dreams emporium was the favoured destination of slum-dwellers hoping to share the dreams of the rich Citizens in the City Above.

The third bird clattered through the window, landing on the desk in a heap. Its talons were tangled in the silken net, and Hopgood spent ten minutes working the bird free. The net held a single cloud, heavy and black, studded with red beads that glowered like baleful eyes.

“Sandor, how often must I tell you? You must harvest only good dreams, not bad ones!” Hopgood admonished the bird as it flew up to the cage, hiding in its shadows.

Hopgood wrung out the net, squeezing the black cloud into a larger jar, its glass thicker than that of the other bottles. He forced in the stopper before the cloud could escape, but the particles hammered against the cork for several moments.

“You see, Sandor? That’s why bad dreams are dangerous. They’re always trying to get out and affect everything they touch. I’ll have to send it down to the forge so they can melt it down for nightmare parts.”

A loud knock echoed around the workshop. Hopgood shuffled across the room, squeezing between desks and display cases. He opened the door to a thin girl carrying a basket. She wore a threadbare shawl around her narrow shoulders, and her pinched features bore an expression of wearied resignation.

“Good evening, Pola. I have some new product for you.”

“Why do you ‘ave to live right up ‘ere? Takes me ages to climb them stairs,” said Pola, stepping into the workshop.

“The birds need to be above the smog to find their way out.”

Hopgood’s stomach roiled to think of the smog that clung to the Underground City. What he wouldn’t give to escape, to find a small attic in the City Above where he could enjoy fresh air and open skies. Not once had his birds brought home that dream. That was his own dream – definitely not for sale.

Pola grimaced, and moved no further into the workshop. Hopgood rolled his eyes and returned to his desk to fetch the finished bottles from their shelf. He wrapped them into a large handkerchief so he could carry them back to Pola. She tucked them into her basket, and handed him fourteen small copper pieces, one for each bottle. Ettamora would sell them on for three coppers each.

“Be seein’ you, Theo.”

Pola turned and left, her wheezing filling the stairwell as she descended into darkness. Hopgood closed the door and returned to his desk. Sandor still didn’t sleep, instead peering out of his cage at his master. Hopgood held out his arm and Sandor clambered free, fluttering down to rest on Hopgood’s forearm.

“I want fresh air, Sandor, and I’m sure you do too. But I can’t afford a workshop Above.”

Sandor pecked at Hopgood’s chest and stared up at him, an idea burning in his grey eyes. Hopgood smiled.

“Sandor, you’re a genius. Why don’t I just sell the dreams myself?”

The bird nuzzled against his master, and Hopgood moved across the workshop to the grate to enjoy its meagre warmth. He settled in his old chair, Sandor roosting on his shoulder. Soon Hopgood’s eyes closed and his mind drifted, skipping through the open boulevards of a city whose sky stretched for eternity.

* * *

This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Three of the other stories so far are The Supplicant, The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

#FridayFlash - The Supplicant

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The shrine to Beseda lay deep in the bowels of the Underground City. It could only be reached by a twisting staircase that cut its way through layers of black and grey rock, a staircase frequently blocked by the sheer number of supplicants trying to enter or leave the shrine. Its lack of natural light made time irrelevant in the Underground City, and traffic to the shrine was almost constant. However, Arabella determined that many of the slum dwellers would be packed into taverns and other drinking dens on the Feast of Rogues. As a result, the staircase to the shrine was mercifully quiet as she picked her way down the steps towards the hallowed doors.

She slipped between the iron gates and padded along the hallway towards the inner sanctum. There were no guards, for everyone guarded the shrine in their own way, and the priests were more fierce than anyone the City could appoint. Arabella clutched her meagre offering and bit her lip - would it be enough? She hoped that sincerity would hold more weight than quantity when it came to matters of supplication.

Arabella ducked under the low beam and stepped inside the shrine. Priests sat in alcoves set into the walls of the circular room, bent over scrolls or tablets. Only one looked up as she entered, and after passing a disinterested gaze over her, he returned to his work. Arabella took that as an invitation to enter fully, and she ventured further into the shrine. The centre of the room was dominated by a tall statue of a slender woman, arms held aloft as her owl wings curved around her body for either protection or modesty - the priests could not decide. Two long, elegant feathers formed eyebrows, and talons tipped her fingers and toes. A range of offerings occupied the plinth at her feet, with prayers written in either childish handwriting or simple pictures.

Arabella knelt before the giant statue of Beseda, the owl princess deity of vulnerable women and legal affairs. She placed her bedraggled bunch of liberated nightblooms on the plinth and bowed her head. She kept her voice low so as not to disturb the priests in their work, or indeed to provide them with new subjects for idle gossip.

“Lady Beseda, I need your help. I know I don’t come often but that’s ‘cause I don’t like to bother you none. But right now I can’t do much more on my own. I tried to be good, see, I tried to do what I were told, and I tried to always take each beatin’ with a smile in my heart, but it ain’t no good.”

Her fingers strayed to the array of bruises on her left arm, fresh purple flowers amid blooms of dull brown and vicious yellow. The words that accompanied each blow were like daggers to the heart, imprinted on her mind like hieroglyphs of pain.

“I never wanted to marry him in the first place but Mama said I had to leave, give her more food for the rest o’ the family. She knows he hits me, but she says I must deserve it.”

A stray tear escaped and slid down Arabella’s cheek, tracing the faint shadow of an old bruise usually hidden by her curtain of hair. Her husband didn’t hit her face any more; he wouldn’t be able to sell her to the men at the tavern if she looked damaged.

“I know what he’s got planned for me, and I don’t want no part of it. I’ve only got a few days until my cycle ends, and then…”

Arabella sniffed back another tear. She closed her eyes and continued her prayer to Beseda inside her head. The priests, recognising true need, left the weeping young woman alone in the shrine. However, Arabella was not quite alone. Something soft brushed her face, and she opened her eyes to see a long white feather, spotted with black, lying on the plinth on top of her bunch of nightblooms. Better yet, a small glass vial stood beside the feather.

Arabella snatched up the gifts and threw her arms around the legs of the statue. She smothered the cold stone with kisses, and her words of gratitude tumbled out in a rush. She slipped the vial and the feather into her pockets and bolted out of the shrine, almost colliding with the priests in her hurry to leave.

The young woman thought of the gifts as she scrambled up the twisting staircase, the flaming torches throwing flickering shadows across the walls. She smiled; everyone knew that owl tears were poisonous. The vial contained either release or retribution, depending on how she used it.

“And the feather will take the sting away,” she sang as she climbed.

Praise be to Beseda…

* * *

This story is set in the Underground City, part of the universe for my dark fantasy/horror novella, The Necromancer's Apprentice. Two of the other stories so far are The Vault of Lost Voices, and The Fishwives.

The Next Big Thing

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As far as I can tell, I've been tagged three times to do the Next Big Thing meme, by Cathy Russell, Richard Bon and Andrew Reid. So I figured I might as well give it a shot...

Ten Interview Questions for The Next Big Thing

What is the working title of your book?
The Necromancer's Apprentice.

Where did the idea come from for the book?
I'd just watched The Sorceror's Apprentice with a friend and me being me, I said "Wouldn't it be cool if that was a necromancer instead of a sorceror?" and the idea ran from there. The male sorceror became a female Necromancer General, and the army of mops became mummies. I'd had a mental image of a place called the House of the Long Dead kicking around in the back of my mind for a while, and now I had a home for it.

What genre does your book fall under?
It straddles the boundary between horror and dark fantasy. The world in which it is set is part fantasy city/part Ancient Egypt, but it's got bloodthirsty mummies as well.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Charlie Cox would make a good Jyximus, the apprentice, and I'd like Sigourney Weaver for Eufame, the necromancer, but I'm not sure about the rest of the cast. I'd want Tom Hiddleston in there but that's purely because I think he should be in everything.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
"An over-ambitious apprentice uses illicit knowledge to raise a mummy army of assistants...except this army will settle only for blood."

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?
I've got an editor who wants to work on it already so I think I'll be doing the indie press route. I've got no problems with self publishing or the traditional route, but I quite like the indie press approach. You have the contact with the publisher, so they handle the formatting, cover etc., but you're more than just a tiny cog in a huge machine.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I don't really know, I didn't time myself, but it must have been a few months. It's only a novella though so it's not like I've churned out 80,000 words in four months. I'm currently running edits before I send it out to the beta readers.

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
There will no doubt be Harry Potter comparisons due to the fact my apprentice starts off in an academy of magick, but it's inspired a lot more by Fantasia and The Mummy. I tend to be more inspired by films than books but that's what happens when you're a film student.

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
The Sorceror's Apprentice! Actually I'd have to say Disney, since there are elements of both Fantasia and Maleficent from Sleeping Beauty in there. But for encouragement to actually write it, then I have to say it would be Carrie Clevenger and Nerine Dorman. I don't think I'd have finished writing the first draft without them prodding me along.

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
There are mummies in it! Not enough people write mummies these days.

* * *

I'm not tagging anyone specifically but if you fancy a go and want to discuss your current work, then feel free - but drop me a link in the comments so I can read your answers!

#FridayFlash - The Fishwives

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The fishwives stand in a line along the sea wall, their arms outstretched as if they’d hold back the tide. They wear near-identical clothing, choosing the drab colours of those who dwell in the Underground City. The only difference between them is within the lace motifs of their mud brown shawls, motifs which mirror the intricate cables of their clans.

An excited chatter begins, tearing along the line. Movement is sighted at the bottleneck into the bay - their husbands return. The sea boils and churns, waves parting to spit forth the menfolk. Their grey scales gleam in the fading light; fins and gills put the husbands halfway between fish and men. Webbed hands clutch treasures of the deep, and muscular arms throw the catch of the day to the fishwives.

Some women cram baskets with fish and crabs, others seize precious stones and assorted detritus, the spoils of many shipwrecks beyond the bay. Their hauls depleted, the men turn and dive beyond the waves. They flick powerful tails in goodbye as they return to the depths.

The fishwives load the baskets onto carts, and haul them towards the gaping tunnels at the foot of the cliffs. Bereft of their husbands but laden with bounty, they begin the slow trudge back towards the Underground City. Their goods will soon appear in the markets and junk shops, their pockets lined with copper.

* * *

This story is set in the same universe as my laryngitis-inspired tale, Vault of Lost Voices.

#FridayFlash - The Vault of Lost Voices

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Grimelda Purkiss waddled down Green Urchin Close. She pulled her shawl tighter as if to block out the foul smells of the narrow thoroughfare. She ducked to avoid a damp low-hanging sheet and tutted. Why the women of the Underground City chose to hang out their washing when they had no sun by which to dry it was beyond her.

She turned the tight corner at the bottom of the Close and the object of her errand came into view. A bow window jutted into the alley, grime caked to each of its tiny panes of glass. A hand painted sign above the door read 'The Vault of Lost Voices'. Grimelda smiled.

A bell jangled above the door as she stepped inside. The air smelled cool and clean after the warm squalor of the alleys and closes outside, and ornate lanterns blazed with blue flames either side of the door. Walnut shelves ran the length of the back wall, groaning beneath the weight of assorted bottles and jars.

A black velvet curtain swished to one side, and a tall thin man appeared behind the counter. A mane of white hair clung to his skull, and a pair of pince nez perched on the end of his beak-like nose. He held out a bony hand.

"Farridon Upworth, at your service. How may I be of assistance to you today?"

Grimelda fished around in her bag and withdrew a slate. She found half a stick of chalk in her pocket, and wrote "I require a voice" on the slate. Farridon nodded, his expression suitably grave and serious.

"I understand, madam. Here at the Vault of Lost Voices we pride ourselves on providing the very best vocal capabilities to our customers."

Grimelda raised one eyebrow and wiped her slate clean. She scribbled a new message and held it up for Farridon to read. He frowned.

"Well yes, it is true, we sell voices that have been lost but never claimed, but I assure you, we shall find the right voice for you. Now if you'd like to come closer?"

Farridon gestured to a spot beside the counter. Grimelda stepped forward and gazed at the bottles and jars on display. She could see more shelves stretching away into the darkness beyond the curtain. It seemed many of the City's inhabitants were accustomed to losing their voices.

"Now then. What kind of voice were you looking for?" asked Farridon.

Grimelda wrote on the slate. 'Stately. With gravitas'. Farridon read the message and looked Grimelda up and down. She narrowed her reptilian eyes, convinced she saw mirth in his expression. He turned away and his shoulders hitched as he scanned the bottles on the shelves. She glowered at his back, though sadly he wasn’t the first she’d encountered who couldn’t look beyond her appearance.

"How about this one?" Farridon turned back to her, forcing away the remnants of his grin.

Grimelda took the bottle from him. The voice flickered behind thick red glass. She looked up at Farridon, and he motioned for her to open the bottle. The voice fluttered free when as she removed the cork, settling on her throat.

"What do you think?" asked Farridon.

"I'm not entirely sure this is what I wanted," replied Grimelda, her voice deep and rich. She screwed up her nose – she sounded like Senator Williams.

"It is indeed a stately voice, madam."

"Yes but I'm a woman. This voice is not a woman's voice."

Farridon took back the bottle and flicked the fluttering voice free of Grimelda's throat. He captured it in the bottle and replaced the cork. He returned the bottle to its place on the shelf, and handed Grimelda a tall blue bottle. She pulled out the cork and another voice appeared. It flew in lazy circles above the counter until Farridon forced it in Grimelda’s direction.

“And this one? This is a high quality voice, madam.”

“I don’t think it suits me.” The voice was high alright – too high. Grimelda envisioned one of the shrivelled City Mages, taking a week to make a single pronouncement.

“Very well. Does anything in particular catch your eye?” Farridon removed the voice and put the bottle under the counter. He gestured to the shelves behind him, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

Grimelda pointed to a curvaceous silver bottle up near the ceiling. The voice inside sparkled in the lantern light. Farridon raised an eyebrow and pointed to the bottle.

“You want to try that one? Really?”

Grimelda nodded. Farridon let out an exasperated sigh and climbed a small ladder to reach the bottle. Grimelda scowled as he tossed it down to her. The glass was smooth and cold to the touch, and the voice made a beeline for her throat when she pulled out the cork.

“Is this voice to madam’s liking?”

“Oh it’s perfect.” The silvery voice of an elf filled the room. Grimelda smiled – it sounded like sunlight on running water, the first snowfall of winter, and a nightingale’s lament rolled into one.

“You wanted stately. With gravitas.” Farridon pouted.

“I’m entitled to change my mind, Mr Upworth. How much will this one be?” Grimelda returned her slate to her bag, and rummaged in its depths for her purse.

“That one is sixteen shillings. You may keep the bottle, too.” Farridon held out an expectant palm.

“A bargain, Mr Upworth.” Grimelda dropped the coins into his hand. She prised free the voice, careful not to damage its gossamer wings, and swallowed it. She giggled, feeling it tickle as it took root.

She crossed the shop and pulled open the door. The alley outside no longer seemed oppressive or noisy. Life itself looked different to Grimelda. She was different. She wasn’t the timid half-troll any more.

Now she was the half-troll with an Elfin voice.