He lay there in the hot sun, crying. Nobody helped him. He didn’t expect them to. It was fine. He wanted to die. Might as well get it over with.
He slept.
The sounds of shrieking brought him back to consciousness. Gripping the back of his bloody head, Fables winced and looked through the wooden swinging doors.
The saloon was eerily quiet.
Dragging himself up into a sitting position, he looked around. The streets were empty too. Some food stands knocked over. Shoes left behind. Almost as if people had fled something in a hurry. Fleeing was his specialty, so he could tell. Soon, he’d likely have to move on too.
But first he wanted to know what had happened to the rowdy bar.
Still cringing in pain, he dragged himself back into the saloon. The bartender, the prostitutes, the businessmen. The cowboys and the gamblers. All gone. Their chips and beer were still fresh on the table.
Only one figure was inside. A man he’d never seen before. A man he couldn’t make up even in his wildest of dreams.
Fables held his breath. The man’s back was to him, so Fables couldn’t see his face. The man was… He was naked. But his long, brown hair covered most of his body, curling almost down to the floor. Weeds and flowers twisted out of his locks as if they’d been planted there.
And his skin—his skin was gold or bronze like one of those ancient statues. He had the body of one too, perfectly sculpted like a Roman gladiator. His blue veins were visible through his skin, and Fables could see them bulging, pulsating as if slurping down blood.
The saloon was dustier than usual. Without taking his eyes off the man, Fables inched over to the piano by the wall. The ivory keys were covered in dust.
And where were all the people?
It was then that the man turned. Fables, eyes wide, was stunned to the point where he couldn’t feel his pain anymore. The man was beautiful. Perfect.
Fables began trembling, his arms limp at his sides. This man was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Unlike anything that had ever existed. Better than a fairy tale. Sweeter than a song.
The man’s golden eyes had no pupils and needed no whites to peer into Fables’s soul. Upon his forehead was a band of sharp emerald laurels, like a wreath—and a shining white jewel glittering in the center. A white stone. A white crystal…
His power was so palpable, Fables dropped to his knees and cried. He’d always thought his father was the most powerful man he’d ever met. How wrong he was. How wrong he was.
Fables looked up at the creature with awe. He couldn’t stop the words from escaping his lips even if he wanted to. “Sir, tell me… are you… a god?”
The man answered, “Yes.”
Fables nodded quickly, clasping his hands together. Of course he was a god. What else could this wondrous creature be? “Where have all the people here gone?”
At this, the man smiled a little. Just that little was intoxicating. “Dead.” He gestured around him, and Fables finally realized that the bar was covered in ash, not dust.
Fables’s heart was racing. He scrambled to his feet. He’d never been this close to divinity before. This close to power. Power—the one thing he’d always wanted but never had, not since the day he was born in a lie.
“Where did you come from?” Fables continued, because he couldn’t ask enough questions. “Heaven? Why are you here?”
The man was staring off into the distance. It was only after Fables had asked the last question that he turned and looked at him once more. “I’m here to punish the wicked.”
Fables backed up against the piano bench. “Who’s the wicked?”
“Humanity.”
If Fables was honest with himself, it was what he’d always wanted. Someone who punished those who deserved it. This world was awful. Wicked. And the more he stared at this wild, golden man who appeared before him like a Greek god, the more the deep-seated desires he never dared to speak before bubbled to the surface. A desire for revenge. For blood.
This was a wicked world. The people in it were better off dead.
And like a dream, the man stretched out his hand. Fables stared at it in awe. “I would like to learn more about this world. Will you follow me?” the man asked.
Fables didn’t need to think. “Yes. Yes, I will! I’ll teach you everything I know!” He was elated. All those lonely, hateful nights. Someone had finally answered his prayers. Though, this probably wasn’t the good Lord above—or maybe it was. It didn’t matter. He would take it. He would take it.
“But,” Fables continued, “what do I call you? What’s your name?”
The man looked around him. At the ashes of the people he’d burned alive. The alcohol spilling down the bar. The overturned tables and leftover cards and chips.
“Hiva,” the man finally said, his gold eyes bright like fire. “My name is Hiva.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There was a time I would freeze on the spot worrying about how I was going to write this book. It came together because of the help of some amazing people. Thanks to my brother, David, who was the first person to hear the kernel of this idea and was actually excited to see more. Thanks to my agent, Natalie Lakosil, who enthusiastically sold it. Thanks to Simon & Schuster’s team, especially my editor, Sarah McCabe, who encouraged me throughout this journey. Thank you to the authors of every resource I found and read through in order to bring this setting of apocalyptic Victorian London to life. Thank you to God and my family, who never fail me.
And thank you, Auntie. You were there when I did my first reading in a little local bar. You were there when I held my first ever book launch. I remember when I was ten years old and you visited my house. It was the first time I properly met you. I was sitting on the ground, watching TV, and you were sitting on the couch behind me. I turned around and asked you, “Are you my real auntie?” Because Black girls have lots of aunties, you see—blood-related and friends of the family and the like—and I didn’t know exactly what kind of auntie you were.
Thank you for being my real auntie.
More from the Author
Legacy of Light
Siege of Shadows
Fate of Flames
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sarah Raughley grew up in Southern Ontario writing stories about freakish little girls with powers because she secretly wanted to be one. She is a huge fangirl of anything from manga to sci-fi/fantasy TV to Japanese role-playing games and other geeky things, all of which have largely inspired her writing. Sarah has been nominated for the Aurora Award for Best YA Novel and works in the community doing writing workshops for youths and adults. On top of being a YA writer, Sarah has a PhD in English, which makes her a doctor, so it turns out she didn’t have to go to medical school, after all. As an academic, Sarah has taught undergraduate courses and acted as a postdoctoral fellow. Her research concerns representations of race and gender in popular media culture, youth culture, and postcolonialism. She has written and edited articles in political, cultural, and academic publications. She continues to use her voice for good. You can find her online at SarahRaughley.com.
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Margaret K. McElderry
Simon & Schuster, New York
ALSO BY SARAH RAUGHLEY
Fate of Flames
Siege of Shadows
Legacy of Light
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Raughley, Sarah, author.
Title: The bones of ruin / Sarah Raughley.
Description: First edition. | New York : Margaret K. McElderry Books, [2021] | Series: The bones of ruin ; 1 | Summary: “An African tightrope walker who cannot die gets involved with a mysterious society that’s convinced the world is ending and is drafted into the fight-to-the-death Tournament of Freaks, where she learns the terrible truth of who and what she really is”—Provided by publisher.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020056333 (print) | LCCN 2020056334 (ebook) | ISBN 9781534453562 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781534453586 (ebook)
Subjects: CYAC: Blacks—England—Fiction. | Ability—Fiction. | Supernatural—Fiction. | End of the world—Fiction. | Contests—Fiction. | Great Britain—History—Victoria, 1837-1901—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.1.R38 Bo 2021 (print) | LCC PZ7.1.R38 (ebook) | DDC [Fic]—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056333
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020056334
The Bones of Ruin Page 49
