The Devils (The Devils, #1)

by Joe Abercrombie

Somewhere behind he could hear the regular scrape of gravediggers’ shovels, but couldn’t bring himself to turn his head to look. Every grave looks much the same, after all. With the possible exception of your own.

‘Bloody Count Radosav!’ spat the countess. ‘What a bore, what a bastard, what a menace to the public good, what a goat’s anus, eh, Ignatios?’ The priest inclined his head. ‘I am forced to deplore the language but with the substance I must regretfully concur.’ ‘A tyrant to his underlings, a sycophant to his superiors, and to his equals the most arrogant, stubborn, contrarian … ugh, ugh!’ She mimed sticking fingers down her throat. ‘His demands, his disputes, my orchard, my wheatfield, my village. I swear if you gave him the world he’d want more. And now he’s gone to war with me! Or me with him, one or the other, the outrageous bastard! The man simply does not understand the word no or the word joke, though he did, it appears, understand the words arrogant shit because that last letter of mine did not improve his mood.’

Jakob had seen it a hundred times. Good intentions can be buried in the graveyard of defeat, but they just as often sink in the bog of victory.

Then Alex leaned in and kissed her. Not a forceful kiss all tongues and teeth. Not some accidental brushing of the lips. Decided and patient and leaving no doubt at all what it was. She caught Sunny’s top lip between hers, sucking at it ever so slightly, then her bottom lip with the faintest flapping sound, then the top again, and maybe actually there was a little bit of tongue on the end of that one, and Sunny was just about to kiss her back when Alex pulled away. Sunny stared at her, whole face tingling. Alex’s eyes flickered open, and she stared back. There were only a few inches of darkness between them. Silence, except for the hinge of the door creaking with the wind. The muscles fluttered in Alex’s throat as she swallowed. ‘Oh,’ said Sunny, slightly hoarse.

Werewolves are a real curse. Right up until they’re the very thing you need.

Count Radosav sent for wine for himself, and drank, and grew even more baleful, then tired of drinking alone, and sent for wine for everyone. Jakob had his vow of temperance so he turned it down, like he always did, and watched everyone else drink, like he always did, and regretted his vows bitterly. Like he always did.

‘You’ve always had a lot of friends,’ said Jakob, struggling not to sound envious. ‘Still a slice of luck to run into one out here.’ ‘You’ve always had a lot of luck,’ said Jakob, struggling not to sound envious.

‘Brother Diaz?’ He groaned, dawn stabbing at him with such painful brightness he had to lift a limp hand to shield his eyes. Light of many colours glittered about a dark figure. An angelic visitation? Was he dreaming? Was he dying? He had a gnawing worry that an interview at the gates of heaven wouldn’t go well for him. ‘Brother Diaz?’ When he realised it wasn’t an angel but Princess Alexia, his first feeling was relief at avoiding divine judgement, his second dismay as he remembered the miles and the danger that still lay ahead, his third confusion as he saw the princess had an expression of intense shock and he was lying on something very warm. Something gently rising and falling. Something that made the faintest throaty growl with each breath. ‘Gah!’ He tore free of the blanket, scrambling up only to realise, as Alex’s eyes went even wider, that he wore nothing but the vial of Saint Beatrix, an absurdly inappropriate accessory under the circumstances. He grabbed for the blanket, then saw he couldn’t whip it across his nakedness without exposing Vigga’s in all its tattooed majesty and was obliged to cup his private parts with both hands instead. ‘I can explain!’ he said. Alex looked to Vigga, starting to wriggle faintly under the blanket, then back to Brother Diaz, then down at his cupped hands, her face twisting into an expression of doubt so intense it verged on pity. ‘Really?’ He stood a moment, mouth open, hoping, perhaps, for divine inspiration. But no man had ever ...

‘Thanks,’ grunted Jakob, pulling on a fresh shirt. It must’ve belonged to Sabbas, involved a lot of golden thread about the collar and cuffs, and made him look like a wealthy widower determined to throw himself back onto the marriage market.

‘… at the behest of a ten-year-old Pontiff,’ and he waved towards Brother Diaz, ‘under the command of the Celestial Palace’s least effective monk—’ ‘Don’t talk to him like that!’ snarled Vigga. ‘He’s a good man! An honest man, and a brave man, and an excellent lover! Surprisingly bold and assertive—’ ‘Wait …’ Balthazar’s look of surprise turned to one of confusion. ‘What?’ ‘Oh.’ Vigga blinked. ‘Shit.’ ‘Really?’ Jakob of Thorn pressed the bridge of his nose between finger and thumb. ‘Again?’ ‘When …’ Balthazar glanced from the monk to the werewolf and back, ‘where … how …?’ Brother Diaz looked pained. ‘Could we … talk about something else?’ ‘You spend years illuminating manuscripts,’ said Baptiste, working off one boot, ‘and singing hymns, and tending the monastery gardens, but all anyone wants to talk about is the one time you fucked a werewolf.’ ‘Three times,’ said Vigga, ‘in fact.’ ‘Once could be considered a mishap,’ said Baron Rikard, in a sermonising tone, ‘but three times begins to look like deliberate sin!’ ‘How can even once be a mishap?’ asked Sunny, confused. ‘Cardinal Zizka, I must confess,’ sang Baptiste as she pulled off her other boot and leaned back, wriggling her bare toes at the fire, ‘that I slipped while praying, my habit caught upon a stray nail, and my prick, engorged as it always is while filled with the love of our Lord, accidentally went up a lycanthrope’s twat.’ ‘I have heard it all.’ Balthazar stared off wide-eyed into the darkened forest. ‘The un...

Balthazar opened his mouth, as if to disagree, then shut it, as if he’d realised he couldn’t.

Vigga opened her mouth, as if to disagree, then shut it, as if she’d realised she couldn’t.