Gideon the Ninth (The Locked Tomb, #1)

by Tamsyn Muir

With Harrow there, suddenly it was easy, and her horror of the monster turned to the ferocious joy of vengeance. Long years of warfare meant that they each knew exactly where the other would stand—every arc of a sword, every jostling scapula. No hole in the other’s defences went unshielded. They had never fought together before, but they had always fought, and they could work in and around each other without a second’s thought.

“I meant it,” she said earnestly. “You were wonderful. You would have made that little nun such a cavalier—I almost wish you’d been mine.” “You couldn’t fucking afford me,” said Gideon.

“I need to be inside you,” Harrow bellowed over the din. “Okay, you’re not even trying,” said Gideon.

“I have bested my father and my grandmother—every single necromancer ever taught by my House—every necromancer who has ever touched a skeleton. Did you see me? Did you behold me, Griddle?” This was all said somewhat thickly, through pink and bloodied teeth, before Harrow smugly passed out.

“I may be from the Ninth House,” said Gideon, “but if you say any more cryptic shit at me, you’re going to see how well you can regenerate when you’re in eighteen pieces.”

Harrow said, “But you’re God.” And God said, “And I am not enough.”