by Ren Warom
Over the past week, trying to come to terms with what’s happened to him, he’s thought a great deal about Rope shedding Lever’s skin. The parallels are extraordinary. The Lever he thought he knew, however briefly, was a lie, and so is he. And what’s underneath his lie? Not a murderer, but that’s faint comfort. Instead, he is a stranger. A man he can’t remember the face of, let alone the name. Those memories terrify him as much as the transmog does. Alien sensations of otherness, within and without, rendering him incapable of recognising even the smallest part of himself. There seems to be no way of consolidating his state.
Catching the reflection of his eye in the window, he recalls the mirror of Rope’s eye, Bone reflected into Bone, and wonders for a brief, mad moment why it has to matter to him which one was real. After all, the one who claimed to be real is dead, and all proof of his existence has been summarily erased or hidden. He could just be Bone forever, now, and forget the rest. Go back to his Mort once it’s all over and take up where he left off. But the idea is risible. A ridiculous fantasy. His past, much like his future, is in ruins. He can’t go back and he can’t go forwards, not until he knows who he really is. So, there it is. He has to follow where the path leads, all the way to the end, no matter what he might find. Or lose.
He rests his cheek against the glass. The cold is blissful, if only for a moment. Behind them, the hospital falls away from view, swallowed by snow-capped mountains, and ahead, brilliantly lit, the Spires skyline rears sharp as teeth against the night––a sleeping behemoth, waiting to consume him.
Acknowledgments
Bear with me on this one, I have a lot of people to thank. First and foremost, and again, Stephen Godden, the wit and wonder who’s no longer with us. Thanks for the unflagging faith, for the excellent, insightful beta reads, and for the many, many email rants. I miss you, Welsh Byron. I wish you were here to see this, you were so certain it would happen. You were right. Thanks also go out to Michael Gallant, another grand friend whose input on this one (and others) has been invaluable. You’re a star, Mike, and a gentleman. Beers are on me if our paths ever cross IRL, you can depend on it. I owe massive thanks to the irreplaceable, irrepressible Gary Bonn, who made pretty much everyone he knew read this book in its earliest form. Your enthusiasm for this particular book-child has been so wonderful and so warming. Thank you, MooninGary. For everything.
Naturally I can’t talk about Coil without hollering about Jen Udden, my agent supreme, who offered me representation because of this book. When it didn’t at first find a home, Jen made me write another book that did. Thanks for the belief, Jen, for the fierce advocation, and for generally being a badass. Oh, and thanks for not skinning me alive for sending this to an open sub month on the sly. Your patience with my endless reticence is appreciated, as is your immediate, unfailing support.
Huge, undying thanks from the bottom of my cold, dead heart go of course to Apex, to Jason and Lesley, for giving my favourite, slightly strange, and undeniably bloody book-child a perfect home. We promise not to leave too many dead bodies around the place. Honest. We’re ever so careful. Waste not, want not.
Finally I want to thank Matt Davis for the pulpy eighties throwback cover of dreams. It’s an absolute beauty. You best believe I’m recommending you to anyone who needs a cover, and probably also to anyone who doesn’t. Brace for impact!
About the Author
Ren Warom lives in the West Midlands with her children, her cat-pack, a snake called Marvin, and innumerable books. She’s currently pursuing a PhD and thinks she may have lost her mind. If you find said mind, please return in a secure, locked box to the address on the collar. Do not, repeat, do not, attempt to feed it! Thank you.