The Night Itself (33 page)

“Thanks,” Jack said.

“All in a day’s work.”

The door finally finished lurching upwards. On the other side, fifty bruised, bloodied and extremely worn-out-looking Kitsune peered anxiously in at us. At the front, Hiro and Araki – both of whom were sporting brightly coloured bandages which looked like they had come from someone’s fancy kimono – stepped forward into the opening and bowed.

“You have succeeded, Mio-dono. Our people are in your debt,” Araki said. “Name the favour you would ask of us.”

It took me a moment to remember what she was talking about.
The king’s promise
.

“Can I – um – think about that for a while? If that’s OK? There’s … something I really need to do right now.”

With Shinobu beside me, I picked my way stiffly outside, across the desolate, windswept plain that used to be Battersea’s car park, down to where the land dipped and the river lapped at the concrete barrier.

Wordlessly, Shinobu held out the demon’s head.

It felt a lot heavier now than it had up on the platform. I backed up a bit, took a run and threw the remains of the Nekomata as far out into the water as I could.

It was enough. With a huge splash – bigger than it should have been, really – the head sank.

I stared at the ripples it had left behind.

“And don’t come back.”

The foxes swiftly hustled us away from the site of the battle. In front of the Kitsune, I was determined to support myself on my own two feet, so Shinobu made do with holding my hand tightly. Every time I flicked a glance at him, I could see that beautiful, crooked little smile tugging at his mouth. That, and the occasional casual bump of our shoulders, was enough to keep me walking, despite aching muscles, bruised bones and muzzy head. We didn’t talk much, though.

I had a lot of thinking to do. Like … what was I going to wear? After everything we’d just been through it seemed a strange thing to worry about, but the fact was that I no longer owned any clothes or shoes that would fit me. That was going to be awkward to explain to my parents. And I had to come up with an explanation for the wreckage the Nekomata had made of our kitchen too. One they’d buy without grounding me for the rest of my natural days. Or at least until I was thirty.

Then there was Shinobu himself: a five-hundred-year-old warrior boy who had been plonked down here in twenty-first-century London just in time to save me. He was invisible to most people. He might even be immortal. And I’d fallen head over heels in love with him, and he with me, in less than twenty-four hours.

Finally – most worrying of all – there was this gnawing, bone-deep certainty which echoed through me with every step I took away from the scene of our bloody victory. The knowledge that the fight to keep the katana safe was definitely.

Not.

Over.

Luckily, once I’d laid out each of these unanswerable problems in my head, I realized I was too exhausted to do anything about any of it. So I just smiled back at Shinobu, and swung our joined hands between us, and marched beside him through the sleeping streets of London in the light of the rising sun.

U
sually when I get around to writing my acknowledgements I indulge myself with at least one paragraph in which I complain about everything. How long the book took to write, how the characters never listened to me, and how, yet again, I nearly gave up halfway through and went off to herd yaks instead.

But this time around, I’m stunned to realize that I have nothing to whine about. Despite the fact that this was my first urban fantasy and my first exercise in writing a non-standalone book,
The Night Itself
was probably the most pure fun I’ve had writing since I left school. I’ve loved every minute of it. It feels like this story and these characters were a gift that the universe lobbed at me, and I was so lucky that my hands happened to be outstretched at the right moment, ready to catch them.

In order to encourage the universe to make a habit of random gift-lobbing, I feel honour bound now to mention all the people who lent their time and talents to unwrapping the present and making sure it got to you readers as swiftly and efficiently as it did.

First, a special thank-you to Nancy Miles, my wonderful agent, who has made being a writer – and making a living from being a writer – easier and less stressful in every way since I had the amazing good fortune to snare her for my own. I can’t imagine what I ever did without her.

Further thanks are owed to:

Annalie Grainger, Wonder Editor, who loved this project from the first, and as usual helped to improve everything I came up with in so many amazing ways that I would have to write another book in order to thank her adequately.

Dr Tina Rath, for quoting the poem
The Bedpost
by Robert Graves, which was the original spark of inspiration for The Name of the Blade, and Rachel Carthy, whose considerable expertise in Japanese myth and folklore helped me fill in all the puzzling blanks in my knowledge of Kami, Yokai and their mysterious ways. These ladies are both owed additional gratitude for putting up with all the questions from a non-Londoner on the nooks and crannies of their city. Any mistakes or inaccuracies or liberties I have taken with geography are my responsibility alone!

The Furtive Scribblers Club as a whole, who (as always) lent me their simply astonishing cumulative powers of mental acuity and allowed me to bounce ideas off them until they must have felt completely battered. I’m not going to name names this time because I always leave someone out! You know who you are.

The wonderful, wonderful team at Walker Books, including (but not limited to!) the delightful Hannah Love and Paul Black for their PR mojo, Maria Soler Canton for the spectacular cover of
The Night Itself
– and for putting up with me being a Nightmare Author from Hell throughout the whole process – and, of course, fiction publisher Gill Evans. It’s been an exciting year, hasn’t it?

My Twitter and blogging pals, who responded to the news of this trilogy with such excitement and offered me bags of encouragement, including sternly ordering me off Twitter and back to writing a time or two: Liz D. J., Emma D., Viv D., Lynsey, Sarah, Enna, Jenni, Laura H., Elizabeth May, Daph, Misty, Ashley, Kaz Mahoney, Lauren, Sophie R., Keris Stainton, Keren David, Rebecca J. Anderson, Jackie Dolamore, Lee Weatherly, Sarah Rees Brennan and many more! I wish there was room to list everyone, but even if you’re not named here, I hope you know how thankful I am. Special thanks to the Dear Readers of my blog, the most faithful and intelligent fans a writer could ever have.

Bel Downing, who generously bid in the Authors for Japan charity auction and won the right for her namesake to die horribly at the claws of one of the most evil villains I’ve ever dreamed up. I hope your demise was as satisfying for you to read as it was for me to write!

And, finally, to my own family, most especially my parents. Always, in every book, whether I say it or not.

The Name of the Blade, Book Two:
Darkness Hidden
is coming summer 2014

Visit Zoë online at
www.zoemarriott.com
and
thezoe-trope.blogspot.com
Follow her on Twitter,
@ZMarriott

“Japanese mythology meets urban awesomeness (and a swoon-worthy romance!).
The Night Itself
captivated me.”
L. A. Weatherly, author of the Angel trilogy

“Mio is a wonderful heroine who reminded me of some of my favourite superhero characters, and her connection with Shinobu is touching and believable. The Japanese mythology was refreshing, and I absolutely cannot wait for the next book in the series!”
Karen Mahoney, author of The Iron Witch Trilogy and
Falling to Ash

“A beautiful, awe-inspiring ride through an iconic London landscape harbouring extremely dangerous secrets.
The Night Itself
is a fantastic blend of Japanese folk tale and twenty-first-century thriller, populated by characters you will be rooting for at every breathless step.”
Katy Moran, author of
Hidden Among Us

“I fell in love with sassy, courageous, wise-cracking Mio from page one.”
Ruth Warburton, author of The Winter Trilogy

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Shadows on the Moon
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