Sorceraid: Sorceraid, #1

By Lena Lucily

“Sorceraid, solutions for sorcerers in distress."

Nora is a recent graduate and fashion blogger on the side who lives in London and is looking for work. When she finds a tempting job offer online, she jumps at the opportunity – straight into a bus! She walks away from the accident without a scratch.

This feat gets her hired by Sorceraid, consultants in magical solutions. Her magical regenerative ability leads to trouble with her most voracious client. Now within the sights of the terrible Decadents, Nora could lose more than just her magic.

ABOUT THE SERIES

Sorceraid is ten episodes over two volumes. It first appeared in 2016 and won the Fantasy category of the Prix des Auteurs Inconnus award for unknown authors. The series has been featured in various articles in blogs and French-language newspapers and magazines in France and abroad.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lena Lucily
• Release date: Apr 12, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071538951

Book preview

1

The maths lecturer?

That neighbour who bangs on the ceiling when we’re noisy!

A chicken?

Nora didn’t complain because she wasn’t allowed to make any noise in the game, but she was silently cursing her friends. Who had written Mr William Collins, Mr Bennett’s cousin on this wretched piece of paper? She now had to mime a character no one seemed to know, apart from her flatmate, Charlotte, who must be behind the joke. She was laughing and didn’t bother to give the right answer ­– watching Nora make a fool of herself imitating the most ridiculous character in Pride and Prejudice was probably worth its weight in gold.

Nora didn’t blame her any more than she did the others, who were roaring with laughter at her feeble imitation of the clergyman. They had gone out of their way to organise an impromptu evening in at her place to comfort her after a bitter fail of an interview that morning. Nora was grateful. Their being there had taken her mind off things and had already cheered her up.

It wasn’t her inability to convince the potential employer of her skills that had got her down, but rather the aforementioned professional’s behaviour. He hadn’t listened to one word of what she had said. He’d remained slouched in his chair, his little bespectacled eyes glued to his tablet, mumbling feigned interest as he slid his index finger over the device’s tactile screen. Nora hadn’t been able to check, but she strongly suspected that he’d beaten his BananaCrush record just as she was relating her experience in business.

The theme of the night, according to Rob, had been obvious to her friends: an evening of losers, after the recruitment consultant. They had carefully ruined the cakes, come up with undrinkable cocktails, played the most memorable flops by singers from the last decade on loop and written down the names of the most pathetic creatures ever on slips of paper that they were taking turns to draw. Over the course of the evening, they had mimed two classmates from their final year at university, three teachers, the heroines of the latest best-selling romance novels, a few politicians, and now Mr Collins.

Nora was saved by the cheesy tune of a song from the evening’s playlist. The five friends gathered in Nora and Charlotte’s living room on Liverpool Road in north London were pulled to their feet by the call of the synthesizer. They joyfully sang out the chorus, clapping their hands and tapping their feet.

Seeing you, I’m not myself! Your eyes are chocolate!

Nora, shaking with laughter, collapsed on the sofa.

Well, who wants a little gin and tonic? asked Annie when everyone was sitting down again.

She disappeared into the kitchen. The music stopped for a moment, and the only sound was the clinking of glasses and bottles. Annie had come up with a special recipe for the occasion: a gin and tonic that was so weak that each mouthful was like... Like what, exactly? Like nothing. A loser’s gin and tonic, following the theme of the evening. Not even enough to make you light-headed.

That had to be a good thing. Nora had another interview the next afternoon. A hangover would do her no favours.

Who’s coming down with me for a smoke? asked Charlotte.

Nora’s flatmate always went down to the street when she wanted a cigarette.

Can’t you smoke here? asked Jeff. It’s awful out there.

I don’t inconvenience my guests, replied Charlotte.

She threw Jeff one of her special winks. Charlotte could win over anyone she wanted with her wink. And her long blond ever-straight hair, and her long eyelashes. Except Jeff, who obviously preferred Nora.

I’ll go down with you, she told her friend.

That seemed to be exactly what Charlotte wanted.

They both put on their jackets and went out to face the weather. This October was proving to be especially rainy.

For a moment, they silently watched punters from Liverpool Road’s pubs heading for Angel, the closest tube station. One was fighting with an umbrella that had been partly blown inside out. Charlotte laughed quietly. Smoke from her cigarette drifted out of her mouth in a ragged stream. Nora shifted away from it.

So, are you going to go to your interview tomorrow? asked Charlotte.

Her voice was as sceptical as it had been the day Nora had showed her the online ad.

What have I got to lose? answered Nora.

Just half a day of your life.

Nora sighed. They had already discussed this several times.

I know what you’re thinking, she said. But there’s really no harm in trying.

Charlotte rolled her eyes.

You’re going to go for an interview for a job with a company that hasn’t given you its name, with someone going by Aranea, right in the middle of Whitechapel Road. And you don’t see a problem?

No.

"It feels like a hoax. Jack the Ripper’s part of town? Aranea? An unnamed company?

Not knowing the company's name didn’t bother Nora. Many agencies would mention their client in ads without ever giving candidates their client’s name. Jack the Ripper didn’t bother her either. A serial killer had chosen Whitechapel centuries earlier for his brutal acts, but a lot of water had passed under the bridge. Charlotte knew that. She wasn’t worried that her flatmate would be disembowelled, but thought that the ad was strange enough to invite caution. Especially given the contact’s name: Aranea. Nora had looked it up in several search engines. Aranea: Latin for spider. She had found dozens of pseudonyms on forums for online gaming fans and black magic practitioners, but no real people had it as a name.

If you sense trouble when you get to this mysterious office, cancel and come home, alright? said Charlotte.

Nora nodded.

They both went back up to the second floor flat.

Nora checked how she looked in the hall mirror Charlotte had hung beside the coat stand for last minute inspections in the morning and touch-ups after cigarette breaks outside. The wind had barely moved her A-line bob that glowed like burning coals. Nora often met with disbelief from people who asked if she coloured it. That annoyed her. Was it so hard to believe her shade of red was natural? People didn’t wonder about her blue eyes. Why were they so surprised by her hair?

Nora searched her pockets, pulled out a taupe lipstick and took a minute to touch up her face. She regretted not having taken her foundation and blusher: her pale skin was showing through and her brown and gold eyeshadow had flecked under her eyes, accentuating the shadows there. What would her blog followers say? A makeup queen with a panda look? She put up with it this time because of the evening’s theme, but promised herself never again to use the low-quality eyeshadow.

The two flatmates groaned inwardly about the cleaning up they’d have to do the next morning. Bags, packets of food and crumbs from the nibbles were strewn across the striped carpet – pink and green, a good example of the owner’s bad taste. She had thought it a good idea to try out combining colours in the two-bedroom flat that she’d been renting out for twenty years. She had opted for apricot and beige wallpaper in the living room, purple in the kitchen and blue in the bedrooms.

That reminds me, what were you miming, Nora? asked Annie.

Charlotte burst out laughing.

Mr Collins, Mr Bennett’s cousin, murmured Nora. My flatmate’s brilliant idea, I assume.

Charlotte gave her a thumbs up, confirming her guilt.

It really looked more like a chicken, assured Jeff.

Nora threw a cushion at his face.

2

In spite of the rain, Nora got off the bus a few stops before the one Aranea had suggested. She was early, as always, so she took her time walking around the streets of East London. She glanced briefly at the stands of Spitalfields Market, already set up for Christmas, which was still two