Source of book: NetGalley (thank you)
Relevant disclaimers: None
Please note: This review may not be reproduced or quoted, in whole or in part, without explicit consent from the author.
And remember: I am not here to judge your drag, I mean your book. Books are art and art is subjective. These are just my personal thoughts. They are not meant to be taken as broader commentary on the general quality of the work. Believe me, I have not enjoyed many an excellent book, and my individual lack of enjoyment has not made any of those books less excellent or (more relevantly) less successful.
Further disclaimer: Readers, please stop accusing me of trying to take down “my competition” because I wrote a review you didn’t like. This is complete nonsense. Firstly, writing isn’t a competitive sport. Secondly, I only publish reviews of books in the subgenre where I’m best known (queer romcom) if I have good things to say. And finally: taking time out of my life to read an entire book and then write a GR review about it would be a profoundly inefficient and ineffective way to damage the careers of other authors. If you can’t credit me with simply being a person who loves books and likes talking about them, at least credit me with enough common sense to be a better villain.
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Miraculously, I have managed to keep this almost entirely spoiler free.
Look … I … I just cannot be coherent about this.
Put it this way, okay. I’ve read a fair second-books-of-trilogies recently, stories I have enjoyed and allowed myself to be swept up in, and which have left me eager for the finale. But I’ve always begun my reviews with kind of a … second book in a trilogy disclaimer? You know, happy to be with these characters again, some development of the overall plot but lacking the impetus/stakes/tension of the first book, felt a little bit like treading water/setting up for the bit climax.
WELL, ABSOLUTELY NONE OF THAT APPLIES HERE.
Never A Hero is some kind of fucking masterclass in how to write the second book of a trilogy—
(wait, I am allowed to say this thing that is blatantly a trilogy is a trilogy, right? Sorry I’m apparently still a bit sore over being told a completely different YA author had declared such non-revelations verboten).
Anyway.
Assuming it is okay to say trilogies that are blatantly trilogies are, in fact, trilogies: Never A Hero is some kind of fucking masterclass in how to write the second book of a trilogy. Tension is maintained throughout. Stakes are established (and sky high) almost immediately. We get to visit old friends in new contexts. We get to see more of the setting than we saw in the first book. And—mostly importantly of all—information comes to light that completely re-shapes your understanding the world so the book never feels like filler or loses its forward momentum. I mean, honestly. How is this Vanessa Len’s debut series? HOW? It’s just so expertly put together in every conceivable way. The rest of us might as well just pack up and go home.
In any case, before I go on there are two things I need to get out of the way.
1. The book ends on the mother of all cliff-hangers.
Except I think you should read it anyway. I mean, no, you should do what works for you. On this occasion, however, I think there’s a pretty strong case to be made that it’s worth reading the book when it comes out rather than waiting for 3. I can definitely understand wanting to see a story through to its ultimate conclusion in one fell swoop but—having thought about why I was okay with Never A Hero when I’ve been less okay with other on-going book series—my sense is that cliff-hangers are only emotionally unsatisfying if they feel like they’re the *only* point of the book. Like if you all you got from reading it was big “what next.” With Never A Hero there is plenty to keep you going in terms of character development and new revelations. I finished the book in a welter of excitement for the next final instalment, but also completely satisfied. Yes, this book is, to some unavoidable degree, set it up for the next one but it also feels fully integrated into the broader arc of the series.
2. You will feel Aaron Oliver is not in this book “enough”.
And I think this is going to be complicated? I mean, maybe I’m wrong. Maybe it’s not going to be complicated at all. But I’ve seen a few comments there and there and it kind of got of me thinking about … not shipping wars exactly, but the expectations we bring to authors when we fall in love with a particular character or characters. Let me just say first, though, it’s totally okay to have faves and it’s totally okay to want to, um, consume as much of them as possible. It’s also okay to have deep emotions about the quantity of Aaron Oliver in this book (although, let me make very clear, I challenge anyone to feel anything other than ecstatic over the *quality* of Aaron Oliver in this book). But I do lowkey get concerned when “I personally wanted more of [x] or less of [y]” doesn’t just become “so I didn’t like the book as much as I thought I was going to” but instead morphs into “so the book is bad” with a strong implication of or indeed explicitly stated, “ergo the author made an incorrect creative choice.”
I think where I’m going with this is that relationships between authors and readers are complex. Obviously it’s a breach of trust for author to deliberately (or ignorantly) make choices aimed at hurting or disappointing readers e.g. I will market this (or allow this to be marketed) as a genre romance but one of them dies in the end. But, at the same time, I don’t feel readers are baby birds into whose open mouths authors are required to disgorge their story in the most digestible format. Like, I don’t want to be fucked around by an author, but at the same time, it’s not an author’s job to give me exactly what I want exactly when and how I want it. To put it another way, I’m cool with how Never A Hero handled Aaron Oliver. Would I, in pure goblin mode, have wanted more of him? Yes, he’s my fucking favourite. I would take as much of him as I can reasonably (or unreasonably) get.
BUT: I also respect the author’s creative choices here. And I don’t even mean in that in a mindless acceptance way. I mean, the emotional journey of “oh no, it’s exactly like he said it would be, he’s a villain now, help my feelings” was more satisfying than any faster burn “get him on page as quick as possible” type outcome. More to the point, these are books about time travel: context is always significant. The “when” and the “how” of when you revisit something. The ways it may be different and the ways it isn’t. We spent Only A Monster mostly with Aaron and then got some revelations about Nick at the end. Never A Hero we spend initially with Nick and then we learn more about Aaron. Structurally, this really *really* works. And, finally, something I really appreciate about Vanessa Len as an author, and about how she’s put this series together, is there are always consequences to what happens. I personally find it kind of frustration when books or TV shows or other media set up twists or climaxes for the sake of being twists or climaxes, and then basically undo in the next book/episode etc. When Aaron warns Joan that he’ll be different in another timeline—that she can’t trust him—he’s partially speaking of, y’know, sexy self-loathing but also he’s correct. And treating that seriously—for Aaron to be a credible threat—is important and, frankly, a huge source of tension and anxious feels across the book as a whole.
Basically: it’s always okay to want what we want or for what we want to run contrary to the author’s own vison for the work or even for the author to fail to deliver on their own vision. But, at the same time, I think it’s important not to treat deviation from our personal preferences as authorial failure. Vanessa Len earned my trust as reader in Only A Monster and continues to maintain that trust in Never A Hero. I couldn’t particularly tell you what I *expected* from this book. But it’s a breathtakingly ambitious and satisfying sequel, and I wouldn’t want it to be anything other than what it is.
It's also kind of impossible to talk about without spoiling shit and I don’t want to do that. So I’m going to navigate that as best as I can with vagueness and enthusiasm. The book opens with Joan stranded in her new timeline, the only person who can remember that once things were different. Except this also isn’t wholly the same timeline as it was before: yes, her family are still, but there are subtle and persistent differences. People who have disappeared. Nick—who is, of course, no longer the hero, no longer the Nick she knew—joining her school. Then Joan (and coincidentally Nick) are attacked at the bakery where she works, putting them both on the run again, and drawing them back into the very conspiracy Joan originally un-made Nick to destroy.
What’s remarkable about Never A Hero’s build to its absolutely explosive climax is the way it circles the events of the first book, re-contextualising them, but never quite repeating them. There’s a getting the gang back together vibe for at least the middle third and ye Gods does it feel good to see those people again, especially after the intense loneliness of the opening where Joan is essentially stranded in a timeline only she understands is different. There is a lot of ground to cover here, especially in terms of just how much new information we get about the world and what was actually going on last book. This is, occasionally, to the detriment of character. Ruth, in particular, is less vivid than she was in Only A Monster, and I missed her. Plus, while I was happy to see Tom and Jamie together on page, they are often reduced to sharing looks in which magic couple communication takes place—I can understand not wanting to slow the pace with too much dialogue, but I personally could have taken more of the queer couple directly interacting with each other. Mostly, though, I was awed by the number of plates Vanessa Len has kept spinning here.
Joan remains an absolute hero to me, determined, yet vulnerable, and far from perfect. Also can I please just take a moment to celebrate a book that recognises that fucking with someone’s brain is an absolute violation, even if it’s happening to a person with relative privilege compared to those around them. I seem to have brushed up against too many things recently that have sort of cheerfully elided how messed up and consent-erasing it is to alter someone’s perceptions or behaviour (or allow them to act on the basis of incomplete information) if the someone in question happens to be a straight white man. Like, I’m not the biggest fan of straight white men myself but that doesn’t mean I think it’s okay to treat their brains like silly putty.
ANYWAY. I loved all the new insights Never A Hero provides, as well as all its superbly handled twists, turns, and revelations. I really love how Len handles her world-building. Magicians, time travellers, families, a sinister court: these are not, on their own terms, especially original elements but Len brings both a freshness and a darkness to them, as well as a stark awareness of privilege that is quite transformative. While this book is as much as a breathless adventure story as its predecessor, its explicit themes of memory, knowledge, perspective—and how those things might be controlled, changed or erased—foreground its on-going preoccupation with identity. Specifically what shapes identity and how power can be used to re-shape it, much as Nick was re-shaped into the hero in Only A Monster. I’m also beyond fascinated by glimpses of time itself we get throughout the book. The heroine’s sense of its curtailed will, the way it is essentially presented as a colonised being. I genuinely can’t wait to see how this is further explored in the third book.
I will, however, say that, despite my heartfelt defence of Nick’s presence and Aaron’s absence, Nick is a little bit the weakest link here. I admire what Len is trying to achieve with him—writing a genuinely good/heroic person is fucking difficult—but he’s just not as interesting as literally anyone else around him. Like, I’m sorry to say this but maybe being horribly tortured was what made him interesting? Because without that edge, he’s just a nice guy who is nice and whose flaws are all job interview flaws, along the lines of “well, maybe I’m just a little bit too loyal, understanding and amazing.” Obviously I want Joan to have all the good things—and there is no escaping the fact that Nick is a good thing—but I do find Nick hard to like (and/or fancy) on in any terms beyond any abstract recognition of his role in the book and what he represents. I don’t think that necessarily means I want Joan to end up with Aaron either. But I like Joan’s relationship with Nick only because Joan herself seems to like it, not because I myself like it, if that distinction makes sense. This setup of this book offers the reader (and indeed Joan) an opportunity to get to know Nick as something beyond the hero he was forced to be.
Unfortunately, all I really got from him was football, muscles, and a generalised sense of decency. And I’m afraid that just doesn’t feel like … enough. Especially because Aaron Oliver is a haughty, vulnerable, self-loathing charisma bomb and we all want to do him and/or heal him (although he’s a teenager, so not really, and also fictional, so not really). On top of which Nick and Joan are brushing perilously close to my least favourite romance trope which I won’t dig into because it’s a spoiler and also because I am reserving judgement until the third book. I just can’t believe that a series so embedded in ideas about agency and self-determination could, you know, be going down that route romantically speaking.
Back to Aaron, though. I need to take a moment to reiterate just how much I appreciate him as a character, and not just for inappropriate (he’s a fictional teenager) thirst-based reasons. We first meet him in book 1, non-heroically and humiliatingly begging for his life, and his personal horror of violence continues to this book. I mean, I honestly think all sensible people have a horror of violence, but it still feels rare to me for characters (especially male characters) who we are otherwise supposed to like/admire to be presented as physically cowardly. For that to be … okay? I think the only other piece of media I’ve seen that does this is, err, the Deep Space Nine episode ‘Nor To Battle The Strong’ where Jake Sisko singularly fails to discover his inner machismo/heroism when cast into a dangerous situation (this is extra fascinating in the context of Star Trek where particular kinds of strength are just taken for granted). Anyway, I think all Vanessa Len’s choices around Aaron—his fearfulness, his brittleness, his own core of goodness—are bold, and kind of unique. Which might be why Nick suffers quite so much in comparison, at least in this book.
Of course, having written that and thinking again about the way this series approaches identity, I think it we do have to recognise that Nick is someone who has had his identity stripped from him—or otherwise altered—multiple times. In that context, his slight blankness, and his lack of depth, are probably reasonable. But it still doesn’t necessarily make him super fun to read about.
In any case, I hope it’s coming across that pontificating is very much my love language. And my love for these books is through the fucking roof. I tried to keep my expectations in check, but Never A Hero is a more than worthy successor to Only A Monster. At this point, I honestly feel the third book is basically a victory lap for the author. I can’t wait to see her bring this phenomenal series home.