If I had a complaint about The Hunted—the visceral, blood-soaked prequel to The Inheritance—it was that I didn't get to know the cast until too late. It was structured like a film, where an actor's charisma can make a character likeable even if everything about them is shrouded in mystery. Books don't work like that, at least not for me—the reader needs to care about the characters from the beginning, which is difficult if you only discover what's driving them at the end.
Not an issue this time around—we know Maggie now. And if you missed The Hunted and don't know Maggie, The Inheritance starts off with an unapologetic summary of who she is and what she's running from. (Some spoilers for The Hunted follow, but as I've said, I think that book actually works better if you already know this.) On page three she kills her father. Two pages and one year later, she sees a sleazy bad guy in a bar. On a whim, she follows him to his hideout, and by page 22 she's destroyed it with an improvised explosive. This sets the tone for the rest of the book—Australian metro-noir, full of blackhearted villains and ruthless heroes, running on rocket-fuel and unquestionably one of the best thrillers of 2021.
The plot in a nutshell: Maggie—damaged, resourceful, always in motion—learns that her dead father may have had information about her missing mother. She goes to Melbourne, looking for clues. But she has to watch out for the police, who might arrest her for her father's murder, and she has to avoid the bikie gang her father may have been involved with. Plus, there's a serial killer on the loose. As all these threats converge on Maggie, the reader may get worried for her welfare—but soon realises it's the bad guys who should be scared.
There's a lot to like here—intriguing characters, vivid descriptions, punchy dialogue. But the thing I enjoyed most was how often The Inheritance subverted my expectations. There was violence when I expected dialogue, and dialogue when I expected violence. Every time a new group of bad guys showed up, I thought to myself, "OK, now Maggie will be captured, the villain will do a monologue, and all will be revealed." Then I would watch in astonishment and delight as Maggie managed to stab, bludgeon, burn and mutilate her way out of trouble, again—only for an even bigger, badder bunch of villains to appear.
It's hard to write a good fight scene. You're wrestling (often literally) with not just the usual problems of character, emotion and style, but also trying to explain complex choreography in a way that won't leave the reader discombobulated or worse, bored. This is even harder when your hero is a woman, because you have to ask yourself a range of additional questions. Is it reinforcing a stereotype if one of the male characters comes to her aid? By depicting violence against women, am I implicitly endorsing it? Writers sometimes handle their female action heroes with kid gloves. In some cases, you can almost hear the author muttering to themselves, "Yes, she's gotta kick ass, because feminism, but she has to look hot while she's doing it."
None of this seems to pose a challenge to Bergmoser. The fight scenes are a joy to read—a festival of carnage, perfectly executed (again, often literally). Maggie does things to her foes that will shock and delight even the most jaded of crime fans. I winced so hard that I think the wrinkles might be permanent. Maggie also gets savagely beaten, stabbed, strangled and worse—in short, she's treated the same way male action heroes are, and I was surprised by how refreshing I found that.
I don't know where the series is going from here. But I know I'd better stock-up on anti-anxiety medication now, because there's no way I won't be reading the next book.
Jack Heath is the author of Kill Your Brother.