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512 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 2011
Once upon a time, in that old time when life was still magic and life was lived in the trees and forests and rivers and hills, in the old time of wild, ivy-tangled, rain-dropped magic, before the lights burnt and the spells flickered with electric fury, there existed the Faerie Court...But alas, the Faerie Court did not move with the times, and did not predict how a steam train could carve the landscape, or how a factory could discolour the sky, and, as the times changed, so did the magic, migrating with the people to the cities and becoming rich with smoke and stone and the sound of metal. And so the Faerie Court declined, and those who sought its blessing dwindled, until there was nothing more than a dusty hollow in the carved-out heart of a wood, crumbling with the fall of autumn leaves..[until] an enterprising princess...declared the founding of a new court: the Neon Court, whose heart was in the heart of the cities...And in time Lady Neon herself became little more than a myth: a figure only ever seen by the shadow of a street light, moving between city after city, forever chasing the night and avoiding the sun, a reveller whose lips could seduce any creature they touched.Those in the eternal quest for light and music and superficial beauty are contrasted with the Tribe, people who, seeing themselves as different from the rest of the world, seek to accentuate this divide via self-mutilation and self-augmentation until they are no longer recognisably human:
"Once-humans, or humans that had cut away every outward sign of humanity, skin and flesh, in the hope that when they no longer looked human, they'd no longer have to obey human rules."
I've got two kinds of magics. I've got the nice, sitting-at-home-not-troubling-anyone kinda magics...and we have the magics of fire and death, of destruction with no chance of return, of blood aflame and flesh turns to dust...which of us do you want to meet?There is only one aspect that the two personalities truly share: a tangible affection for the life within the city.
...
When you're a sorcerer, and Midnight Mayor, and burning fire runs through your veins, you've only really got two modes. You've got diplomatically passive, and you've got apocalyptically destructive. Finding that middle ground--you know, breaking someone's kneecaps without actually causing them to spontaneously combust--can be a delicate business.
'Mr Swift, if it's any comfort to you, I can promise you that were I not a happily married woman with a husband I love well,' sighed Dees,'you would definitely be in my top two genders of choice.'

Canary Wharf grew and grew in front of us until the tops of the towers were no longer visible from inside the bus. I leant back against my seat and remembered to breathe, forced myself to take it one steady gasp at a time as the magic of the place, silver, glass, light, razored edges, a buzz at the back of the eyes, an ice that ran to the end of the fingertips and turned them blue, washed over me. Every part of the city had its own magic, and the magic of Canary Wharf, of endless towers and shops and steel and clear running water, though still young, was bursting to make itself felt. We pressed our fingers into the glass of the bus and felt frost form beneath our fingertips, the power bursting out of us whether we liked it or not.
“Hi,” we said. “Let us make our position clear. We are the Midnight Mayor, protector of this city, carrier of its secrets and bearer of its shadows. The shadows watch us as we pass, the pigeons turn away at our passage, the rats scurry beneath our feet and shudder at the sound of our footsteps on the stones. We are the blue electric angels, the telephones sing at the passage of our voice, our blood is blue fire, our soul carries a pair of angel wings. We are the killer of Robert Bakker, sorcerer, master of the Tower; we destroyed the death of cities; we came back from the dead, Swift and the angels, two minds become one, two souls in one flesh, in one form, in one voice. We are me and I am we. And we’re frustrated.”
Where the Neon Court viewed Lady Neon with an almost divine adoration, the Tribe paid quiet tribute to the gods of the underworld, to Fat Rat, and the One-Armed Angel who tended the graves of the unknown buried in the public cemeteries.
A sorceress who nearly destroyed the city and you took one look at her and thought ‘she’s a train wreck on legs, a liability and a danger to all around her, let’s take her in because she’ll make excellent company’