The city is dying. This little girl is its only hope.
Twelve-year-old Miss Rags is a goddess: As a hybrid of the worldâs two sapient species, she has the power to grant her worshipers visions of God. But she is destined to die before her sixteenth birthday.
Now transformed into a living weapon by her mad-scientist pediatrician, she stalks the crime-ridden streets of the decaying temple city, determined to punish the wicked in the time she has left.
When Rags gets word that a pimp and drug pusher on the cityâs south end has bought a young girl from the slave market, she stages a rescue with the help of a few close friends and her alcoholic, carjacking dog. But Southside is a powder keg: The grudges between rival gangs are about to explode into open war, and the site of the planned rescue is the epicenter.
Rags just wanted to save a life. Now sheâll have to fight to keep herself and her friends alive.
The city is dying. This little girl is its only hope.
Twelve-year-old Miss Rags is a goddess: As a hybrid of the worldâs two sapient species, she has the power to grant her worshipers visions of God. But she is destined to die before her sixteenth birthday.
Now transformed into a living weapon by her mad-scientist pediatrician, she stalks the crime-ridden streets of the decaying temple city, determined to punish the wicked in the time she has left.
When Rags gets word that a pimp and drug pusher on the cityâs south end has bought a young girl from the slave market, she stages a rescue with the help of a few close friends and her alcoholic, carjacking dog. But Southside is a powder keg: The grudges between rival gangs are about to explode into open war, and the site of the planned rescue is the epicenter.
Rags just wanted to save a life. Now sheâll have to fight to keep herself and her friends alive.
The sun had set, yet low clouds, red like smoldering coals, brooded over Godtown and cast the city in hues of black and crimson. Two Elysian runeships, their armored underbellies aglow with esoteric symbols, cut through the air above the crumbling tenements and makeshift huts of a sprawling zopadpatti, one of the many slums that stretched across Southside like flaking scabs across a healing wound. In the rubbish-strewn streets below, children looked up from their cricket games, men from their hash pipes, and women from the wells where they gathered water; all saw the ships, and they raised their fists and cursed.
In the foremost ship, Nurse Juliet, immaculately dressed in white, sat across from the door gunner and quietly clutched a teddy bear. She gazed out over the slum and fretted, wondering why nobody closed the door. Looking down from the sky on the tents and corrugated steel rooftops made her nervous: If she accidentally dropped the bear, it would ruin the whole night.
Even so, she was grateful for the breeze. The monsoon was late this year, so Godtown cooked under the sun from morning to evening until it was almost too hot to breathe. At night, every surface radiated back the heat it had collected over the sweltering day. But up here above the cityâs miasma, the air was cool and fresh, carrying none of the odors that filled the city streetsâpetrol fumes, monkey droppings, open sewers.
Doctor Darcangelo, wedged next to the gunner, stared at Juliet through the long, black strands of his oiled hair. His nimble, narrow fingers toyed with the fedora in his lap, and a sickly smile formed on his face, making the hollows under his cheekbones more prominent.
He was paler than usual. Juliet wondered if heâd eaten today.
âYou didnât have to come, you know,â he murmured.
She felt a twinge of irritation. âJust once, doctor, I wanted to seeââ
âThereâs nothing to see.â
She chewed her lower lip as she tried to read his expression. âThen why do it?â
âSomeone has to.â
âThe soldiersââ
âThey donât understand like I do.â
She glanced into his dark eyes but then looked away again and stared out the door, out over the city lit and shadowed by the light reflecting from the roiling cloudbank overhead.
Needing no engine, the runeship was silent. The wind whistled past the door, and the grumbles of automobiles and trishaws rose from below. In the blood-tainted twilight, Juliet could make out the marble shikaras and minarets of innumerable temples and mosques interspersed with crumbling tenements and ramshackle jhuggi-jhompris. It was such an ugly city, yet here and there, it held instances of the greatest beauty.
For reasons she couldnât explain, Juliet did want to see. These trips made the doctor sufferâand she felt a strange desire to suffer with him.
âSheâll really like that bear, though,â Darcangelo said. He smiled again.
She managed to smile back.
***
Covetous of the magical Tuaoi Stones that grew in abundance in the mountains to the cityâs west, the globe-spanning Elysian Empire had, thirteen years ago, invaded Godtownâbut couldnât control it. Nobody controlled Godtown for long.
After taking the Vindhya Range and a slice of the cityâs west end, the invading army had halted, forgoing endless house-to-house fighting as well as the inevitably bloody battle with the temple fortress in the harbor. For thirteen years now, the Elysians had owned the mountains and their Tuaoi Stone mines but had also dealt with an endless parade of criminals, malcontents, and guerillas. Possessed as it was of the worldâs most potent Runetech, the Elysian military performed well in large-scale wars of conquest, but it was unwieldy in urban combat, and when it came to police actions or counterterrorism, it was like a chainsaw cutting butter: It did little more than make a mess.
Thus, when raiding a condemned tenement to strike at a child-trafficking ring, the Elysians landed two heavy runeships on the roof, launched flash grenades through the windows, and smashed through every door with an entire company of men armed with carbines, 12-gauge shotguns, and grenade launchers.
The tenement was full of impoverished squatters whom the soldiers rounded up, cuffedâsometimes in both senses of the wordâand herded into a dingy courtyard. There, Captain Swaggart, with outsized jowls and a craggy face set in a permanent frown, clasped his hands behind his back and, shoulders stiff, marched past rows of the crouching, sullen, and uncommunicative natives.
They stared at him, eyes blank. They had the faces of men accustomed to being whipped like dogs.
Only one dared to speak, a fellow with a dark and heavily lined face; back home, Swaggart would have judged him to be in his sixties, but here, a man with a face like that could be as young as thirty. The man uttered several rapid words in the vernacular.
When he had first arrived in Godtown, Swaggart had received an official translatorâa toothless, bhang-addicted native whose vernacular was almost as bad as his English and whom Swaggart had immediately tossed on his ear. So far, however, the captain thought he had done all right without anyone to parse the local tongue for him. He listened for a minute to the squatterâs tirade and understood almost none of it, but somewhere amidst the jabber, he caught the words bahen chod, which translated to âsister fucker.â Without a momentâs hesitation, Swaggart raised a boot and laid the man out with a kick to the temple. It didnât pay to tolerate insolence.
The native sprawled on the ground, groaning. His fellows didnât flinch but merely stared at the pebbles near their feet, faces slack.
Dr. Darcangelo, a foppish pediatrician immaculately dressed in a black suit and matching trench coat, pushed past Swaggartâs shoulder and dropped his heavy medical bag to the ground. He pulled off his kid gloves and snapped on a latex pair in their place. With his young nurse hovering anxiously at his shoulder, he set about treating the cut on the nativeâs head.
Swaggart bit his lip as he watched the working of Darcangeloâs spiderlike fingers. Those fingersâtoo white, too long, and too bonyâmade his skin crawl. Indeed, Swaggart found everything about the doctor disconcerting: He could never bear Darcangeloâs gaze for long on account of the doctorâs liquid eyes rimmed with delicate lashes, his sallow and clammy skin, and his lips, which were too full to be a manâs, and too red.
Once Darcangelo had shone a light in the wounded nativeâs eyes to make sure he didnât have a concussion, Nurse Juliet rounded on Swaggart. âWhy would you do that?â she cried, clutching a teddy bear to her chest. âThat poor man didnâtââ
Swaggart raised a hand to stop her. âNurse, you and the doctor are here only because the general, for reasons of his own, allows it. If you insist on tagging along after my men, you are under my command. Is that clear?â
She squeezed the bear and thrust out her jaw. But she didnât answer.
As he helped the injured man sit up, Darcangelo asked several questions in fluent vernacular. The man answered rapidly but at length while waving his grimy hands.
Darcangelo nodded and stood. He carefully brushed his hands down his coat and adjusted his fedora.
âI donât have all night, doctor,â Swaggart said.
Darcangelo languidly fiddled with his emerald stickpin as he replied, âThis gentleman informs me of a secret panel in a cupboard on the top floor; it leads to an entire wing of the building that had been closed off. The fellows you want are in thereâwell, were in there. Iâve no doubt theyâve escaped by now.â
Swaggart gestured to three of his men. âStevens, Heatfreak, take the kit. Martins, youâre on point. Letâs go.â
***
Darcangelo turned his hat in his hands and struggled to quell his impatience while the soldiers broke through the false wall. He wondered if things would have been easier and neater if he had come alone; alas, the military had received the tip before he did, so the military had acted first.
Three times, his right handâas if it had a mind of its ownâlifted from his hat and reached toward his ear. Each time, he caught himself in the gesture and forced it back down.
Martins tossed in a flash-bang grenade. After a loud thump, he dived in.
Heatfreak went next. A man probably still in his late teens, whose rounded cheeks had not yet lost the fleshiness of childhood, Heatfreak had caught Darcangeloâs eye earlier in the evening. He had a maniacal glint in his baby-blue eyes. His monikerâalmost certainly a sportive nicknameâundoubtedly recalled something unpleasant; as Heatfreak smashed through the door, Darcangelo wondered what a man with such a nickname might be capable of in a moment of desperation.
In less than a minute, Heatfreak and Martins, having fired no shots, declared the room clear. Once all had rushed in except the rear guard, Darcangelo donned his hat, shifted his medical bag to his left hand, and ducked through the small entryway. He helped Juliet in after him.
It was a broad room and low. The few electric torches had blue tissues hanging over them to dampen their beams. The feeble light filled the room with fantastic, sinister shadows that stretched up the walls and gave the impression of enormous beasts crouching in the corners, waiting to pounce. Insect carcasses littered the dirty enamel floor, and wires hung from holes in the ceiling. In the center of the room stood an extraction chair with its standard apparatusâincluding a skull-bit. A grimy, yellowing plastic tube ran from the device to a nearby table where a Mason jar stood half-full of pale, shimmering fluid. Darcangelo wrinkled his nose. Beside him, Juliet put a hand over her mouth and looked sick.
The chair, an expected find, did not long occupy Darcangeloâs attention. Of greater interest were the men, both human and marjara, who sprawled on the floor in painful-looking contortions, as if they had frozen amid seizures. Several bullet holes graced the walls.
Fingering his carbine, Stevens whistled. âSomebody already got here and took âem out. Another mob, maybe?â
Darcangelo chuckled through pursed lips, bent over a marjara, and set down his medical bag. âNo, take a closer look. These men arenât dead.â
With his long and nimble fingers, Darcangelo probed the marjaraâs neck. Like most marjaras, this one had a decidedly feline muzzle with pronounced canines protruding from his upper lip. His fur was yellow and covered with tightly clustered black spots, indicating that he was of the Vaishya Varna, though Darcangelo didnât know the fur patterns well enough to identify his particular caste. This marjara was enormous, probably seven feet tall when erect, and sheathed in thick, lean muscle. When Darcangelo touched his furry neck, the marjara opened his eyes and looked up at him with an unmistakable expression of distaste.
âHis pulse is strong,â Darcangelo said as he straightened. âHeâs simply been immobilized by a Sastravidya nerve strike. Be aware that he can hear everything we say.â
Looking around, he added, âAt first glance, captain, Iâd say all these men appear to be either temporarily paralyzed or unconscious.â
Swaggart scowled. âThen whoâ?â
âI donât know for certain, but my first guess would be the Ragamuffin. This is her style.â
Swaggart cursed under his breath.
Darcangelo walked to the extraction chair and peered at the skull-bit; poised on its tip was a clump of burnt hair clotted with blood. Then he turned to the jar on the table and opened it.
Juliet, eyes wide with horror, pinched her nose. âDoctor, do you really want toâ?â
The tangy stench stung his nostrils and poured straight into his brain, making his head pound.
âHeaven Seed, and itâs fresh,â he said with a cough as he clamped the lid back into place. âHalf an hour at the most.â
Swaggartâs craggy face brightened. âSo the Ragamuffin could still be here?â
âAnd the victim could still be alive, though this is a large extractionâlarge enough to kill some hybrids outright. If sheâs here, we need to find her right away.â
With a series of terse orders, Swaggart assigned fireteams to search. âGet me the Ragamuffin,â he said. âIf sheâs in the building, I want herâalive.â
âAnd the victim?â Darcangelo asked.
With an impatient growl, Swaggart added, âIf you find the victim, radio for Darcangelo. Donât move her until he gets there.â
Darcangelo cleared his throat, straightened his tie, and put a hand on Swaggartâs shoulder. Swaggart winced.
âCaptain,â Darcangelo murmured, âI thought the military had an unofficial policy against interference with the Ragamuffinâs vigilante activities.â
âThatâs not my policy,â Swaggart answered through clenched teeth as he brushed the doctorâs hand away. âI donât give special privileges to criminalsâany criminals.â
He tapped a finger on Darcangeloâs chest. âAs for you, doctor, I want you to stay right here. Got it? No wandering around.â
âRight here,â Darcangelo repeated, offering Swaggart a thin smile. âIâm happy with that, captain. I wouldnât want to get my suit dirty.â
Swaggartâs lip curled. He turned away and took his own team through a low doorway. Only a few soldiers remained behind to place plastic ties around the wrists of the incapacitated men strewn about the floor.
Darcangelo put a thin finger to his lips before taking Julietâs arm and pulling her swiftly and silently into the shadows.
Broadly speaking, in western literature authors tend to populate their novels with characters the age of their intended audience. A novel full of teenagers going on adventures is meant for the YA market. A chapter-book full of pre-teens is aimed at middle grade readers. A novel full of women in their 30s and 40s is largely geared towards women in their 30s and 40s, and any readers from outside that demographic who buy and enjoy the book are a nice bonus for the author, publisher, and bookseller.
This is a book almost entirely populated by children, but please do not give it to children. These are child soldiers fighting a graphic war in a city waiting to swallow, exploit, and destroy all of the children it can sink teeth into.
This is not a book for children, or the faint of heart.
That said, D.G.D. Davidsonâs Rags and Muffin, the first entry in his Deus ex Magical Girl series, is a complex sequence of interlinking narratives, following various members of the titular Ragsâ gang as they go through a particularly perilous few days. While the kidsâ adventures unfold, Davidson takes readers through a whirlwind tour of Godtown itself and the complex native religion, centered almost entirely on maintaining caste and worshiping powerful girls born from the union of a human and the native marjara, a race of cat people. These daughters, or hybrids, the only viable offspring from such couplings as far as we are told, are born with an innate connection to the Goddess and thus her power and are destined by their genetics to die before they reach adulthood, preferably after spending the majority of their short lives being worshiped in a temple as an incarnation of their Goddess on earth.
Rags, the Ragamuffin to her enemies and Miss Alice to adults, along with her gang of child-disciples, is on a mission to save her fellow hybrids from those who would exploit or enslave them for their power through a combination of acrobatic hand-to-hand combat and heavy artillery. This never-ending battle for the soul of Godtown is further complicated by the soldiers of the occupying Elysian Empire, would-be colonizers who enforce their laws with war machines called runebots, and an iron fist.
If all of that sounds complicated and potentially violent, the answers are yes, and
very.
Luckily, Davidson is an able storyteller with a knack for describing his chosen world and crafting his characters. Sights, smells, and sounds are brought to life with startling clarity, as are every bruise, broken bone, and bleeding wound the children experience. The children themselves are drawn with unerring precision, each characterized by their own linguistic quirks and subconscious drives. This is an author with a true talent for bringing his work to life, even if the results are potentially jarring to an audience accustomed to western narratives, novels, and tropes.
However, readers with experience in eastern media, particularly manga and anime from Japan, will notice a more than passing resemblance between Rags and Muffin and several franchises from that quarter. Most notably certain âgirls with gunsâ properties, like Shikabane Hime and Black Lagoon, as well as dark fantasy/urban fantasy series like Soul Eater/Soul Eater Not, Dance in the Vampire Bund, and Blood-C.