THE MORTONS, by Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld
The Morton family — wildly powerful, highly criminal — has gathered for the funeral of young Peter Morton, who met his untimely demise in an unfortunate collegiate climbing accident. If you were a guest at this strange event, you might notice the occasional flash of red in the sea of black — “a scarlet tie, a sprig of azaleas, the cardinal feather in Uncle Orrin’s hat,” notes Jessica Morton, Peter’s cousin and the book’s narrator, who herself is wearing an elegant black jacket lined with blood-red silk.
Only “blooded” Mortons, those who have committed a murder in the name of familial duty, are allowed this sartorial flourish. (In another sort of family, they would be called “made.”) But the Mortons are hardly simple mobsters, or even simple murderers. They’re what you would get if you put the Corleones, the Addamses, the Targaryens and the Borgias together — as skilled at bribery, blackmail and financial manipulation as they are at garroting, poisoning, stabbing and making a murder look like an accident.
The novel is a collaboration between Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld, married young adult authors whose books include “Liar” (hers) and the “Uglies” series (his). “The Mortons” is for adults, but the authors’ Y.A. experience is reflected in its entertainingly improbable plot and fantastical sensibility. At heart it poses a question: If you are raised by a family of charming, ruthless monsters, can you un-brainwash yourself and embark on a different path? Is empathy even possible after such an upbringing?
Jessica, 20, is the family prodigy, the best of her generation: physically fearless, emotionally numb, a perfect liar.
At the age of 7 she successfully passed her “mors curiae,” or “death of care,” the first major test of a young Morton, which involves (unhappily for this reader) carrying a rabbit with you everywhere for a year and then slaughtering it yourself. The rabbits have names like Mister Fluffernutter and Doctor Pickle. The children love them; that’s why they have to die. “Slay the rabbit, spare the child,” the family likes to say.
At 10, Jessica helped kill her father, known to the family as Uncle Max, when he suffered from a sudden meltdown and spontaneously hacked seven of her cousins to death with an ax. The repercussions of this incident will reverberate throughout the book. “Abused as a child,” a non-Morton tells Jessica, “and you don’t even know it.” (Alas for this character, he is not long for this world.)
As is expected by her family, Jessica attends Helshire College, where the students are known as Hellions, and where the Dark Academia portions of the book take place. At Helshire, the Mortons and their fellow “legacy” students from three other ancient crime dynasties take classes in subjects like Disruptive Anatomy (dissecting bodies); Forensic Accounting (financial crimes); and Legacy Chemistry, in which they learn about “the quietest poisons, the loudest bombs.”
Under the panoptic eyes of her older relatives, Jessica at first does everything right: excelling in class, killing on command and deploying carrots and sticks to bring rich “ordinaries,” as non-legacy students are called, under Morton control. She can improvise with the best of them. “Meet me there. Bring body bags,” she barks at a cousin after an unplanned murder. But a series of unforeseen events in her fateful junior year will severely test her loyalty, and her morality.
The book thrums with creative verve, mordant humor and amusing detours into subjects like art, avant-garde fashion and mixology. (A specialty of Jessica’s Aunt Veronica: the Upstate Sour, whose ingredients include bourbon, egg whites, a gentle float of Malbec — and a dash of ricin.) Some of the characters are particularly interesting, like Jessica’s ruined mother, who lives in the huge family compound but has spent the last 12 years in bed with an unspecified nervous disorder, and Sebastian, an adopted Morton of unusual charisma, who brings some welcome sexy mayhem into Jessica’s life.
Sometimes the book feels like it’s toppling under the weight of its details. Its rules aren’t always coherent. It’s hard to understand why some things are OK (slicing your rabbit to death with a razor, as Jessica did) and others aren’t (blowing up your rabbit with a bomb, as Peter did). The family graveyard is full of the bodies of Morton children, many of whom appear to have disappointed the family for some reason or other and thus never made it to adulthood.
Whether “The Mortons” is for you might depend, at least in part, on your tolerance for violence, particularly the kind inflicted on innocent people (and rabbits). It’s the same question facing softhearted viewers of, say, “Game of Thrones,” who might have to weigh their enthusiasm for the thrilling plot and majestic dragons against their queasiness at all the torture. Still, the authors have kindly given Jessica at least a fighting chance of redemption (and maybe a hint of a sequel) at the end. I’d like to see what she makes of it.
THE MORTONS | By Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld | Pamela Dorman Books/Viking | 454 pp. | $32
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