by Molly Tanzer
Contents
* * *
Title Page
Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
Part Two
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part Three
1
2
3
4
5
6
Epilogue
One Month Later
Acknowledgments
Sample Chapter from CREATURES OF CHARM AND HUNGER
Sample Chapter from CREATURES OF WILL AND TEMPER
Buy the Book
Read More from John Joseph Adams Books
About the Author
Connect with HMH
Copyright © 2018 by Molly Tanzer
All rights reserved
For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.
hmhco.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Tanzer, Molly, author.
Title: Creatures of want and ruin / Molly Tanzer.
Description: Boston : Mariner Books, 2018. | “A John Joseph Adams book.” |
Identifiers: LCCN 2018012227 (print) | LCCN 2018014274 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328710352 (ebook) | ISBN 9781328710253 (trade paper)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Historical. | FICTION / Occult & Supernatural. | FICTION / Horror. |
GSAFD: Occult fiction. | Horror fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.A7254 (ebook) |
LCC PS3620.A7254 C73 2018 (print)|
DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018012227
Cover illustration © Eduardo Recife
Author photograph © Max Campanella
v1.1018
For my grandmother
and for my mother
From
The Demon in the Deep
by G. Baker
Susan waited and waited for Miss Depth to walk through the door of the Calico Cat and join her for tea, but after an hour she gave up. The cake had dried out on their plates, the Earl Grey had gone cold in the pot, and Susan was too cross to enjoy either.
Cross, but also worried. Miss Depth had been quite troubled after her sister’s death. It had been difficult to get her to agree to come into town at all, so Susan decided it would be best for her to go and check on her friend.
It was drizzling, and cold, and late enough in the year that the skeletons of autumn’s glorious leaves had all been whisked away on the wind. Twilight had fallen by the time Susan approached the little house by the sea, making the light in Miss Depth’s window shine the brighter. She was there, at home . . . but when Susan peered in through the window, her friend was not reading in her chair or writing letters at her desk. She was in her parlor, kneeling before what could only be described as a small altar in the center of a circle drawn in chalk on her Turkish carpet.
Miss Depth’s sister had brought that carpet back from her travels abroad; Miss Depth had always taken such good care of it. Usually, she wouldn’t let anyone bring a glass of lemonade or iced tea into her parlor, but Susan saw she had a little cup set on the altar and candles burning, too.
At first Susan thought Miss Depth was praying, but the longer she watched, the more it seemed like her friend was talking—talking to someone Susan couldn’t see. It made all the little hairs on her neck and arms stand up.
Then her friend cried out, and Susan watched in horror as Miss Depth went white as a sheet—not in the way that people usually meant when they used the expression, but actually white, from her skin to her hair—all except her eyes, which turned completely black before a dark fluid began to drip down her cheeks.
Susan fled into the wet night, running all the way home, but only after she’d locked the door behind her did she wonder if she should have tried to help. It hadn’t occurred to her at the time, as Miss Depth had been smiling.
1
The wind was east and the tide was running high by the time Ellie West finished jamming all the crates of moonshine liquor into the smuggler’s hold of her skiff. Leaden bands of clouds were thickening on the horizon, and the air was so hot and wet that breathing felt a little like drowning. Any seasoned bayman could see that they were in for a storm, but Ellie’s customers were expecting her, and she didn’t like to disappoint them.
Mopping her brow with a threadbare red handkerchief, Ellie frowned at the sky. She figured she’d probably be all right. She wouldn’t be out of sight of land for most of her delivery run; save for crossing the Great South Bay to get over to Jones Beach Island she’d be darting in and out of slip and cove the whole time, and it hadn’t even begun to rain.
The humidity really was something else that night, even for summertime on Long Island. Ellie swept her bobbed hair away from her sticky forehead, tucking the lank strands behind her ears. She’d lopped her braid off a week or so ago, and she still wasn’t sure how she felt about showing the world the back of her neck, even if it was undeniably cooler on nights like this.
Ellie looked up. At the top of the slight rise she saw her supplier, SJ, silhouetted in the doorway of the shack that housed her small moonshining operation. White steam puffed out of the chimney behind her. She too was watching the sky.
“I’m heading out,” called Ellie, raising her hand in farewell. “I think I’ll be all right!”
SJ might have nodded her head once—at least her big thick glasses flashed, reflecting the golden light inside—but Ellie couldn’t be sure.
“Thanks ag—”
SJ shut the door.
Ellie wasn’t offended by this brusque dismissal. SJ was a woman of few words, and even fewer friendly ones. She’d been like that as long as Ellie had known her . . . and that had been a very long time.
Ellie untied her skiff, hopped on board, and rowed herself beyond the pines, sycamores, and low brush that concealed SJ’s operation from prying eyes. Only when she was a good ways away did she start the motor.
The little boat sat low in the water as Ellie navigated the choppy bay past darkly wooded shoreline and pale spits of stony beach, past fine homes with shiny new runabouts tied up to private docks and boatyards cluttered with shabbier vessels. Her small engine puttered in pleasant harmony with the drone of the insects and the last few cries of the gulls; a light rain added some gentle percussion just after her first handoff, where she exchanged two full swing-top bottles for two empties—and some cash, of course. The Widow Hawkins might be a shut-in, but she didn’t mind getting a bit of fresh air whenever Ellie tied up in the shadows beneath the trailing branches of the old willow at the edge of her property.
Undeterred, Ellie pulled on her oilskin; a little rain didn’t bother her. In fact, the changeable nature of Long Island’s weather was a source of continuous joy to her. While ominous, the churning sky above her was beautiful, and the first line of a new poem came to her as she dropped off more bottles along her route. “The wind is east and the sky is gray,” she said aloud as said wind gusted under her hood, knocking it back off her head. “There’s going to be a shower tonight!”
She stopped composing when the rain began to fall in earnest. Her handoffs, which usually entailed an exchange of gossip as well as goods, became brief and hurried, with no more than a “Stay dry!” shouted at her over the worsen
ing downpour. More than one customer offered to let her tie up and wait out the storm inside, but she decided it was safe enough to make the crossing over to Jones Beach Island. Rocky was expecting her.
Todd “Rocky” Rockmeteller was Ellie’s last stop on her usual route. A poet by trade, he’d moved to the area after he’d “cracked,” to use his word for it—life in the city had stressed him to nervous exhaustion. He’d used the last of the advance from his first book to buy a derelict bungalow between Gilgo and Oak Beach in the hope that peace and isolation would help him finish a second. He had, and in record time; he’d been so inspired by his far-flung paradise that he now lived there year-round, and in all but the very worst of weather.
The crossing to get to Rocky’s house was typically quick and easy, but halfway there the rain switched direction and the final leg of the trip got soggy. Though Ellie had intended to say merely a brief hello, by the time she pulled up at the dock and trekked across the rickety boardwalk to his little house on the ocean side of the island, she was more than happy to accept his invitation to come in, dry off, and warm up with a bit of what she’d brought him.
Wrapped in a towel, her clothes dripping and steaming by the cast iron woodburner, Ellie shivered as Rocky bumbled about, unable as usual to remember where he’d left the poker, or the kettle, or the tea. The place was so small there were a limited number of places any of it could be; even so, he never seemed able to put anything in the same place twice.
Ellie had met Rocky when he’d been wandering around a fish market looking bemused by the bright-eyed hauls of snook and flounder. They’d hit it off quickly. Ellie had been pleased to befriend a “real poet”—and then had been pleased to be seduced by one.
Rocky hadn’t been the first to make Ellie moan that way as he pawed her small heavy breasts, but he’d certainly been the most glamorous. At least she’d thought so at the time. Having gotten to know him better over the years, she couldn’t help but smile ruefully when he found the poker by stubbing his toe on it, and then burned his finger putting the kettle on to heat. Rocky might possess a strange grace while speaking about poetry or making love to her—or her favorite, both at the same time—but otherwise, he was hopelessly clumsy.
“I can’t believe you went out in this,” he said, his faint English accent accentuated by his concern.
“Booze doesn’t deliver itself,” said Ellie.
“And you can’t deliver booze if you”—he handed her a mug of tea laced with SJ’s potato spirit—“capsize.”
“Capsize!” Ellie chuckled as he settled in beside her on his worn leather sofa. Rain lashed the windows, a tattoo wilder than a jazz drum line, and the wind howled; Ellie could see tree branches swaying in the darkness beyond the windows. “It’s not so bad out . . . at least, not on the bay side.”
Lightning flashed. Ellie’s confidence flickered as Rocky’s hurricane lantern guttered in the draft; after the thunder rolled by and no more came, she shrugged it off. “I’m sure I can get back.”
“Back across? Tonight?”
“Sure.”
“You’re welcome to stay,” said Rocky, threading a slender arm around her waist and snugging her closer to him.
“I’m sure it’ll let up soon,” said Ellie, settling against his warmth in the meantime. Truthfully she was extremely tempted by his offer, but she was expected elsewhere. “It seems like it’s letting up. I’ll finish this and then be on my way. But next time . . .”
“Next time,” he agreed, and kissed her on the neck, just under her ear. His soft, long-fingered hand wormed its way down the front of her towel, and then under the band of her knickers, where he began to casually toy with her hair there.
Ellie sighed happily. She was warm, almost dry, and feeling pretty loosey-goosey from the white dog in her tea. But when the storm showed signs of abating she pulled herself away from Rocky’s caresses and donned her damp togs. Though almost too hot at first from the stove, they quickly turned clammy against her skin.
At least she had a thick roll of bills in the pocket of her coveralls. They’d provide a bit of extra warmth, even if it was only psychological.
“Are you sure about this?” Rocky stared out the door, dark brow furrowed.
Ellie also had her doubts, but no more thunder boomed and no lightning brightened the night.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I know what I’m doing.”
“My little water rat doesn’t mind rain on her pelt,” said Rocky admiringly.
Ellie smiled to hear her nickname. That’s how he’d inscribed the copy of his duology, City Songs and Sea Songs, that he’d given her as a birthday gift—“To my little water rat.”
“Thanks for the pick-me-up,” she said. “It was nice to get warm.”
“A sensation I fear will be all too fleeting,” said Rocky.
Oh, she liked it when he lapsed into formal language like that! She kissed him one last time on his luscious, too-big mouth and headed out into the night.
The boat’s motor started right up in spite of the damp, but too quickly Ellie realized she ought to have listened to Rocky instead of trying to out-bluster the storm. The bay had become wilder as she’d relaxed indoors; apparently the squall had only been drawing its breath before really starting to howl.
Ellie wasn’t sure what to do. It’d be risky to increase her speed while the bay was so choppy, and the rain made it difficult for her to see much beyond her bow, but when a streak of lightning split the heavens right above her Ellie decided a bit of salt never killed anyone. She needed to get somewhere safe, and fast.
She could barely hear the motor over the downpour as she sped along the coast of Jones Beach Island, her skiff skipping on the waves, her mouth shut tight against the spray. She hadn’t yet risked the crossing, but staying on this side had its dangers, too. There was no shelter here, nor were there any docks, but Ellie knew there was a cove close by where she could hunker down and wait this out. And indeed, after a few more moments, she saw the inlet where she could turn out of the wind.
As a child, she had come here, to this secret place. Her father had shown it to her before the war, back when they used to go out digging for clams together. It had changed over the years—high tides and hurricanes had taken their due, old trees had fallen and younger ones grown, and the bit of sand on one side where a boat could be pulled up was a different shape and size—but it was still basically the same.
Lightning flashed again. To Ellie’s surprise, she saw that another boat had also sought refuge here—but its sole passenger lay lifelessly draped over the bow.
Ellie had no idea if the dark lump of a person was dead or in need of a rescue, but either way she couldn’t just leave him there. Not in this weather. She sighed, but her small protest was swallowed by the wind and rain.
A rescue wouldn’t be easy—or safe. While the secret cove was calmer than the bay, lightning was now bursting across the sky in jagged flashes, dangerous and bright, and the wind and rain continued to make it difficult for her to see and steer.
Doing the right thing doesn’t always mean doing the easy thing. That was something her father used to say to her, back when Ellie was young. Then as now she’d found it a hard adage to argue with.
She put her skiff’s motor in neutral as she drew near the drifting craft, using the rudder and her momentum to ease up alongside the other’s stern. Grabbing it, she tied off her bowline to the cleat. It seemed wisest to board the other craft and secure its passenger, whatever his fate, before trying to tug it to the beach. On the off chance the man was still alive, Ellie had to make sure he didn’t fall into the bay and drown.
Ellie killed the motor, and mindful of the treacherously slick wood and choppy surf, she made her way carefully to the bow of the other vessel. She couldn’t tell if the man was breathing, but she could see that he was half-draped over his open smuggler’s hold. Another moonshiner like her. Most likely he’d slipped and knocked himself a good one to the head. She reached out gingerl
y, expecting to touch a cold corpse, but his neck was warm.
She pressed deeper into his skin to feel for a pulse. There it was, faint but present. Lightning flashed again; in that bright moment she saw he was bleeding freely from the temple. She also recognized him: it was Walter Greene, who stocked the shelves at the feed and hardware stores. She didn’t know him; he wasn’t one of her clients and he wasn’t much of a bayman. So what was he doing out on a night like tonight?
Greene was a large, heavy man. Moving him wouldn’t be easy. Ellie braced herself, but when she grabbed him by the collar and the waistband of his pants to haul him away from the edge, his eyes shot open. The whites of them glowed unnaturally, bright as two lamps.
Greene howled like a mad dog and sprang at her, punching Ellie square in the nose. The night exploded into white light that was not another streak of lightning as Ellie staggered back. The warm rush of blood filled her mouth, the metallic taste mingling with salt spray and rainwater.
A lifelong boxing fan, Ellie had once taken some lessons from a prizefighter who’d been part of a traveling carnival. He’d told her if she could get her hands up, keep them up, and stay light on her feet she’d do all right in just about any fight. The few times she’d needed to defend herself, his advice had helped; even though she couldn’t land the hardest punches, she’d still done okay. Since she couldn’t easily stay light on her feet on a rocking boat in a storm, Ellie did what she could, guarding her face with her balled fists.
“Wait!” she cried. “I’m not—”
He did not wait. Greene fell upon her, knocking the wind out of her as he brought her to the deck, pinning her with his substantial bulk. He landed another punch, this time to her ribs, and then a third to her gut.
That was when Ellie’s instincts kicked in. She got in a punch of her own to Greene’s barrel-like stomach. It wasn’t a hard one, but when more lightning lit the sky she saw his face contorted, furious. He got his big hand around her neck and began to squeeze.
Ellie thrashed, panicking; he stayed atop her, but she felt his foot slip on the wet wood of the deck. As he struggled to keep his balance she got her knee up, catching him in the groin. Then, at last, Greene’s grip on her throat loosened and she managed to shimmy out of his grasp, catching him on the chin with her other knee as she got to her feet.
