Red Delicious
Page 1
Praise for Blood Oranges
“A pedal-to-the-metal, balls-to-the-wall female antihero who doesn’t give a damn if you like her or not . . . which totally made me love her.”
—Amber Benson
“A memorably exhilarating and engaging experience. Sly, sardonically nasty, and amusingly clever.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“[Kiernan] brings an engagingly fresh perspective to well-trod territory. . . . Colorful side characters and a fully realized setting make this a fast-paced series opener well worth checking out.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kiernan . . . has made it her business to turn the comfortable genres of imaginative fiction inside out. Now writing as Kathleen Tierney, she introduces a heroine as fascinating and compelling as she is foulmouthed and impatient.”
—Library Journal
“[A] fast-paced, profane, and combustive little thriller.”
—The Black Letters
“A strange (and unmistakably fun) project, a parodic urban fantasy that at once vivisects the tropes of the genre as it currently stands and also employs them with vigor and a backhanded, wild immersion.”
—Tor.com
“A lot of fun.”
—Locus
“A dark, twisted ride through the seedier side of life, but it’s peppered with enough humor to make it enjoyable.”
—RT Book Reviews
“A mesmerizing exploration of magic without certainty . . . a must read for anyone drawn to the darker edges of urban fantasy.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
Praise for the Novels of Caitlín R. Kiernan
The Drowning Girl
WINNER OF THE BRAM STOKER AND JAMES TIPTREE, JR., AWARDS
NOMINATED FOR THE WORLD FANTASY, NEBULA, BRITISH FANTASY, SHIRLEY JACKSON, LOCUS, AND MYTHOPOEIC FANTASY AWARDS
“This subtle, dark, in-folded novel, through which flickers a weird insistent genius, is like nothing I’ve ever read before. . . . A stunning work of literature.”
—Peter Straub
“A prose style of wondrous luminosity, an atmosphere of languorous melancholy, and an inexplicable mixture of aching beauty and clutching terror.”
—S. T. Joshi, author of I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft
“A masterpiece. It deserves to be read in and out of genre for a long, long time.”
—Elizabeth Bear, author of Range of Ghosts
“Wholly different and achingly familiar, more alien, more difficult, more beautiful, and more true.”
—Catherynne M. Valente, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making
“Incisive, beautiful, and as perfectly crafted as a puzzle box, The Drowning Girl took my breath away.”
—Holly Black, New York Times bestselling author of Black Heart
“A beautifully written, startlingly original novel that rings the changes upon classics by the likes of Shirley Jackson, H. P. Lovecraft, and Peter Straub . . . chilling and unforgettable, with a narrator whose voice will linger in your head long after midnight.”
—Elizabeth Hand, author of Available Dark
The Red Tree
NOMINATED FOR THE SHIRLEY JACKSON AND WORLD FANTASY AWARDS
“A strange and vastly compelling take on a New England haunting. . . . Kiernan’s still-developing talent makes this gloriously atmospheric tale a fabulous piece of work.”
—Booklist
Daughter of Hounds
“A hell-raising dark fantasy replete with ghouls, changelings, and eerie intimations of a macabre otherworld . . . an effective mix of atmosphere and action.”
—Publishers Weekly
Murder of Angels
“Lyrical and earthy, Murder of Angels is that rare book that gets everything right.”
—Charles de Lint
Low Red Moon
“Eerie and breathtaking . . . [a novel] of sustained dread punctuated by explosions of unmitigated terror.”
—Irish Literary Review
Threshold
WINNER OF THE INTERNATIONAL HORROR GUILD AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL
“Threshold is a bonfire proclaiming Caitlín Kiernan’s elevated position in the annals of contemporary literature. It is an exceptional novel you mustn’t miss. Highly recommended.”
—Cemetery Dance
Silk
WINNER OF THE INTERNATIONAL HORROR GUILD AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL
FINALIST FOR THE BRAM STOKER AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL
NOMINATED FOR THE BRITISH FANTASY AWARD
“A remarkable novel.”
—Neil Gaiman
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
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penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC
Copyright © Caitlín R. Kiernan, 2014
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Tierney, Kathleen, 1964–
Red delicious: a Siobhan Quinn novel/Caitlín R. Kiernan writing as Kathleen Tierney.
pages cm
ISBN 978-1-101-59483-4
1. Werewolves—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3561.I358R42 2014
813'.54—dc23 2013038068
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Table of Contents
Praise
Title page
Copyright page
Contents
Epigraph
CHAPTER ONE: A GHOST OF MYSELF
CHAPTER TWO: THE GIRL
CHAPTER THREE: QUINN’S TERRIBLE, HORRIBLE, NO-GOOD, VERY BAD DAY
CHAPTER FOUR: DEATH FROM ABOVE, TEN BULLETS, AND THE DINGUS
CHAPTER FIVE: FRIENDS OF MR. CAIRO
CHAPTER SIX: A FINE LOT OF LOLLIPOPS
CHAPTER SEVEN: BAD AS ME
EPILOGUE: ASHES TO ASHES
AUTHOR’S BIOGRAPHY
Books by CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
If your ears, eyes, and sensibilities are easily offended, this book is not for you. If you want a romance novel, this book is not for you. And if it strikes you odd that vampires, werewolves, demons, ghouls, and the people who spend time in their company would be a foul-mouthed, unpleasant lot, this book is not for you. In fact, if you’re the sort who believes books should come with warning labels, this book’s not for you. Fair notice. Also, high-school dropouts are not necessarily illiterate idiots who don’t know “big words.” I speak from experience.
To paraphrase Ursula K. LeGuin, this is me once more taking back the language of the night. If only for myself.
THE AUTHOR
A wiser man than myself once said, “Sometimes you eat the b’ar, and sometimes, well, he eats you.”
�
�THE STRANGER
You’re dumb. You’ll die and leave a dumb corpse.
—OLD ASURA PROVERB
CHAPTER ONE
A GHOST OF MYSELF
Hello. My name is Siobhan Quinn, and I’m a murderer. It’s been three days since my last homicide.
See? You like me already.
Not that everyone and her mother considers vampires and werewolves—or some poor shit like me who lucks out and gets the best of both worlds—a murderer. Most everyone is too busy either painting us nasties as this or that stripe of demon or monster, or (and this truly does get my goat) they’ve managed to romanticize the fiends we are into tortured Byronic figures who sparkle in sunlight or pretentiously haunt the streets of, say, New Orleans. The heroes and heroines of lurid “shifter” romances and self-proclaimed “otherkin” and “therianthropes” who’d shit themselves silly if they ever got so much as a peep at a genuine loup. Or we get to solve paranormal crimes in an attempt to redeem our damned souls. Or we seek to regain our lost mortality. Or, so say various Academic sorts, serve as metaphors for mankind’s fear of the Other. Or . . .
You get the picture.
And John Wayne Gacy was just some misunderstood candy-colored clown. Jeffrey Dahmer, guy just had an eating disorder. Sure thing. Anyway, we’ll no doubt come back to all this falderal later on, repeatedly, because it never ceases to amuse me.
I hate recaps. With a passion do I hate recaps. But I suppose—for all you folks just tuning in—I should at least make a half-assed, token effort at something of the sort. Here goes:
Once upon a time there was a girl ran away from home to live on the hard streets of Providence, Rhode Island. Before long, she discovered the joys of heroin, or they discovered her, and she took to junk like a fly to horse poop. Then, lo and behold, a series of highly unlikely events transpired during which she accidentally killed a ghoul and then a vampire—in the process discovering, hey, guess what, monsters are real. Whee. Now, homeless junkies who kill two nasties without even trying, they tend to attract attention. Mostly, not the good sort of attention. Which is how it went for me. This dude calling himself B, he shows up. B’s sort of a middleman for all sorts of dealings between things what go bump in the night, which makes him as many enemies as friends. More, actually. So, he shows up and gives me one of those offers you can’t refuse: I go to work as a sort of bodyguard, and he protects me from the baddies want me dead, and he gives me a place to live. Plus, generous soul that he is, he’ll supply me with all the free smack I can shoot into my veins. Well, as long as I can balance being high and getting the job done. I accept, and he pins a rep on me, tall tales of his own invention, how I’m absolute and certain doom to anyone dares fuck with him, and . . . Jesus, I’m boring myself already.
Shorter version: I screw up. And I mean I screw up bad. The same night I get sloppy and get bitten by a werewolf, I’m also bitten by a very, very formidable vampire child called herself the Bride of Quiet. Or Mercy Brown, depending on her mood. B, who sees no shame in cowardice, he takes a powder, leaving me to fend for myself, because, turns out, I’d become some sort of pawn in a decades-old labyrinthine intrigue of revenge and bitch-slapping between the Bride and this even scarier she vamp down in Brooklyn, a firebug of thermonuclear proportions known as Evangelista Penderghast. Events unfold. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Folks die, most of whom have it coming. Most of whom I ate. Finally, I make a deal with Penderghast, and she loans me a magical doodad—real eldritch voodoo stuff—that allows me to bump off the Bride (and a church bus full of werewolves in the bargain).
B comes back, and all is forgiven.
Cue exit music. Close curtain.
Fast-forward six months or so.
Which brings us, constant reader, to the here and now, and the fact that this story needs a beginning, and I think a good place to start would be the freezing, snowy mid-February morning I was strolling along College Hill, minding my own business. Sky the color of lead, as they say, battleship gray, as they say, and fat, fluffy flakes spiraling lazily down to cover up the frozen mix of ice, sand, and salt from the last week’s snowfall. Providence—something else I don’t generally romanticize—isn’t so bad on a day like that. All the hard, ugly winter edges get smoothed away, you know.
So, I was coming around the corner at Fones Alley and Hope Street, basking in the afterglow of a good feed, free of the hunger for a while—and, even though it had to be eleven a.m. by then, there’s not a soul in sight—not a pedestrian, not a car, not a bus. What the fuck was with that? Sometimes oddly peculiar shit just happens. Like accidentally killing a ghoul. I’d smoked a Camel down to the filter, and I flicked the butt into the gutter, when here comes this cocksucker barreling out of the bushes by the sidewalk. I know right off who it is. Remember the notorious Bobby Ng, wannabe demon slayer and all around ass clown? You know, he who was the brunt of many a joke and had the misfortune of becoming first meal as a loup?
Well, shortly after Bobby’s demise, this other dude had shown up. Nature abhors a void, right? Natura abhorreta vacuum or something like that. However, whereas Ng had been the worst sort of fuckup—at best, good for the occasional belly laugh among the demonkin, too ridiculous to even bother killing—the new guy, he was a defrocked Catholic priest with at least a few brain cells still in working order. Father Bertrand “Burt” Rizzo, who’d been ousted from a parish somewhere in New Jersey for having his way with twenty years’ worth of altar boys. He’d started out with dreams of taking a place among the lofty order of the Societas Iesu, or the Jesuits (if you’ve never suffered the joys of Catholicism). But he washed out, and had to settle for a plain old priesthood. Maybe that left him a little unhinged. Me, I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. What mattered was, whereas Ng’s antics had been pretty much harmless (until he caused me to take out the blood daughter of the Bride of Quiet), Father Rizzo had his act together, and in only a few months had somehow become Providence’s own Abraham Van Helsing.
Lucky us.
This shitbird had a price on his head, but somehow had eluded the bounty for three months. During that time, his body count included four ghouls, a night gaunt, a baby vamp of no particular renown, and, during a field trip to Woonsocket, three loups. Like I said, dude sorta had his shit together. There were suspicions he’d traded the Holy Trinity for darker gods, and that’s how he was keeping his ass covered. Maybe so. Maybe not so.
Rizzo was a big man—lucha libre big—almost a foot taller than me, say six foot six, and at least two hundred and fifty pounds. Most of that was muscle and bullshit. He was fast. Worse, he was well armed. That morning, all I had was the Glock 17 9mm I always carry, and I was nowhere near on my toes. I was walking in a winter wonderland, not braced for an ambush by Rizzo. He hit me hard from behind, knocking me off my feet. I’ve gotten pretty good at taking a spill without breaking anything, and I rolled to my left, ending up half in the dirty mound of slush burying the edge of the sidewalk. I looked up, and there he was, standing over me. The cold morning sun glinting off his bald head, the long, scraggly beard that always made me think of Rasputin. His breath fogged like a steam engine.
This was, as it happened, the first time he’d dared take a swipe at me, the one soul in all Rhode Island who also happened to be his competition. Honestly, I hadn’t thought the dude was that stupid or that ballsy.
Wrong. Wicked wrong.
There he stood, aiming his crossbow at my chest. Oh, yeah. He was armed with the same make and model crossbow B had given me back in August—self-cocking, pistol-grip mini with that lightweight aluminum frame and fifty-pound draw. I could see the fiberglass bolts had silver tips. Rizzo had carved little crosses on the bolts. Cute. Silly, but cute.
“Siobhan Quinn,” he said, and grinned.
“No one fucking calls me Siobhan,” I growled.
This is a true fact. People have died for calling me Siobhan. People who didn’t mean to do me mischief on snowy February mornings. Now, I’m sure he knew this. He smirked and ki
cked me in the ribs. It hurt, but you can’t knock the breath outta something doesn’t breathe.
“Tough titties,” said Father Rizzo. No, seriously. With dog as my witness, I shit you not. Here, this guy who used to be a man of the cloth, trusted to place the transubstantiated flesh of Christ on the tongues of his flock, outs with tough titties. How was I not supposed to laugh? I guess getting yourself booted outta the priesthood for buggering young boys really does a number on your sense of propriety.
“You did not just say that,” I said, doing my best not to giggle.
“You gonna lie there and waste your last moments before I send you to Hell worrying about dirty language?”
Lots of time since the summer before, the July night when I’d died, I had considered shuffling off this immortal coil. Murderer or not, monster or not, I couldn’t seem to shake my conscience, no matter how good it felt. Turning my mosquito trick on some unsuspecting soul or letting the Beast run wild beneath a full moon, they beat sex, beat heroin, beat everything I’d known before, but it’s a pretty shitty existence. And usually a pain in the ass.
Still, I was not gonna become just another notch in Rizzo’s holy crossbow of Jesus doom.
Sometimes the oldest and dumbest tricks are the best.
“Dude, your fly’s unzipped,” I laughed. When he checked (and yes, he did check), I kneed him in the balls hard enough I figure they must have collided with his spleen. At least, he howled like I had. Rizzo staggered backwards a few steps, then slipped on a patch of ice and landed on his ass. I was on my feet in one of those heartbeats I didn’t have to bother with anymore. He’d dropped his crossbow, and I kicked it into the street. Finally, traffic! Right on fucking cue! A RIPTA bus sped past and crushed the weapon pretty much flat. Shit like that makes me wonder if what we call reality is nothing more than a movie someone’s filming in an alternate universe Hollywood. Because . . . damn.