Murder of Angels
Page 1
“Caitlín R. Kiernan is an original.”
—Clive Barker
“Caitlín R. Kiernan draws her strength from the most honorable of sources, a passion for the act of writing.”
—Peter Straub
“Caitlín R. Kiernan writes like a Gothic cathedral on fire.”
—Poppy Z. Brite
Murder of Angels
“I love a book like this that happily blends genres, highlighting the best from each, but delivering them in new configurations…. In Murder of Angels, the darkness is poetic, the fantasy is gritty, and the real-world sections are rooted in deep and true emotions.”
—Charles de Lint
“Stylish…. The novel’s unusual blend of otherworldly and supernatural horror gives it a uniquely weird cast. Kiernan’s true achievement, however, is the careful crafting of her mellifluous prose to sustain an intense atmosphere of dread. Dream and nightmare, hallucination and reality, private fantasy and objective experience all merge seamlessly, making this one of the more relentless horror reads of the year.”
—Publishers Weekly
“[Kiernan] paints her pages in feverish, chiaroscuro shades.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Kiernan is devising something of an antifantasy—or perhaps a mythic antiheroic journey—with Murder of Angels….[The novel] adds a heretofore missing cosmology and further depth to the now rapidly expanding Kiernanian universe while displaying pronounced authorial confidence.”
—Dark Echo
“A cutting-edge tale of worlds on the brink with an interesting champion…Caitlín R. Kiernan provides a dark, foreboding, and surreal novel.”
—Midwest Book Review
“There are a handful of writers whose technical and storytelling abilities attain such a lofty pinnacle that the end result leaves you in awe of their talent. Caitlín R. Kiernan is such a writer. She weaves multilayered and substantial narratives with threads of delicate, poetic prose. It is a pleasure to read her work, not just for the story but also for an appreciation of her writing skills.”
—Horror Reader
Daughter of Hounds
“The plot springs abundant surprises…an effective mix of atmosphere and action.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kiernan’s storytelling is stellar, and the misunderstandings and lies of stories within the main story evoke a satisfying tension in the characters.”
—Booklist
“Caitlín R. Kiernan pays homage to Lovecraft in the very scary Daughter of Hounds. There is a sense of the foreboding Gothic that creeps out the audience, and the antagonists who set much of the pace seem freaky and deadly. Reminiscent of Poppy Z. Brite’s darkest thrillers, Ms. Kiernan provides Goth horror fans with a suspense-laden tale that keeps readers’ attention.”
—Alternate Worlds
“Kiernan’s writing is what really makes the book special….[It’s] best described as ‘What if John Bellairs had written Pulp Fiction?’ Erudite discussions and entrancing descriptions intertwine with snappy, punchy dialogue that is as often as not laced with Tarantinoesque rhythmic profanity. All of this adds up to a pretty explosive and captivating read…. Highly recommended.”
—The Green Man Review
Low Red Moon
“Kiernan only grows in versatility, and readers should continue to expect great things from her.”
—Locus
“The familiar caveat ‘not for the faint of heart’ is appropriate here—the novel is one of sustained dread punctuated by explosions of unmitigated terror.”
—Irish Literary Review
“Effective evocations of the supernatural…a memorable expansion of the author’s unique fictional universe.”
—Publishers Weekly
Threshold
Winner of the International Horror Guild Award for Best Novel
“Threshold is a bonfire proclaiming Caitlín R. Kiernan’s elevated position in the annals of contemporary literature. It is an exceptional novel you mustn’t miss. Highly recommended.”
—Cemetery Dance
“A distinctively modern tale that invokes cosmic terrors redolent of past masters H. P. Lovecraft and Algernon Blackwood…. A finale that veers unexpectedly from a seemingly inevitable display of supernatural fireworks to a subtly disarming denouement only underscores the intelligence behind this carefully crafted tale of awe-inspired nightmare.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kiernan’s prose is tough and characterized by nightmarish description. Her brand of horror is subtle, the kind that is hidden in the earth’s ancient strata and never stays where it can be clearly seen.”
—Booklist
“Threshold confirms Kiernan’s reputation as one of dark fiction’s premier stylists. Her poetic descriptions ring true and evoke a sense of cosmic dread to rival Lovecraft. Her writing envelopes the reader in a fog concealing barely glimpsed horrors that frighten all the more for being just out of sight.”
—Gauntlet Magazine
Praise for 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 wonderful book.”
—Peter Straub
“Caitlín R. Kiernan is the poet and bard of the wasted and the lost.”
—Neil Gaiman
“If the title alone doesn’t make you want to read Silk, the first page will do the trick. Kiernan’s work is populated with the physically freaky, mentally unstable, sexually marginalized characters who have caused so much consternation in conventional circles—but Caitlín R. Kiernan is headed in an entirely different direction. Her unfolding of strange events evokes not horror, but a far larger sense of awe.”
—Poppy Z. Brite
“[Kiernan] has what it takes to excite me as a reader…. I just loved this book and can’t wait to see what she writes next.”
—Charles de Lint
NOVELS BY CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
Silk
Threshold
Low Red Moon
Murder of Angels
Daughter of Hounds
Murder of Angels
CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Roc trade paperback edition.
Copyright © Caitlín R. Kiernan, 2004
All rights reserved
ISBN: 1-4362-0199-3
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
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For the Green Fairy, who surely got me through this one.
And for Spooky, who gets me through everything else.
In memory of Elizabeth Tillman Aldridge (1970–1995)
I will hold you to the light,
that’s what forever means.
—Bruderschaft, “Forever”
Contents
AUTHOR’S NOTE
PROLOGUE
PART ONE
Disintegration
CHAPTER ONE
Dark in Day
CHAPTER TWO
The Wolves We All Can See
CHAPTER THREE
Ghosts and Angels
CHAPTER FOUR
This Only Song I Know
CHAPTER FIVE
Pillars of Fire
PART TWO
Wars in Heaven
CHAPTER SIX
Latitude and Longitude
CHAPTER SEVEN
Snakes and Ladders
CHAPTER EIGHT
The White Road
CHAPTER NINE
The Eighth Sphere
CHAPTER TEN
At the Crossroads
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Wishfire
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Upon completing Chapter Six of Murder of Angels, I realized that I’d unconsciously borrowed the refrain “These things happen” from Paul Thomas Anderson’s superb (and notably Fortean) film Magnolia (1999). For the next several months I debated whether to leave it in or take it out. In the end, I made the decision to keep the phrase, but to acknowledge its origins. As with all things, serendipity is critical to writing, and it seemed to me as though omitting it would lessen the force and significance of the chapter. To varying degrees, this novel owes similar debts to Matthew Arnold, John Milton, Lewis Carroll, The Cure, Brian Eno, The Crüxshadows, L. Frank Baum, The Sisters of Mercy, Carl Jung, VNV Nation, Joseph Campbell, and the works of two Vietnamese poets, Van Hanh (d.1018) and Vien Chieu (988–1050). Also, three songs played an important role in the conception of this novel: “All Along the Watchtower” and “Changing of the Guards” by Bob Dylan, and “The Queen and the Soldier” by Suzanne Vega.
Murder of Angels was begun in July 2000, then shelved while I wrote Low Red Moon and begun again in January 2003. Of all my novels, it was the most difficult, and I’d likely never have finished without the help of a number of people. My grateful thanks to Darren McKeeman and Sherilyn Connely, who were my eyes in San Francisco; to Kathryn Pollnac, who acted as tireless first reader, proofreader, and sounding board; to Rogue and Jessica, for being there when I needed to talk; to Jim and Jennifer, Byron, Sissy and Kat, Jean-Paul, Jada and Katharine, for their friendship; to Derek cf. Pegritz and Nyarlathotep: The Crawling Chaos, for sharing their music with my writing; to Poppy Z. Brite, Neil Gaiman, and Peter Straub, for listening; to Jack Morgan, who read an early draft and offered many helpful comments; to William K. Schafer for Subterranean Press, where books are still books; to my agents, Merrilee Heifetz and Julien Thuan, and my editor, John Morgan; to everyone on the phorum (my social life), all those who have followed the writing of this book via my blog, and to all the other “greys” at Nebari.net. This novel was written on a Macintosh iBook.
The abyss becomes me, I wear this chaos well…
—VNV Nation, “Genesis” (2002)
Dark revolving in silent activity:
Unseen in tormenting passions;
An activity unknown and horrible;
A self-contemplating shadow,
In enormous labours occupied.
—William Blake, The Book of Urizen (1794)
PROLOGUE
The Beginning of the End of Time
1
On past the scurry and endless, breaking dreams of Manhattan, north and east past all the sour rivers and the industrial tatters of Greenwich and Bridgeport, and as the miles and towns slip by, there are still hints of the world before. Dulled and brittle hints left unshattered by The Fall, The Fall before The Fall, but he can see them, sure, the tall, pale man that the dark children haven’t found a name for, or they know all his names but are too afraid to ever say them aloud. Past New Haven, New London, following the Connecticut coastline because the sight of the ocean is still a small comfort to him, something so vast and alive out there, and if it isn’t pure at least it hasn’t rotted like the damned and zombified cities, like the faces of the people trapped and not-quite-dying inside their casket walls.
And some nights, the children find him in smoky, music-bruised clubs, or cemeteries, or walking alone on rocky beaches. He leaves them rumors strewn like stale bread crumbs, and the ones who need to hear what he has to say can find him, and all the others don’t really matter, anyway. The others are content with their lies or half-truths, and their eyes give them away every time, the fact of their fear and their contentment with shadows. The things that he says, his shining steel and red molten words, his face, the sound of his breath, all of it only an intrusion into the faithless peace they’ve fashioned from shreds of night and mystery.
Yesterday, Mystic, with all its high, maritime streets and tourist-haunted seaport scenery, and hardly anything or anyone waiting for him there; suspicious glances from policemen and shopkeepers, old women selling shells and wooden sailing ships built inside tiny bottles, and so he slipped away sometime after midnight. Only a few miles more to Stonington Village, long and time-crooked finger of land pointing towards a cold Atlantic heart, and it’s a better place for him to be. He knows that they will find him here, a handful or less, perhaps, but the ones who do come will sit still and listen.
So another night and the big, ugly Lincoln Continental that he’s driven since Chicago is parked in the sand and gravel cul-de-sac at the end of Water Street. The old, old town crouched sleepy at his back, aged and unwary town, colonial walls and whitewashed fences, and there’s a granite marker at the water’s edge to commemorate an unredeemable summer day in 1814 when the HMS Ramillies burned and sank somewhere just offshore and the towns-people held back a British landing party.
“Did you hear that?” the nervous woman who calls herself Archer Day whispers in his ear, and he waits a moment before answering her, strains to hear whatever might be hiding behind or beneath the waves lapping against the worn schist boulders and seaweed concrete. Foghorns calling out to one another across the sound and the rheumy chug of a fishing boat traversing the harbor, the chill wind and nothing else.
“You’re just scaring yourself again,” he says finally, and she nods her head slowly, because she wants to believe him, every single word he says, because she always wants to believe him. “It’s nothing but the sea,” he says.
“I thought it was music,” she whispers. “I thought I heard music in the sky.”
And so he looks up then, because it will make her feel better if he does, stares defiantly up at the July moon one night past full, baleful white-orange eye to make the water shimmer or shiver, the cold and pinprick stars, and he takes a deep breath, filling his
lungs with the moist and salty night.
“No, I don’t hear it.”
“It sounded almost like trumpets,” Archer Day says, and he turns and looks at her, her anxious brown eyes gone black in the night, the moonlight caught in her ginger hair that’s grown so long and shaggy, tangled by the breeze. He brushes a hand gently across her cheek and then kisses her on the forehead.
“Not yet,” he says. “You know how it will be.”
“I know what you tell me,” and she isn’t looking at him anymore, is staring out to sea instead, watching a buoy bobbing up and down in the waves, the distant, vigilant beams of the lighthouses far out on Lords Point and Fishers Island. Her eyes almost as secret as his soul, and he wants to hold her. Would hold her close to him and tell her not to be afraid, if he remembered how. If he didn’t know all the things she knows and tenfold more, so he only brushes the windblown hair away from her face instead.
“She was in my dreams again last night,” she says. “She said something about the sky—”
“It’s getting late,” he tells her, as if he hasn’t heard, and glances back towards the town. “They’ll be waiting. Some of them will have come a long way.”
“Yeah. They’re always waiting,” Archer whispers, and she pulls away from him and walks back to the car without saying another word, just her boots crunching gravel and broken bits of mussel shell. He watches her go, waits until she’s safe inside the Lincoln and he can hear music blaring from the tape deck before he turns to look out across the sound again. The deep and deathless sea to give him courage, to keep him moving night after inevitable night, but the moon’s out there, too. A moon that shines the fevery color of an infection, and the ocean not so very vast, not so eternal, that the moon doesn’t drag it back and forth at will, and “tide” is just another pretty word for coercion, after all, another unnecessary reminder that gravity always wins.