The Year's Best Dark Fantasy & Horror, 2015 Edition

by Paula Guran

  “He wasn’t . . . ” the bartender began, then hesitated.

  “Go on,” Gorel said. Tense now. The bartender said, “Look, he wasn’t here. But . . . ”

  Gorel waited, silence like a web waiting for a catch.

  The bartender said, “I saw him outside. Before the burial party came in.”

  Gorel, a flash—“With Pashtill?”

  “With the woman, yes. I figured she was buying, and didn’t want to make it too public.”

  “She drank the punch.”

  “Sheriff,” the grave-wraith said and leered, “she drank it like you do. She drank it like it was water and she was frying on the sands of Meskatel.”

  “Tell me about Blud and Deth,” Gorel said. “They have any interaction with the Mindano people?”

  “I told you, they left as the others arrived,” the grave-wraith said. Behind Gorel the door banged open and he heard footsteps.

  “Can we talk?” the caretaker said.

  Gorel nodded, not turning around. “Why did they leave?” he said.

  “I got the impression they didn’t want to have to see the big guy,” the grave-wraith said.

  Gorel said: “Sorel Gadashtill? The nephew?”

  “The fat one,” the grave-wraith said. “If that’s his name. They left through the back.”

  Gorel tossed him the bracelet. The grave-wraith made it disappear. Gorel said, “And you were here all night?”

  “I’m here every night,” the bartender said.

  “What do you think?” the caretaker said.

  “I think any one of them could have done it,” Gorel said. “What I don’t know is why.”

  “You think it was a flesh-and-blood killer, then?”

  “As opposed to the former caliph? I don’t know.”

  “But you have some ideas.”

  “I always have some ideas.” They were walking through Gardentown toward the cemetery.

  Already the light was waning, the short day winking out. Gorel said, “Blud and Deth.”

  “Yes?”

  “What are they doing here?”

  The caretaker shrugged. “Research. We get a surprising number of visiting scholars. Those two are just the latest. The . . . management is usually indifferent.”

  “The management?”

  “The . . . interests I represent.”

  He noticed the hesitation, twice. “Who are they?” he said.

  The caretaker shook her head and the shadows withdrew around her. “Just hope you never have occasion to meet them,” she said.

  Gorel let it pass. “What research?” he said. The caretaker said, “Officially? The study of undeath distribution patterns across sections one to five. That’s—”

  “All the things that don’t quite stay dead?”

  “Quite. It does help to have recorded migration patterns, you know. The last study was conducted by Deo the Third, of Sotrn’Ak, and that was several centuries ago.”

  “Who was the caretaker then?” Gorel said, playing a hunch.

  “A distant relative,” the caretaker said, a little cold.

  “Did you find the information I was looking for?” Gorel said, changing tack again.

  The caretaker seemed to hesitate. “Goliris . . . ” she said. “Yes . . . ”

  “You said there may be some who are buried here.”

  “One,” the caretaker said. The shadows congregated around her then. “There is one.”

  Gorel waited. The caretaker seemed deep in thought. Finally she said, “Yes. Tomorrow I will show you. Who knows, it might help . . . ” She said no more, and he didn’t push her. They turned and walked down the avenues of the dead.

  All about them the great follies and Last Houses of Rest, the tombstones and headstones rose like an unoccupied city. Yet it was occupied: and as they walked, in silence now, Gorel could sense them all around him, the silent dead, generations upon generations, centuries upon centuries of beings who had once been alive and great, and were now reduced, diminished, kings and queens, sorcerers and senators, warriors and poets, merchants and killers, all brought here, at the end of their days, to be interred in the grandest dumping grounds of the dead, this necropolis of Kur-a-Len. He watched them now, these silent simulacra that stood like markers above their dead counterparts, faces chiseled in stone and metal and wood, and he asked himself whether it had made one little bit of difference to them, to the people they had once been, whether their grave was a palace or a sewer: to Gorel, dead was simply dead.

  But not to some, he thought. Some fought death, railed against it, schemed and planned and plotted against the day. Some sought immortality, and no doubt found it, after a fashion. Even gods died, in the end. And some had died and were returned, living in the twilight, shaped from the material that formed the membrane between worlds. They were the creatures in between, refusing to depart, to end, to cease, and he respected that, while not quite sharing the sentiment. Beside him the caretaker seemed to shiver, and the shadows gathered round her, wrapping her in a cloak of night. They had come to her house. It had once been a grave.

  Of course, to have called it a grave was to have done injustice to it. If it were once a grave then it was a palatial one. Even in such as place as the Garden, the caretaker’s abode towered over plain mausoleums, mere castles and citadels. It was nothing short of a palace, with servants’ quarters, a library, a dining room, even baths. The outside was done in Nocturne architectural style, all dark and brooding shadows, tall walls, forbidding turrets that seemed to capture the night. Gorel said, “I’m impressed.”

  Behind her shadows, the caretaker seemed to smile. “You should be,” she said. “That was the intention.”

  “Is this converted?” he said, following her through a door of solid dark stone.

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Who was buried here?”

  She seemed to smile again, and didn’t answer. There was something he didn’t like about her silence, and at the same time, it excited him. He wanted to know the caretaker better, he realized. She was an enigma on par with the rest of the place, an unknown quantity. For a moment he considered her as the dark shadow he had chased, the stealer of a woman’s face—a killer. It was a possibility.

  “The library is through there,” she said, pointing. Their feet, he noticed, made no sound on the black marble floor. “You wanted to look up Mindano Caliphate.”

  It was not said as a question. And he had, but didn’t mention it. Interesting.

  “I’ll just go and . . . change,” the caretaker said. She spoke with those odd hesitations, as if picking words a little too carefully, so that they never came out quite right. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  He decided he would. He followed her with his eyes as she glided away, wondering what hid behind the shadows, and felt desire flare inside him like a funeral pyre.

  The library first: rows and rows of bookshelves made of hard black wood, warm to the touch, rising from floor to distant ceiling. He saw no coffins, no sarcophagi—and wondered. Who had this place been built for? And what had they expected death to bring? He felt depth below him, hidden caverns underneath his feet and the cold marble floor, yet a comfortable fire burned in the large fireplace. A silent Zambur brought over a glass of warm wine, and he didn’t even need to taste it to know it had been laced most liberally with dust. Was that in his honor?

  He watched the Zambur depart, the strange little creature making no sound. They were like the fungus that grows only in moonlight, only around graves. He was not even sure they were not some half-plant species, only partially flesh. He had only ever heard rumors before . . .

  He looked up Mindano Caliphate: third cabinet, fifth shelf—Gorod & Zdruss’ A Traveler’s Guide to the Mindano, Gesheft and Torqan Principalities, with Commentaries on their Geography, Fauna and Flora, Politics and Customs, With Illustrations by Krodin the Second.

  He looked at the illustrations first. High mountains rising in the distance, the lands of Minda
no and Gesheft in constant shade, bare country, snow high up in the mountains, eyes seeming to watch the artist from the shadows as he sketched—he drew them in, constantly. Mindano, Caliphate of: he skimmed the text, looking for salient points. “An inhospitable region dominated by the Ware’i-Zul mountains and by the consequences of its devastating war . . . The modern Caliphate was formed at the conclusion of the war . . . necessity for labor created the conditions for the rise of the modern line of necromancer-rulers, the line originally coming from . . . it is a condition of the monarchic rule that caliphs be buried as far away from the land as possible to prevent the possibility of civil war (see Succession, War of, Third and Fourth Caliph, Period of) . . . ” A few pages on, woodcuts of dark dull-eyed birds, dead or alive he couldn’t tell, a march of dead men clearing a road, a note—“Reanimated Canaries, The: Favorite pets originating in the deadwoods of Mindano Caliphate, known for their ability to sometimes sing the future. See also Notable Exports.” Images of the caliphs, all looking more or less the same. Few more pages: Stories and Legends. One at the bottom of a page caught his eye: A Princess of Neverwas. He read the story, looking for something, not sure why:

  Once upon a time, in the dark final days as the Zul and the Ware’i fought and the mountains were devastated, when the First Caliph was yet a young boy, a princess came to Mindano. She came from a no-place and a no-when, a place and a time she called Neverwas. She was beautiful and strong, and had come over the mountain passes, in the midst of the final days of the war, yet was unscathed. It was said there was much magic in her, though she seldom displayed it. When asked about her home, she never spoke. There was a sadness about her, and an anger, and the young boy who was to become caliph saw his own sadness and anger reflected in her, and fell in love with her. It was said many, men and women, were in love with her that long, dark winter. At that time the Final Weapon of the Zul was deployed, and the mountains flared in a great light, and were then silent, and the Great Sickness came over the mountain as if following in the woman’s footsteps, and a multitude joined the ranks of the dead. The people of Mindano were frightened, and blamed the princess, though she protested her innocence. The boy protected her, but at last, as the survivors surrounded the home he by now shared with the princess, he brought her outside and, before the watching people, put a knife through her heart.

  Gorel looked at the woodcut depicting this scene. All he could see were eyes in the shadows. He wondered what it was that Krodin the Second saw in Mindano as he slowly went insane . . .

  As she died, the young boy was transformed, and all knelt down before him. He raised the bloodied knife to the skies and a flash of lightning hit the metal, sending bright blue sparks into the air. Then the boy went amongst the dead, and his eyes were cold and hard, and wherever he pointed the blade the dead rose, and followed him, and the First Regiment of the Dead was formed. That night the boy sent the princess away in a coffin carried by reanimated corpses who were in thrall to him, and where they went was never known.

  Gorel put down the book. The memory of a memory niggled at him, as of something he remembered he should remember. All he knew was that he was glad never to have visited Mindano Caliphate, which sounded dismal, and he suspected the food was bad there. It was a place founded on sorcery, and Gorel hated sorcery, hated and despised it. He stood and stretched and left the library, pushing thoughts of Mindano, necromancers, murder, and princesses from his mind.

  They dined in the caretaker’s dining hall, which was a study in necromantic elegance.

  A mix of Diurnal and Nocturne . . . but mainly Nocturne, he thought. Shadows hung from the walls like tapestries. Fat wax candles burned in silver chandeliers. There were family portraits on the walls, or so he assumed: they were all pure black, the painting of shadows. The caretaker followed his gaze, said, “You can see them in a range of other light. Here—” she handed him a curious device.

  Gorel said, “What is it?”

  “An invention of Blud and Deth,” she said. “They took quite an interest in the portraits. Put it on. Like this—” she demonstrated.

  Gorel put the device over his eyes. Two metal cones telescoped down from his eyes, a series of prisms nestled inside. He moved his head, seeing the world as a sudden bright unnatural glow, blinking back tears. He turned to the caretaker but she was not there. Her voice came from behind him. “Look at the paintings.”

  “I’d rather look at you.”

  She laughed. The laughter was guttural and made Gorel shiver. He felt her hand on his shoulder, her thumb digging into the muscles of his back. He realized he desperately wanted to see her, beyond the veils of shade, and touch her too . . . He looked at the paintings instead.

  They were radiant. The shades had fallen away like dropped clothing, revealing an illumination beyond that was hard to focus on. He detected delicate cheekbones, small elongated ears, almond-shaped eyes that seemed to focus on him as he stared, and lips that formed into mocking smiles . . . both her hands were now on his shoulders, massaging him, caressing him. He turned, catching her by surprise, got a glimpse of a face both beautiful and old. She put her hands on the lens, blocking his sight.

  Impatient, he tore off the goggles. The candlelight danced in the holders. The caretaker was wrapped in shadows. She laughed and he rose and grabbed her, feeling warm, naked skin beyond the shadows. His hands were on her body. She danced into his arms and the shadows wrapped them both. “I am old,” she whispered in his ear, her breath hot on his skin. “And surrounded by death on all sides . . . ”

  His hand found a breast, stayed. Her nipple grew in the space between his fingers. He could feel the blood coursing through her, the beating of her heart against his palm. His lips sought hers. She tasted of night flowers and slowly released heat. He said, “You feel alive to me . . . ” and felt her smile against him. Then her tongue was in his mouth and his hand was on her neck, stroking it, and he pulled back and said, “And not that old . . . ” He heard her laugh.

  He eased his way down her, traveling blind, compensating for the lack of sight with touch and smell and taste. Her nipples were hard in his mouth, and tasted of the berries that only grow at night. She pushed him further down then, and he found the source of her heat and buried his head between her thighs as she rocked against him, grinding herself on his face. Her skin was smooth and very delicate. His tongue probed deep inside her and he heard her gasp.

  He ran his hand down her backside, between her legs. She turned easily, eagerly, and his tongue ran between the mounds of her ass and found the dark well there. He took her from behind, a woman with no face, and all the while he was haunted by another. His hard stomach slapped against her and his erection was a black-sailed mast plowing a sunless sea. She cried when she came, and shook against him, but Gorel could find no respite, had to keep going, seeing a face that wasn’t a face, a dead woman’s mask stretched over a blankness. The caretaker pulled away, turned on her back, came back to him with hands and mouth, shadows coagulating. She stroked him, fondled, whispered, her lips kissing him, running up and down, swallowing him whole until at last he mastered release and exploded in her mouth. Then they were silent, entwined together, wrapped in Nocturnal darkness, as close to content as Gorel could ever come, which was some distance. He said, “Goliris.”

  “Tomorrow,” she whispered. “I will show you the grave you’re looking for.”

  He felt her fall asleep against him and thought about tomorrow, and the grave that might hold an answer from his far-off home. He felt himself falling too, sleep taking him, forcing him under the waves, and as he drowned he saw her, the faceless woman, staring at him, caressing him through the impenetrable night. Tomorrow, he said, or tried to say, and then he was gone, asleep in the place where no dreams came.

  When he woke up it was tomorrow, but the caretaker was dead.

  Part Three: Death Waits Underground

  He woke up cold; he shivered in the gloom; it was very quiet. His skin felt sticky. He rolled, one arm flu
ng over the sleeping woman beside him, tried to nestle into her warmth—but it was like cuddling up to a block of ice.

  He opened his eyes and the corpse of the caretaker stared back at him. He pushed back a scream. He thrashed in the bed and it was a pool of dark liquid. As he stood he realized he was covered in blood. The caretaker was lying on the bed. There was a fist-sized hole in her chest, where her heart had been.

  He realized then that he could see her. The shadows had fled from her in death and the corpse was quite ordinary, a woman neither old nor young. He examined her fingers, saw no sign of a struggle. Whoever—whatever—had killer had, had done so swiftly.

  He was naked. He looked for his guns. They were on the floor with his clothes. He went for them and had the guns in his hands just as the first Zambur came through the door and emitted a high-tone shriek. Gorel said, “Fuck.” The Zambur disappeared through the door.

  There was a mirror on the wall and what it showed did not look good. Gorel, naked and covered in gore, guns in hand. On the bed, the caretaker, dead and missing a heart.

  He thought—why the heart? There were cultures that believed the heart was the seat of emotion, but Gorel knew that wasn’t true. It was a pump, keeping the blood flowing throughout the body. He had seen enough bodies, enough dying men—a few women, too, when it came to that.

  There were shouts outside, human. He put on his clothes with one hand, the other holding a gun. Three Zambur came through the door simultaneously, holding a large metal pipe between them, its open mouth aimed at Gorel, and he said, “Fuck,” again. “I didn’t kill her!” The Zambur didn’t seem to have heard. He heard a slow whining sound rising from inside the weapon. He tried to master some authority. “This is a crime scene,” he said. “You need to leave, now.”

  The Zambur, small and pale, aimed the weapon and the whine grew louder and piercing. Gorel said, “Fuck it,” and shot them. They fell like burst mushrooms, making no sound. The massive gun dropped to the floor. Gorel dropped with it, rolling sideways. When the gun hit the ground it discharged. A burst of blue light, Gorel still rolling away, the light hit the wall where he had stood and the wall disintegrated. Gorel rolled and dove for the gun, grabbing it, was surprised at how light it was. His clothes stuck to him with the caretaker’s blood. He looked down, saw that now he was covered, in addition, in Zambur remains. They had a rotten smell, as of things that had been buried too long underground. The voices outside grew louder. He stepped through the door, still holding the Zambur gun.