15
Isabelle put the finishing touches on the box.
It was a nice box, roughly the size of an overnight case—the kind ladies used to carry, back before rolling carry-ons became the rage. Made of mahogany and polished to a pretty shine, it had a plaque screwed to the top. The plaque read:
Ian Stott
2011
Inside the box we’d stashed a plastic bag full of ashes, and in the process we’d gotten a dusting of the damn substance all over the place—thus Isabelle’s final ministrations.
The corpse himself said from the foot of my bed, “This will never work.”
“It’ll totally work,” I assured him.
“They’ll never believe you.”
“That’s not the same thing.” I was sitting at my computer desk where, yes, like an old-fashioned relic of a person I have a desktop computer. It’s a nice one, with a slick flat-screen monitor. “They don’t need to believe you’re dead. They just need to know that you’re not alive anymore. This is very simple, Ian.”
“The best plans usually are.”
“See, that’s why I like you.”
“Read it to me,” he urged. “I want to hear it.”
“Your own death notice?”
“Yes. I want to know what it says.”
“It’s a little long.”
He said, “I don’t care. I want to know what you’re telling him.”
Isabelle finished her polishing and came to stand behind me, so she could read over my shoulder.
I took a deep breath, and began to read.
To Maximilian Renner, Head of House,
San Francisco, California
I regret to inform you of the passing of your brother, Ian Stott Renner. Rather than return to your city and debate or duel with you for control of the House, he chose instead to immolate himself on the roof of a warehouse in downtown Seattle. This was witnessed by myself and one other, a representative of the O’Donnell House in Macon by the name of Clifford O’Donnell. With this correspondence we return his remains to you, to bury or store as you see fit.
In accordance with the old laws and statutes of which you are so fond, we must all consider this matter closed. I trust that you will henceforth leave Seattle and its new House to its own devices, without influence or interference.
However, I do not wish to close our correspondence without providing you a report of my findings while serving as your seneschal in Atlanta. You were kind enough to grant me the position, and I do not wish to seem rude or ungrateful. I have fulfilled my obligation by learning the truth about your father’s death, and the role of the Barrington House therein.
In short, your father was killed by an intruder who’d come to settle a score with the House. Both the intruder and your father caught each other by surprise, and it is my best estimation that his murder was an accident of shock and self-defense. But this murder occurred within the Barringtons’ home, and under their auspices. They went to great lengths to cover up the matter, including—as you know—making the claim of suicide, which was a low blow indeed.
Unless they’ve burned down the home or abandoned it, you should find the evidence you require in an upstairs bedroom of the Buckhead house. They’ve replaced the carpet and repainted the walls, but your father’s blood still stains the place. It is a strike against their honor, and a nasty bit of subterfuge that—in my estimation—should not be allowed to stand.
And now for something that may prove a greater surprise than the Barrington treachery: The House is much weaker than is widely known. It has shrunk to a small family—the alpha pair and three children, plus a handful of assorted others. In my estimation, you are fully capable of extending your influence in their direction, in a violent, forceful manner that would absolutely prove successful with a minimum of effort on your part.
(In addition to your brother’s remains, I am including a printout of the Barringtons’ security system—current as of last week, but it may not remain so. I recommend you act quickly, if you do intend to act.)
If you would like confirmation or further details with regard to the family’s status and standing, you should contact the Macon House and ask after my new friend (and fellow signer of this missive) Clifford O’Donnell, who moonlights as the Atlanta seneschal. It should tell you something that the Barringtons do not have one of their own, and Clifford is interested in relinquishing the position. He could prove a valuable ally.
I hope this concludes our professional obligations to each other, though if you have any questions or concerns, feel free to contact me at any time. You can reach me through the website on the letterhead.
Signed, Seattle Head of House Raylene Pendle
Witnessed: Clifford O’Donnell, Macon Head of House
“Well, what do you think?” I asked them both.
“Sounds very official,” Ian said. “And O’Donnell agreed to sign this?”
“Just this evening. I’m going to email him a copy, he’ll print it out and sign it, and scan it—then send it back.”
“Sounds very roundabout.”
“He’s too busy to fly out here, and more’s the pity. I think you’d like him.”
“Because you do?”
“Because he’s likable,” I insisted. “And anyway, I swear, Ian. You worry too much.”
“I worry just the right amount. You’re the one prone to worrying too much.”
I refreshed my email to see if Clifford had returned the letter yet. Nope. “I’ve got to tell you, I’m feeling pretty good about this. We’ve announced ourselves and staked our claim, and I’m checking my last P’s and Q’s regarding your new identity. All our bases are covered, baby. Now all we have to do is find your son and invite him on board—and maybe track down Jeffery Sykes for a little hellfire and brimstone.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Oh, is that all?”
I reached down to pat Pita’s head and indulged an evil grin that went from ear to ear. “Trust me! This is going to be a piece of cake.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes a village to make a book, and this one has a whole host of people to thank for its existence. First, to the usual suspects: my outstanding editor Anne Groell, who has not yet pushed me off a cliff (a testament to her everlasting patience, to be sure); her assistant David Pomerico, who graciously fields all my dumb questions; Bantam publicist Greg Kubie, who has become legend around my household for his common-sense approach to pretty much everything; my stupendous agent, Jennifer Jackson, who brought us all together in the first place; and to my husband Aric, who is still not too sure about this whole vampire thing, but is along for the ride.
Continued thanks must flow in the direction of the folks at Subterranean Press (Bill! Yanni!) for keeping me fed during the lean times, and keeping me company when I’m in Michigan. Thanks also to all the helpful peeps in the secret digital clubhouse, for the advice and sounding board, and for not throwing me out for being a pretty-pretty princess. Likewise, a million thanks to Colleen Mondor and Paul Goat Allen, who always seem to “get” it.
Thanks to Team Seattle and all its affiliates, scattered across the country though we are these days. In particular, thanks to Kat Richardson for the fish sammiches; Ellen Milne and Suezie Hagy for the surprise snacks and the cat-sitting services; Greg Wild-Smith for shepherding me around SF and for keeping my website alive despite my best efforts to slay it dead.
Speaking of Seattle and its support network, permanent thanks go to Duane Wilkins for managing all the signed stuff and shipping over at the University Book Store; and to Vlad and Steve over at Third Place for always throwing a hell of an event.
BY CHERIE PRIEST
Hellbent
Bloodshot
THE CLOCKWORK CENTURY
Dreadnought
Clementine
Boneshaker
Fathom
Those Who Went Remain There Still
Dreadful Skin
EDEN MOORE
Four and Twenty
Blackbirds
Wings to the Kingdom
Not Flesh Nor Feathers
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHERIE PRIEST is the author of ten novels, including Bloodshot and the steampunk pulp adventures in the Clockwork Century series. Her 2009 book Boneshaker was nominated for both the Hugo Award and the Nebula Award; it was a PNBA Award winner and winner of the Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel. Cherie also wrote Fathom and the Eden Moore series from Tor (Macmillan), and three novellas published by Subterranean Press. In addition to all of the above, she is a newly minted member of the Wild Cards Consortium—and her first foray into George R. R. Martin’s superhero universe, Fort Freak (for which she wrote the frame story), debuted in the summer of 2011. Cherie’s short stories and nonfiction articles have appeared in such fine publications as Weird Tales, Subterranean Magazine, Publishers Weekly, and the Stoker-nominated anthology Aegri Somnia from Apex. Though she spent most of her life in the southeast, she presently lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and a fat black cat.
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