Dark Ascension: A Generation V Novel
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PRAISE FOR THE GENERATION V NOVELS
“M. L. Brennan’s Generation V urban fantasy series is a fresh, fun take on vampire lore. Reluctant vampire Fortitude Scott is one of the most interesting takes on vampires I’ve seen in a long time. Grab these books. You won’t be disappointed.”
—Stephen Blackmoore, author of Broken Souls
Tainted Blood
“Wickedly clever. . . . Rapid-fire prose and intimate characterizations infuse stock mythic figures with pertinence and attitude. Fortitude is an enthralling good boy going bad, struggling to merge monstrous powers with humility and wisdom. . . . Brennan’s smart, sassy, and seductive vampire mythos injects fresh blood into a lethargic subgenre.”
—Publishers Weekly
Iron Night
“A pitch-perfect addition to this imaginative, funny series. . . . Fortitude Scott is an earnest, engaging hero with a heart of gold. Fans will delight to see the return of his sidekick, Suze, in all her wild glory, as well as the rest of this fascinating cast.”
—Romantic Times
“A funny, refreshing urban fantasy tale. . . . Geek-inspired humor and unexpectedly sympathetic characters (particularly the deadly Madeline) help make this a novel worth reading.”
—Publishers Weekly
“An excellent sequel. . . . M. L. Brennan manages to entwine horror and urban fantasy strands smoothly.”
—Fantasy Book Critic
“These books are golden! . . . A fresh take on the bloodsuckers of the paranormal world.”
—Kings River Life Magazine
“Iron Night is just as good as Generation V. . . . There’s plenty of action and supernatural baddies to round out Fort’s narrative, but it’s Fort’s journey, within himself, and with his family . . . that really makes this shamelessly addictive series sing.”
—My Bookish Ways
“Ripe with mystery, suspense, and a cast of richly diverse characters that will have you laughing and rolling your eyes at their antics. . . . Brennan has brought back the dangerous and cruel supernatural creatures of old and integrated them into the modern society with nary a hitch.”
—Smexy Books
“A wonderful trip through a continuously creative universe.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
Generation V
“I loved M. L. Brennan’s Generation V. Engrossing and endearingly quirky, with a creative and original vampire mythos, it’s a treat for any urban fantasy lover!”
— Karen Chance, New York Times bestselling author of Tempt the Stars
“Full of vivid characters and terrific world building, Generation V is a fun, fast-paced romp of a story that kept me glued to the pages to the very last word. Loved it! Bravo, M. L. Brennan, bravo!”
—Devon Monk, national bestselling author of Infinity Bell
“At last, the millennial generation has a vampire to call its own. Brennan’s debut blends old-world mystique and the brutality of literature’s best vampires to make a sensational coming-of-age story rife with chills and smart one-liners . . . [a] promising series.”
—Romantic Times
“Brennan has a wholly new, and very deep, take on the vampire mythology . . . a perfect combination of new and old that comes along only very rarely.”
—Tor.com
“A strong debut with a lot of heart, with an interesting take on the vampire mythos . . . unexpectedly awesome.”
—SF Signal
“Brennan’s new, creative take on vampires was a breath of fresh air. Creepy fresh air, but fresh nonetheless.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
“A quirky, humorous new urban fantasy series . . . a clever mix of dark humor and seriousness.”
—Smexy Books
“A unique, and sometimes very scary, take on the vampire mythos . . . [a] wonderful debut.”
—My Bookish Ways
“A refreshingly unique novel that all urban fantasy enthusiasts should read, and a book capable of encouraging even the most ardent critics of the genre. Very much a page-turner, a story that has a lot of heart and much to offer. With an extremely fun novel full of charm, Brennan has written a winner.”
—Bastard Books and Other Crap
“Generation V is that rare beast: an urban fantasy that managed to both entertain me and surprise me, while also eliciting plenty of chuckles. . . . It’s quickly paced, tightly written, and often funny.”
—Civilian Reader
“Brennan does an excellent job of separating Generation V from the run-of-the-mill vampire tale . . . a fresh take on an old saw that benefits from Brennan’s excellent world building and the authenticity of its cast. Fans of urban fantasy who are weary of the same old, same old shouldn’t miss this engaging mix of action, humor, and coming-of-age tale.”
—52 Book Reviews
“Brennan’s vampires are much more complex than your run-of-the-mill vampires. They are the brainchildren of science and fantasy. . . . Extremely well written, the characters were well developed, the comedy was beautiful, and the serious parts made my heart swell.”
—Ladybug Literature
Also by M. L. Brennan
Generation V
Iron Night
Tainted Blood
ROC
Published by New American Library,
an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
This book is an original publication of New American Library.
Copyright © R. L. Murphy, 2015
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ISBN 978-0-698-18813-6
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.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
Version_1
For Devon.
Who let me read all his Star Trek novels, helped me roll my first D&D character, beat all the really tough level bosses for me, and sat with me for hours upon hours until we figured out that we had to type “Tickle whale’s uvula with peacock feather” at that one point in King’s Quest IV.
More recently, when I was behind schedule on this book, he wrote me the following haiku:
Bare slate beckons man:
“Fill the page ere dusk descends.
Words don’t write themselves.”
You are, without a doubt, the best big brother anyone could ever have.
Contents
Praise
Also by M.L. Brennanv
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
About the Author
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I am utterly grateful to Anne Sowards and the incredible people at Roc for letting me give Fort and Suze a fourth outing. This was a book that I’ve wanted to write for a long time, and I feel so privileged that I got to do it.
Seth Fishman has my sincere thanks and devotion for helping me out at a critical and particularly panic-ridden juncture. Sarah Riley somehow managed to resist punching me in the face when I was capable of little more than whining about how stressed I was about writing this book—during her wedding. Immense thanks also go to Sarah’s mother, Marie, for also giving me extremely generous reassurance at a time when there were substantially more important things going on. (For the record: I’m still sorry about failing Bustle 101.) Kudos as well to all of my fellow bridesmaids, as well as the extremely awesome bridesdude.
John Shearer not only read this manuscript in one of its earliest and rawest forms, but gave me many useful notes that helped me keep Fort’s trials and tribulations with Scirocco ownership accurate. He also reminded me that a vegetarian should not be eating a bacon-wrapped scallop. For all your efforts at keeping me from embarrassing myself, John, I salute you.
Andrew, Arlen, and Ryan kept me from collapsing on the side of hiking trails in Yosemite National Park and being eaten by bears. I appreciate that, guys. The rest of my family has also shown unending support and enthusiasm for my work, and I’m so lucky to have all of you.
At one point I got extremely nervous about where a particular story element was going and begged Jaime Lee Moyer to give me some feedback. I can’t believe how fast she read through the manuscript for me, and I’m still unbelievably grateful for the assurance when I needed it the most. Jaime, I owe you a drink.
Thanks are definitely due to my husband for daily support and belief as well as for functioning as my eternally on-call sounding board, which he handles with grace and humor. And to my cats —those still alive, and those who sadly passed away during the time that I was working on this book: You have no idea what the hell I’m doing when I huddle at my computer for hours each day, but having you with me—sitting on my lap, blinking lazily at me, or knocking random shit off the desk just to piss me off (Shackleton)—makes me feel a lot less alone.
This book would never have happened without all of the readers and fans of my slacker vampire who made their opinions known—and loudly. I sincerely hope that you enjoy this one—you made it happen.
In writing this book and pondering the intricacies of a vampire’s digestive tract, I once again owe a great debt to Dark Banquet: Blood and the Curious Lives of Blood Feeding Creatures by Bill Schutt. This excellent, informative, and deeply funny book gave me the inspiration for many scenes—one in particular. I’m sorry about that one scene, Anne, but I owed it to Schutt. Because of science.
Chapter One
The highway sign indicating my entry into Hardwick Township appeared just as the digital clock display on my GPS clicked over to noon. I’d been driving for four and a half hours by then, enough time to take me from the heart of my mother’s territory in Providence, Rhode Island, to its very edge in northern New Jersey. There were a lot of people who would’ve been surprised to know that I-80 demarcated a line of ownership that had been established with blood hundreds of years ago. Those people would have been even more surprised to learn that the path of this particular interstate had been placed at the direction of a vampire.
Or not. New Jersey politics were rather notorious, after all.
My mother was the vampire in question, and also the reason that I was driving through New Jersey. Madeline Scott reigned supreme in a territory that stretched from New Jersey’s border with Pennsylvania up into southern Québec—and like any good leader, she had realized long ago the importance of delegating menial tasks. Today I was on my way to discuss terms and conditions with a group of hopeful immigrants to the territory. Not humans, of course—with few exceptions, humans moved through territories with blissful ignorance. Territory rules and boundaries applied to a much smaller, and more secret global population—the supernatural.
This was normally the kind of task that my older brother, Chivalry, was best at handling—with smooth good looks and the kind of diplomatic skills that would’ve made Madeleine Albright jealous, my brother was practically tailor-made for these kinds of missions. I was definitely the second string in this particular field, but I was at least an improvement over our oldest sibling, my sister, Prudence.
Her diplomatic skills mostly involved leaving bodies on the floor.
I’d been involved with only one immigration request before, and that was a fairly standard one of a werebear (sorry, metsän kunigas—the bears are picky about the terminology) family from Mexico coming in to join up with our local group. It had been back when I was still doing ride-alongs with Chivalry as part of my training. I’d spent most of my life trying to be like the humans around me, and pretending that things like vampires didn’t even exist—that had led me to a film studies degree from Brown and then a series of minimum-wage jobs. But last year things had changed, and now I was irrevocably part of the family system, and was even on the family payroll. At my own insistence, I’d kept the minimum wage, even though I knew that my family could pay me marriage-counselor-level hourly rates and never even notice. During one of the periods that the Scirocco had been in the shop, and I’d been relying on the Providence bus system and shanks’ mare for transportation, my roommate, Dan, had asked me outright why I didn’t just take more money from my family—they’d be happy to give it, and in fact could probably have just bought me a new car from the petty cash account and relied on their fleet of accountants to turn it into a tax write-off. It had been hard to put a lifetime’s coil of fear, stubbornness, and tiny private high ground into words, but the best that I’d been able to explain was that taking no more than I would otherwise have been earning on the open market of shitty jobs made me feel like I couldn’t be caught by my family’s money, or ever build up a style of living that required that money and therefore could put pressure on me to do things that I felt might be unethical. This way, after all, I could always tell them all to go pound sand and maintain my current lifestyle by pouring coffee and cleaning public toilets.
Dan had been so utterly disgusted by what he termed my “bullheaded and bullshit martyrdom” that he’d lent me his car until the Scirocco was fixed. While I hadn’t exactly followed his reasoning on that one, I supposed that at least we were both equally mystified by the other’s actions.
Today was going to be my first solo effort—and it probably wouldn’t even have been happening, except that Chivalry was on vacation with his new wife, Simone, in New Hampshire. The call requesting a hearing for immigration into the territory had come in yesterday, and had cited some emergency as the reason for the short notice. Chivalry had offered to come home early to handle it, but I’d promised to do it myself. Simone was a professional mountaineer, and she’d just finished guiding a group of winter hikers up Mount Washington, so it didn’t seem fair to make her cut short her downtime afterward at a fancy and expensive ski lodge. Plus, she and Chivalry had been married for only a month and a half, and most of that had been sucked up with the holiday season. With the new year only a week old, I figured that she deserved a little one-on-one with my brother. After all, it wasn’t like she had a lot of time to waste.
So that had all led to me here, in my gray Scirocco, cruising into a rural town (population 1,696) in New Jersey whose sole claim to fame was that the original Friday the 13th had been filmed there. Under normal circumstances, I might’ve been
kind of excited. After all, despite the layer of snow on the ground that was old enough to have acquired a nasty grayish crust that removed all picturesque elements from it, the roads were dry, my car was running well, and my partner in crime and new girlfriend, Suzume, was reclining naked in the backseat.
Well, naked other than her natural fur coat. Suzume was a kitsune, and apparently the Scirocco had been built on a scale far too compact for her to willingly spend four and a half hours in her human skin. She had shifted into her other form, which had coal-black fur, amber eyes containing a world of mischief, and a snow-white tail tip. From the soft whuffling sounds emerging from my backseat, she’d been napping for at least the last two hours. Before that she’d been playing with a balled-up take-out bag from Dunkin’ Donuts—all that remained of our breakfast of champions.
Normal circumstances didn’t apply because the Scirocco’s passenger seat was currently occupied by the generously endowed figure of Loren Noka, the family’s business secretary and a woman whose air of complete and utter competency left me feeling more than a little intimidated. Her Native American heritage was clearly written across her face, and even though I knew that she was in her late forties, her dark hair showed not the slightest hint of gray. I had almost suffered a near-death experience from sheer shame this morning when she wordlessly lowered her cream linen pantsuit–clad body down onto a subcompact car seat that was not only older than I was, but had been liberally patched and repatched with duct tape in four different colors. And I also had a very bad suspicion that the entire interior of the car was currently coated with Suzume’s black fox hairs.
Loren was along on this trip to provide double duty as my chaperone in diplomacy, and also to handle most of the paperwork. Immigration into the territory had copious aspects, such as whether my mother was willing to let certain groups or species enter, but the biggest focus was a simple one: money. From the meagerest kobold right up to the elves, every supernatural who lived in my mother’s territory tithed heavily for the privilege. We even ran their credit scores.