by Mur Lafferty
Someone was coming to keep an appointment.
Isn’t that a coincidence. So am I.
My heartbeat didn’t quicken; it stayed soft, even, as almost-nonexistent as my breathing. It had taken me a long time to get my pulse mostly under control.
The next few moments were critical. You can’t jump too soon on something like this. Arkeus aren’t your garden-variety hellbreed. You have to wait until they solidify enough to talk to their victims—otherwise you’ll be fighting empty air with sorcery, and that’s no fun—and you have to know what a Trader is bargaining for before you go barging in to distribute justice or whup-ass. Usually both, liberally.
The carved chunk of ruby on its silver chain warmed, my tiger’s-eye rosary warming too, the blessing on both items reacting with contamination rising from the arkeus and its lair.
A man edged down the alley, clutching something to his chest. The arkeus made a thin greedy sound, and my smart left eye—the blue one, the one that can look below the surface of the world—saw a sudden tensing of the strings of contamination following it. It was a hunched, thin figure that would have been taller than me except for the hump on its back; its spectral robes brushing dirt and refuse, taking strength from filth.
Bingo. The arkeus was now solid enough to hit.
The man halted. I couldn’t see much beyond the fact that he was obviously human, his aura slightly tainted from his traffic with an escaped denizen of Hell.
It was official. The man was a Trader, bargaining with Hell. Whatever he was bargaining for, it wasn’t going to do him any good.
Not with me around.
The arkeus spoke. “You have brought it?” A lipless cold voice, eager and thin, like a dying cricket. A razorblade pressed against the wrist, a thin line of red on pale skin, the frozen-blue face of a suicide.
I moved. Boots soundless against the parapet, the carved chunk of ruby resting against the hollow of my throat, even my coat silent. The silver charms braided into my long dark hair didn’t tinkle. The first thing a hunter’s apprentice learns is to move quietly, to draw silence in tight like a cloak.
That is, if the apprentice wants to survive.
“I b-brought it.” The man’s speech was the slow slur of a dreamer who senses a cold-current nightmare. He was in deep, having already given the arkeus a foothold by making some agreement or another with it. “You’d better not—”
“Peace.” The arkeus’s hiss froze me in place for a moment as the hump on its back twitched. “You will have your desire, never fear. Give it to me.”
The man’s arms relaxed, and a small sound lifted from the bundle he carried. My heart slammed into overtime against my ribs.
Every human being knows the sound of a baby’s cry.
Bile filled my throat. My boots ground against the edge of the parapet as I launched out into space, the arkeus flinching and hissing as my aura suddenly flamed, tearing through the ether like a star. The silver in my hair shot sparks, and the ruby at my throat turned hot. The scar on my right wrist turned to lava, burrowing in toward the bone, my whip uncoiled and struck forward, its metal flechettes snapping at the speed of sound, cracking as I pulled on etheric force to add a psychic strike to the physical.
My boots hit slick refuse-grimed concrete and I pitched forward, the whip striking again across the arkeus’s face. The hell-thing howled, and my other hand was full of the Glock, the sharp stink of cordite blooming as silver-coated bullets chewed through the thing’s physical shell. Hollowpoints do a lot of damage once a hellbreed’s initial shell is breached.
It’s a pity ’breed heal so quickly.
We don’t know why silver works—something to do with the Moon, and how she controls the tides of sorcery and water. No hunter cares, either. It’s enough that it levels the playing field a little.
The arkeus moved, scuttling to the side as the man screamed, a high whitenoise-burst of fear. The whip coiled, my hip moving first as usual—the hip leads with whip-work as well as stave fighting. My whip-work had suffered until Mikhail made me take bellydancing classes.
Don’t think, Jill. Move. I flung out my arm, etheric force spilling through my fingers, and the whip slashed again, each flechette tearing through already-lacerated flesh. It howled again, and the copper bracelet broke, tinkled sweetly on the concrete as I pivoted, firing down into the hell-thing’s face. It twitched, and I heard my own voice chanting in gutter Latin, a version of Saint Anthony’s prayer Mikhail had made me learn.
Protect me from the hordes of Hell, O Lord, for I am pure of heart and trust Your mercy—and the bullets don’t hurt, either.
The arkeus screamed, writhing, and cold air hit the scar. I was too drenched with adrenaline to feel the usual curl of fire low in my belly, but the sudden sensitivity of my skin and hearing slammed into me. I dropped the whip and fired again with the gun in my left, then fell to my knees, driving down with psychic and physical force.
My fist met the hell-thing’s lean malformed face, which exploded. It shredded, runnels of foulness bursting through its skin, and the sudden cloying reek would have torn my dinner loose from my stomach moorings if I’d eaten anything.
Christ, I wish it didn’t stink so bad. But stink means dead, and if this thing’s dead it’s one less fucking problem for me to deal with.
No time. I gained my feet, shaking my right fist. Gobbets of preternatural flesh whipped loose, splatting dully against the brick walls. I uncoiled, leaping for the front of the alley.
The Trader was only human, and he hadn’t made his big deal yet. He was tainted by the arkeus’s will, but he wasn’t given superstrength or near-invulnerability yet.
The only enhanced human being left in the alley was me. Thank God.
I dug my fingers into his shoulder and set my feet, yanking him back. The baby howled, emptying its tiny lungs, and I caught it on its way down, my arm tightening maybe a little too much to yank it against my chest. I tried to avoid smacking it with a knife-hilt.
I backhanded the man with my hellbreed-strong right fist. Goddamn it. What am I going to do now?
The baby was too small, wrapped in a bulky blue blanket that smelled of cigarette smoke and grease. I held it awkwardly in one arm while I contemplated the sobbing heap of sorry manflesh crumpled against a pile of garbage.
I’ve cuffed plenty of Traders one-handed, but never while holding a squirming, bellowing bundle of little human that smelled not-too-fresh. Still, it was a cleaner reek than the arkeus’s rot. I tested the cuffs, yanked the man over, and checked his eyes. Yep. The flat shine of the dust glittered in his irises. He was a thin, dark-haired man with the ghost of childhood acne still hanging on his cheeks, saliva glittering wetly on his chin.
I found his ID in his wallet, awkwardly holding the tiny yelling thing in the crook of my arm. Jesus. Mikhail never trained me for this. “Andy Hughes. You are under arrest. You have the right to be exorcised. Anything you say will, of course, be ignored, since you’ve forfeited your rights to a trial of your peers by trafficking with Hell.” I took a deep breath. “And you should thank your lucky stars I’m not in a mood to kill anyone else tonight. Who does the baby belong to?”
He was still gibbering with fear, and the baby howled. I could get nothing coherent out of either of them.
Then, to complete the deal, the pager went off against my hip, vibrating silently in its padded pocket.
Great.
BY MUR LAFFERTY
The Shambling Guide to New York City
Ghost Train to New Orleans
Praise for
THE SHAMBLING GUIDE TO NEW YORK CITY:
“Now THIS is the urban fantasy heroine we want.”
—i09.com
“If Buffy grew up, got therapy for her violent tendencies, moved to New York and got a real job, it would look a lot like this.”
—New York Times bestselling author Scott Sigler
Zombies and vampires and golems, oh my! This is a comic tour de force by a writer who lives and br
eathes popular culture. Mur Lafferty is throwing a monster party and you’re invited.”
—James Patrick Kelly, Hugo and Nebula Award winner
The Shambling Guide sets the wonderful world of the supernatural—and the slightly more esoteric world of travel guide publishing—on its ear, and the result is nothing short of delightful.”
—New York Times bestselling author Seanan McGuire
“Mur Lafferty’s debut novel is a must-read book for those who like their urban fantasy fast, furious, and funny. Terrific stuff!”
—National bestselling author Kat Richardson
“An engagingly funny, and fun, romp through NYC. You’ll love Zoë… to bits.”
—New York Times bestselling author Tobias S. Buckell
“Shows exactly why so many writers have been buzzing about Mur Lafferty for so many years: an unbeatable mixture of humor, heart, imagination, and characterization. I want to live in Mur’s New York.”
—New York Times bestselling author Cory Doctorow
“Without Mur Lafferty, the SF genre would be a much duller place. Mur is constantly inventive, always great fun, and deserves every success.”
—Paul Cornell
“A wild ride through the secret side of New York City, Mur Lafferty’s mighty debut is urban fantasy the way it should be: fast, funny, with bags of action and characters you’ll love. A total delight from cover to cover.”
—Adam Christopher
“The Shambling Guide to New York City is a monstrously fun romp by one of our most engaging new authors.”
—Tim Pratt
“Mur Lafferty is a bright, shining light in speculative fiction. She brings a warm, humorous, and startling fresh voice to the genre in The Shambling Guide to New York City.”
—Kaaron Warren
“Looking for a very different kind of travel guide? One that shows you the real Manhattan? The one the tourists haven’t discovered yet but the vampires and the water sprites have? Then The Shambling Guide to New York City is just what you need!… With the smart and intrepid Zoë to show you around, how could you possibly get in trouble? I give it five Michelin stars and eight Zombie Planet Thumbs-Up (with real thumbs)!”
—New York Times bestselling author Connie Willis
* Incidentally, the same goes for haunted restaurants, including Muriel’s, which has a full banquet ballroom open for coterie purposes.
* Public Works has investigated Café Soulé, but as its job is keeping the balance between living humans and coterie, it has allowed the restaurant to continue, however begrudgingly, as long as it does not take its souls from live humans.
* This of course also comes in handy for coterie who choose not to pay the rather pricey bill.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Welcome
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Acknowledgments
Extras
Meet the Author
A Preview of Dirty Magic
A Preview of Jill Kismet: The Complete Series
By Mur Lafferty
Praise for The Shambling Guide to New York City
Orbit Newsletter
Copyright
Copyright
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2014 by Mary Lafferty
Excerpt from Dirty Magic copyright © 2014 by Jaye Wells
Excerpt from Jill Kismet: The Complete Series copyright © 2013 by Lilith Saintcrow
Cover design by Lauren Panepinto
Cover illustrations by Jamie McKelvie
Cover copyright © 2014 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: March 2014
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ISBN 978-0-316-22115-3
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