They mourned in style, with whole wardrobes of black crepe clothing, elaborate social rituals and an entire etiquette for grief. On the other hand, these were real people and their loss was just as real as it is for modern folks. They tried to hang on to the memory of their departed beloveds. Sometimes, they took pictures of the corpse, dressed up in its Sunday best, perhaps the only picture of the person they would ever have. And other times, they clipped a lock or two of hair and plaited it into jewelry, something to remember the person by, or something they could keep with them all the time. These were memento mori in the full, original meaning of the word, ‘to remember death’.
The beautiful, ghastly wreath of hair was a piece of Victorian death jewelry.
The vision was sudden and overwhelming.
I was cold, so cold. One moment I had been sweating on a battlefield in Virginia, and the next… the next there was nothing. They say you never hear the bullet that gets you. How could you, when all around you the sound of hundreds of rifles crashes like thunder? I remembered a loud noise, a sharp, sudden pain and then falling into darkness.
And waking up. Only, not really. When I emerged from the darkness, my body didn’t come with me. Women sobbed. Men pretended that they weren’t crying. My little sister fainted and had to be carried from the room. I wanted to tell them I was still there, wanted to tell them how much I loved them, but ‘I’ wasn’t ‘me’ anymore. I was up here, and the rest of me was down there, not moving, gray with death.
I thought I had been frightened on the battlefield. That fear paled in comparison to how terrified I was now. I thought that the Almighty would have gathered me to his bosom by now, if I were worthy. I’d heard tell all my life about bright lights and a land of milk and honey. Since I was still here, maybe that bright light wasn’t going to come for me. I didn’t have words for how afraid I was of what that meant for my immortal soul, so I just stayed where I was, looking for Amelia, my beloved. She always knew how to make sense of things.
Then I saw her. Oh dear Lord, had grief for me done that to her? My pretty Amelia, so young and happy, looked gaunt and frail, hollow-eyed. Her father walked her to the casket, as if she could barely stand. She nearly collapsed, sagging almost to her knees, before he collected her and helped her stand next to me to say good-bye.
I wanted to touch her, to tell her I was near, but I couldn’t. And then she leaned over and kissed my forehead, and carefully snipped some of my hair where it was the longest. Hot tears fell on my cold skin, but somehow, I felt them. No one faulted her for weeping. We were going to marry in the spring.
I couldn’t go back and I couldn’t go on, so I followed my Amelia home. And since the Almighty didn’t seem to want me, I did the best I could, watching over my girl. I had nowhere else to be. She plaited my hair into a memorial wreath, and she wore it on a chain around her neck. And if, when she touched it, she thought she imagined my presence, I was closer than she knew.
Abruptly, I was Cassidy again. I saw time flow by like an old movie. The scene changed, years passed. Amelia died, still grieving her lost love. The hair wreath went into the velvet box that had once held a gift that gave great joy. The young man’s ghost remained, too afraid to move on. And then, the shadows came.
This time, I didn’t enter the ghost’s thoughts as fully as before, except to feel terror in every cell and sinew of my body. After a hundred years of quiet darkness, not exactly heaven but far removed from hell, something appeared in the everlasting night. It was not the Father Almighty.
Like watching a movie with the sound turned off, something I could see but not influence, I saw the wraith stalk the young man’s ghost. Tad. His name had been Tad. Thaddeus, maybe, but no one called him that. Just Tad. Lonely, afraid, desperate for company, he had gotten too close the first time, only to lose part of what little he had left to the wraith’s hunger. After that, there was terror. Hiding. Fear of being found, of having the last little bit of self destroyed after all these long years. The darkness was so vast. Suddenly, the everlasting night that had seemed to be the enemy became an ally, a place to play a deadly game of hide-and-seek. And finally, the young man’s spirit got the answer it had been seeking. There are some things worse than death. Being consumed is one of them.
When I came back to myself, I was screaming. Teag held me by the shoulders, shaking me gently, calling my name. We’ve done this a lot, unfortunately.
“Come back, Cassidy!” His eyes were worried. I guessed that I’d been pretty far gone. I’ve never gone so deep into a vision that I haven’t been able to find my way back, but there’s always a first time. And if there was a first time, it was likely to be the last time.
I nodded groggily, like a drunk sobering up on coffee. The terror and loss of the young man from the vision stayed with me, frightening and sad. “I’m okay,” I managed. Teag’s look told me that he sincerely doubted that.
Instead of arguing, he pushed another glass of sweet tea into my hand, and waited while I gulped it down. The icy cold liquid shocked me back to myself, and the sugar rushed through my veins like elixir. Only then did I realize I was shaking and sobbing, grieving for two lovers who had been dead for more than a hundred and fifty years.
I dragged the back of my hand over my eyes and took a deep breath to steady myself. Teag waited patiently. “I saw the story behind the memorial jewelry,” I said, carefully laying the velvet box aside. “Young lovers. Civil War.” Unfortunately, that story was a common refrain with the pieces we often saw at Trifles and Folly, although rarely had the past made such an impact. “I’d expect a piece like that to have a lot of mojo,” I added, trying to get my voice to stop quailing. “But there’s a ghost attached to it, and the thing we fought off tried to destroy him.”
Teag frowned, alarmed. “That monster attacks ghosts?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It took a bite out of him. And I have the feeling that whatever that thing was, it went away, but it’s not really gone.”
“Then we’ve got a big problem,” Teag said. “Because Charleston is a spookfest, and that monster is going to have an all-you-can-eat buffet if we don’t do something about it.”
Note from the Author
Charleston, South Carolina is a real place. Some of the landmarks and a few of the historical figures in this book do exist, and some (but not all) of the historical events were real. But the characters and their shops are all a work of fiction. So for example, if you go to Charleston (and I hope you do, because it’s a lovely place to visit), you can see the real Charleston City Market and walk down King Street, but you won’t find any of the businesses or restaurants I’ve mentioned by name. Any resemblance to real people or actual businesses is completely coincidental.
Many people in Charleston will tell you that the ghosts, however, are real. My ghosts are fictional, but that’s because Charleston has enough of its own already. But don’t take my word for it. See for yourself.
I hope you enjoyed the adventures with Cassidy, Teag, and Sorren. If you want more, check out Sorren’s early years in the other Deadly Curiosities Adventures, as well as the two full-length novels, Deadly Curiosities and Vendetta available in paperback and e-book. Cassidy has more short stories and novellas are coming! Check out my website: www.DeadlyCuriosities.com for the latest news.
Other Deadly Curiosities Adventures
(Urban Fantasy Short Stories)
The 1500s
Vanities
Wild Hunt
Dark Legacy
The 1700s
Steer a Pale Course
Among The Shoals Forever
The Low Road
Current Day
Fatal Invitation
Redcap
Other short stories, novellas, and novels.
Ascendant Kingdoms:
(Epic Fantasy Novels)
Ice Forged
Reign of Ash
War of Shadows
Shadow and Flame
Blaine McFadden Adventures
(Ep
ic Fantasy Novellas and Short Stories set in the world of the Ascendant Kingdoms)
Arctic Prison | Kings Convicts I
Ice Bound | Kings Convicts II
No Reprieve
Cold Fury | Kings Convicts III
Chronicles of the Necromancer:
(Epic Fantasy Novels)
The Summoner
The Blood King
Dark Haven
Dark Lady’s Chosen
The Fallen Kings Cycle:
The Sworn
The Dread
Jonmarc Vahanian Adventures:
(Epic Fantasy Short Stories in the world of Chronicles of the Necromancer / Fallen Kings)
Raider’s Curse
Caves Of The Dead
Storm Surge
Bounty Hunter
Blood’s Cost
Stormgard
Monstrosities
Bad Places
Dead Man’s Bet
Dark Passage
Bad Blood
Haunts
Cursed
Death Plot
Brigands
Bleak Harvest
Hard Choices
Dead Reckoning
Desperate Flight The Shadowed Path – Jonmarc Vahanian Anthology
Iron & Blood: A Jake Desment Adventure with Larry N. Martin
(Steampunk novel)
Storm and Fury Adventures with Larry N. Martin
(Steampunk short stories and novellas)
Resurrection Day
Grave Voices
Airship Down
Rogue
About the Author
Gail Z. Martin is the author of Vendetta: A Deadly Curiosities Novel in her urban fantasy series set in Charleston, SC (Solaris Books); Shadow and Flame, the fourth and final book in the Ascendant Kingdoms Saga (Orbit Books); The Shadowed Path (Solaris Books) and Iron and Blood a new Steampunk series (Solaris Books) co-authored with Larry N. Martin.
She is also author of Ice Forged, Reign of Ash and War of Shadows in The Ascendant Kingdoms Saga, The Chronicles of The Necromancer series (The Summoner, The Blood King, Dark Haven, Dark Lady’s Chosen); The Fallen Kings Cycle (The Sworn, The Dread) and the urban fantasy novel Deadly Curiosities. Gail writes three ebook series: The Jonmarc Vahanian Adventures, The Deadly Curiosities Adventures and The Blaine McFadden Adventures. The Storm and Fury Adventures, steampunk stories set in the Iron & Blood world, are co-authored with Larry N. Martin.
Her work has appeared in over 20 US/UK anthologies. Newest anthologies include: The Big Bad 2, Athena’s Daughters, Heroes, Space, Contact Light, With Great Power, The Weird Wild West, The Side of Good/The Side of Evil, Alien Artifacts, Cinched: Imagination Unbound, Gaslight and Grimm, Realms of Imagination, Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs. Aliens.
Find her at www.AscendantKingdoms.com, on Twitter @GailZMartin, on Facebook.com/WinterKingdoms, at DisquietingVisions.com blog and GhostInTheMachinePodcast.com, on Goodreads goodreads.com/GailZMartin and free excerpts on Wattpad wattpad.com/GailZMartin.
THE NIMBLE MAN
A Novel of the Menagerie
Christopher Golden
and
Thomas E. Sniegoski
Copyright © 2004 by Christopher Golden and Thomas E. Sniegoski
This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the author.
For more information about this book, contact: [email protected]
Visit www.ChristopherGolden.com
Dedication
For Pete Donaldson, who understands that imagination is its own reward.
—C.G.
For Joseph Sniegoski, my dad, who never saw anything wrong with loving monsters.
—T.S.
Acknowledgements
I thank Connie and my kids so often they might be sick of it by now. But thanks to them again, even so. Boys, when you’re a little older, this one will make you smile. And, of course, thanks to Tom, who always believed we’d make something of this world, even way back at the beginning.
Many thanks and deep, respectful bows to Ginjer Buchanan, who got it completely. Thanks are also due to my whole clan, with love, as well as to: Jose Nieto, Rick Hautala, Amber Benson, Bob Tomko, Pete Donaldson, Lisa Clancy, Allie Costa and Ashleigh Bergh, for keeping me sane.
—C.G.
As always, my loving thanks to LeeAnne and Mulder, you guys keep me on my toes, and to Chris Golden, who challenges me to be better.
And thanks tied up in a big red bow must be given to my mother; Ginjer Buchanan; Dave “Boombah” Kraus; Mike Mignola; Eric Powell; Don Kramer; Greg Skopis; Kenneth Curtis; Jean Eddy; Lisa Clancy; Dr. Kris; David Carroll; Jon and Flo; Pat and Bob; Pete Donaldson; and Tim Cole and his disciples of doom. All part of my menagerie, each and every one.
—T.S.
Chapter One
Within the silent halls of the Boston Antiquities Museum the shadows were in motion. Red alarm sensors shone brightly but recorded nothing out of the ordinary. Only the nearly somnambulant passing of security guards disturbed the dust that eddied up on currents of air. Hidden cameras revealed only exhibits and artifacts in otherwise empty rooms.
Yet there was one room that was not empty.
The exhibit was Egyptian, devoted almost wholly to the Twelfth Dynasty. Though its collection of stone fragments, papyrus, masks, and sarcophagi might impress schoolchildren, to those educated in the area of antiquities the exhibit would have been wholly unremarkable. Or nearly so. Those who noticed anything at all out of place would likely have attributed it to simple human error, a curator who had made an honest mistake.
In one corner of the room Mr. Doyle thoughtfully stroked his thick mustache and admired a small sphinx. The piece had been unearthed at Katna millennia before and bore the name of a daughter of Ammenemes II, but the curators of the museum had badly mislabeled it. He shook his head and his heavy gray brows knitted with disapproval. If he had them there he would have given them a tongue-lashing for being so careless. Of course, on this night their carelessness had worked in his favor.
The moment he tore his attention away from the priceless sphinx, Doyle caught sight of the object that had drawn him here. With a grunt of satisfaction he crossed the room to a marble pedestal and peered through the thick glass enclosure atop it at the artifact inside. It was a crystal spider set inside a gold frame, perhaps five inches in length and four at the widest legspan. A small placard rested atop the enclosure.
Crystal Spider, circa 1995 B.C., discovered at Lisht, believed to have been a gift to the illegitimate pharaoh Nebtawyre Menthotope III during the “seven kingless years” preceding the Twelfth Dynasty.
“Well, well. Hello my little friend,” Mr. Doyle rasped, standing a bit straighter and smoothing his greatcoat as though he was in the presence of respectable company. Which was not at all the case.
“So?” came a voice from a shadowy corner of the exhibit. “How did I do?”
He glanced in the direction of that voice. There was a large, ornate sarcophagus on display, and beside it several lighted glass enclosures that contained burial jars apparently associated with whomever had been put to rest within the sarcophagus. Eve stepped from amidst this tableau of death with grace and nonchalance, the same way she would walk into a bar or step onto a subway train. She wore crisply new blue jeans and a tight green turtleneck beneath a stylishly long brown suede coat. With her silken black hair and exotic features she was beautiful in a way only cruel things are. A tragedy, to be sure, for though Eve could be cruel she had so many other facets, so many better qualities.
They were old friends, these two, but it had been quite some time since they had seen one another. Doyle understood. He was just as guilty as Eve of letting their acquaintance grow fallow. With lives as busy—and as long—as they both led, the years could
go by with the deceptive speed of clouds in the sky. When each one was so much like the last, it was easy to lose count.
As always, they were becoming reacquainted in a time of crisis. It was the nature of their friendship. He had contacted Eve for assistance and her efforts had produced results in less than a day. He had located her on the island of Mykonos. Fourteen hours later she had knocked on the door of his sprawling townhouse on Beacon Hill with the news that led them here.
Doyle smiled indulgently at her, as he would have at a daughter of whom he was particularly proud. “How did you do? Remarkably well, Eve. I’ve inquired all over the world in search of a Lemurian Spider.” He turned his focus back upon his prize. “Bangladesh, Cyprus, Istanbul, Minsk. I confess to feeling more than a little foolish that you located one right here beneath my nose. And so quickly. How did you manage it?”
Eve strode across the room to join him, leather heels scuffing the floor. “We all have our specialties, Doyle. For instance, how did you get us in here without setting off any alarms? Without the guards noticing?”
A rare tremor of amusement passed through him. There had been so little humor or camaraderie in his life of late. Too many times in the past he had been betrayed by colleagues and friends, so that he had come to count on his enemies as far more reliable. Eve was one exception. There were others, but he had not seen most of them for a very, very long time.
With a mischievous smile he touched the enclosure around the spider and whispered a minor incantation. The glass turned to damp mist that fogged the air around their heads and warped the thin beam of red light that should have triggered an alarm the moment the enclosure had been removed. It did not. When the mist had dissipated, Mr. Doyle picked up the crystal spider and examined it more closely.
Modern Magic Page 265