Battle Hill Bolero
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PRAISE FOR
THE BONE STREET RUMBA NOVELS
“[Older’s characters’] cadences are musical and real, their thoughts unflinching and sometimes unabashedly graceless. . . . Wonderful.”
—NPR.org
“Richly detailed and diverse.”
—io9
“A damn good read . . . Daniel José Older takes aim at a whole bunch of familiar targets and hits them hard in new and interesting ways.”
—Simon R. Green, New York Times bestselling author of the Secret Histories Novels
“As real as fresh blood and as hard as its New York streets. A Lou Reed song sung with a knife to your throat.”
—Richard Kadrey, New York Times bestselling author of the Sandman Slim Novels
“Simply put, Daniel José Older has one of the most refreshing voices in genre fiction today.”
—Saladin Ahmed, author of The Thousand and One
“Smart and gripping, funny and insightful. It kicks in the door waving the literary .44. Be warned: This man is not playing.”
—Victor LaValle, author of The Ballad of Black Tom
“Vividly imagined and rendered.”
—Jesmyn Ward, National Book Award–winning author of Men We Reaped
“Older has crafted a compelling new world. . . . A courageous effort to celebrate the diverse voices that surround us.”
—Deji Bryce Olukotun, author of “We Are the Olfanauts”
“Noir for the Now: equal parts bracing, poignant, compassionate, and eerie.”
—Nalo Hopkinson, Andre Norton Award–winning author of Falling in Love with Hominids
“Older brings an elemental street vibe to his urban magic, adding an earthiness and texture that really makes his work stand out.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Delightful and witty . . . a fun, smart bit of paranormal noir.”
—Booklist
“A cleverly written, imaginative plot and a cast of otherworldly, colorful characters set in the streets of New York City . . . takes urban fantasy to a thrilling new level.”
—RT Book Reviews
Titles by Daniel José Older from Roc Books
HALF-RESURRECTION BLUES
MIDNIGHT TAXI TANGO
BATTLE HILL BOLERO
ROC
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
Copyright © 2017 by Daniel José Older
“El Trío y El Ciclón” by Miguel Matamoros copyright © 1999 by Peer International Corporation
“It Should Be You” lyrics and music copyright © 2007 by Daniel José Older
Used by permission. All rights reserved.
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
ROC with its colophon is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Map by Cortney Skinner
Illustration by Mildred Louis
Ebook ISBN: 9780698166820
First Edition: January 2017
Cover art by Gene Mollica
Cover design by Adam Auerbach
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.
Version_1
For Jud, Tina, and Aya
CONTENTS
Praise for the Bone Street Rumba Novels
Titles by Daniel José Older from Roc Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Dramatis Personae
Cycle One: Fraang Pa Konseeli Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Cycle Two: The Ghost with No Face Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Cycle Three: Fireball Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Cycle Four: War Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Cycle Five: Requiem Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Acknowledgments
Visit http://bit.ly/2ffSZbF for a larger, printable version of this map.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE
Carlos Delacruz—an inbetweener, a Soulcatcher Prime for the Council of the Dead, and undercover member of the resistance.
Sasha Brass—an inbetweener, founding member of the Survivors.
Trevor Brass—an inbetweener, Sasha’s brother, killed by Carlos on orders from the Council.
Krys—a Council soulcatcher, undercover member of the resistance.
Victor Torres—a friend of Carlos and FDNY paramedic.
Jimmy Torres—Victor’s teenage cousin.
Kia Summers (the Iyawo)—runs the counter and online shop at Baba Eddie’s Botánica.
Baba Eddie Machado—consummate santero extraordinaire.
Russell Ward—his husband.
Ernesto “Gordo” Quintero—big ol’ Cuban cat who can see spirits.
Cicatriz “CiCi” Cortazar—member of an ancient order of story collectors. Badass.
Charo Velazquez—runs the Medianoche Car Service and its underground gangster affiliate.
Rohan Baksh—member of Reza’s crew, also rolls with the Revolutionary Dead.
Mama Esther—grounded house ghost, keeper of the largest supernatural library in New York City.
Rathmus AKA Blardly—One of the ancient spirits of Garvey Park and an ancestor of Carlos.
Ookus—a river giant.
Reza Villalobos—lead enforcer with Charo’s crew, driver for the Medianoche Car Service.
Dr. Charlotte Tennessee—archival librarian at the Harlem Public Library. Reza’s boo.
Janey Vega—Gordo’s future daughter-in-law, Sasha and Reza’s friend. CiCi’s acolyte.
Miguel Mirabela—driver for Medianoche Car Service.
Quiñones—barkeep at the Burgundy Bar
THE REVOLUTIONARY DEAD
Cyrus Langley—old-time conjureman, busted out of the African Burial Ground with a crew of spirits from old New York.
Riley Washington—former Soulcatcher Prime gone rogue, Carlos’s ex-partner and best friend.
Damian Ray—a child ghost, distant relative of Cyrus Langley.
Big Cane—Soulcatcher Prime, secretly working with the revolutionary forces.
Moco—leader of Remote District 17.
La Venganza—RD 17 ghost.
Rosali Ayala—RD 17 ghost.
Angelina Martinez—RD 17 ghost.
Vincent Jackson—killed by the NYPD, leader of the Black Hoodies.
Darius Blay—a Black Hoodie.
Tolula
Brown—a Black Hoodie.
Alice—a Black Hoodie.
Father Desmond—leader of RD 5.
Saeen Moughari—leader of RD 4.
Kaya Doxtator—coleader of RD 7.
Breyla Phan—coleader of RD 7.
Forsyth Charles—a Burial Ground ghost.
Redd—a Burial Ground ghost.
Dag Thrummond—a Burial Ground ghost, Cyrus Langley’s bodyguard.
Sharon Bentley—coleader of the Ghost Riders.
Brit Terry—coleader of the Ghost Riders.
THE NEW YORK COUNCIL OF THE DEAD
Botus—Chairman of the NYCOD, one of the Seven.
Bart Arsten—A Council subminister, middle management.
Juan Flores—a Soulcatcher Prime.
Caitlin Fern—formerly of the Blattodeons, current necromancy consultant to the Council.
Dr. Calloway—one of the Council’s leading scientists.
Harrison Range—a soulcatcher.
CYCLE ONE
FRAANG PA KONSEELI
En una tarde de inquietud
Quisqueya vióse de pronto de pavor sumida.
On a tumultuous afternoon
Dread suddenly inundated Quisqueya.
“El Trío y el Ciclón”
Trío Matamoros
CHAPTER ONE
Sasha
I open the door, blade ready, and the first thing I think is, Oh, Carlos, what have they done to you?
The thought comes with a startling pinch in my chest, and I step back from the shimmering, hunched-over figure, suddenly sadder than I thought I’d be.
Thought I’d be if ever—
Because surely one day—
Shit.
I shake off the threads of worry and sorrow, and blink once at the ghost in my doorway.
His flowing cloak and notched helmet mark him as one of the Council of the Dead’s Soulcatchers Prime. He’s tall—Carlos tall—but his shoulders slump forward, one lower than the other. His head slumps down like a hanged man, face hidden behind the caged face guard. He clutches a cane, just like Carlos. And he’s trembling. But the energy is all wrong; something vastly more desperate and mournful radiates from this wraith. And for Carlos, half-dead like me, to be a ghost, they would’ve had to catch and kill him the rest of the way, and somehow, deep inside myself, I’m sure I would’ve known if that had happened.
“The Council pardoned me,” I say. It comes out hoarse, like I’ve been crying. “Almost a year ago.” Nine months and seven days. The last time I saw Carlos. “Maybe you didn’t get the memo.”
“My lady.” The ghost bows. His voice is a thin, unraveling whisper.
Definitely not Carlos.
Tiny muscles I didn’t know I had unclench themselves. But if not Carlos, who?
“What do you want, soulcatcher? I don’t politic with the Council.”
He shakes his head. “A word, is all. I’m not here on Council business. Not exactly.”
Down the hall behind me, the twins sit perched on their big, old babysitter’s lap. I shut and locked the nursery door as soon as I’d heard the knocking. Baba Eddie has ghostproofed, sanctified, cleansed, and spiritually booby-trapped their room hundreds of times.
And still, it’s never enough. Still my slow, slow heart cantors into overdrive at the gentlest hint of something off.
I narrow my eyes. “I have no words for Council goons.”
“You don’t have to have any,” the soulcatcher assures me. “The words are all mine.”
“Not interested.”
Just before I slam the door the ghost says, “I knew you.”
He says it very quietly. It’s not desperate, not a plea. Just a fact. I glare at him through the crack of the doorway. “Excuse me?” A fury rises up and I push it away.
“I knew you,” he says again. “In life.”
A moment passes, then another. My stare doesn’t waver.
It could be a lie. A trap. I could somehow force it not to matter, but I’d be pretending. No matter how many ways I try to ignore it, the truth about my life matters.
Still, I already dislike this phantom. First of all, he’s with the Council. I’m inbetween—full flesh and blood but neither fully dead nor alive—and the Council has no tolerance for folks like us, unless we’re doing their dirty work.
Like Carlos.
Who I murdered once—a lifetime ago, before we fell in love.
Who this ghost strangely resembles.
“Wait here,” I say, and shut the door.
—
I unlock the twins’ bedroom and poke my head in.
Their babysitter sits like a giant Cuban Santa Claus, a toddler on each leg. He squints at the handwritten letter through his bifocals. I don’t know if it’s old age or all that coffee he drinks, but his hand trembles slightly. “It was maybe the fourth time Mrs. Overbrook has called me,” Gordo reads. “I think she just likes having someone to talk to.” He makes it sound like a fairy tale, Carlos’s never-ending cycle of ridiculous adventures. Xiomara and Jackson are enraptured. There’s no way they can grasp what’s going on, but their wide eyes are glued to Gordo’s face as he reads.
“I’m going out,” I say.
The twins train their how dare you interrupt story time, Mami faces on me, and I almost come curl up with the three of them, the Council’s limping ghosts be damned.
But no. My life—even if it’s a cruel joke, it’s one I need to get to the bottom of.
“We know this,” Gordo says. “You already said goodbye.”
I puzzle at him for a half second and then remember: it’s Saturday and my friend Reza gives me what she calls “offensive driving” lessons on Saturdays. That’s why Gordo’s here in the first place. I’d been on my way out when the knock at the door sounded.
“Right.” I smile, but it’s forced and Gordo knows it. I’m already off my game.
“Everything alright?”
I shake my head but say, “Yeah. Change of plans, though.”
Xiomara cocks an eyebrow at me, because she was apparently born knowing everything. I come back in the room, a flurry of jingling keys and all my weird stress, kiss both their foreheads—little Jackson squirming already at his mommy’s love—and Gordo’s cheek. He’s so warm; they’re all so warm and wholesome, and I’m so aware of my chilly skin against theirs.
Gordo smiles at me, takes my small, cool hand in his big, hot one. Of all the fully alive folks I’ve met, Gordo is the only one who never missed a beat realizing how neither/nor I really am. Without a word spoken, he just gets it, and I will always love him for that.
“Ten cuidado, nena,” Gordo says.
I nod. “Always.”
I start to leave but he doesn’t let go. “Yes, Sasha, always. But much more so now.”
He lets go and turns back to the letter, suddenly Santa again. “And then we had to help a group of suicides out of the riverway. What a mess that was!”
Xiomara giggles; I shake my head and walk out of the room.
Carlos
“Should I cut him?” Harrison Range’s voice shivers. “I mean, I mean . . . I feel that I should probably cut him, right? I’m not sure though, to be honest.”
I hate new guys.
Harrison is clinging to a support beam of the Manhattan Bridge. He’s a ghost, and ghosts don’t really fall unless you push ’em, so there’s really no need to be clinging. But that’s not what’s put the tremor in his voice, at least not the only thing. A river giant stands astride the Manhattan-bound lane of traffic, sobbing.
The answer to Harrison’s question is an unequivocal and enthusiastic yes, according to Council protocols. But it’s Saturday, and I haven’t had any coffee yet, and I’m not in the mood for even the pretense of following these inane bylaws. Anyway, I think I know this river g
iant. Got into a tiff with a group of ’em not too long ago on the west side—they were trying to resurrect an ancient serial-killer god. We murked the whole squad except one, who disappeared back into the dirty waters of the Hudson. I think this is that one, even though my friend Krys warned him not to come back with the business end of a ghost bazooka.
Then again, all river giants look alike to me, so what do I know?
“Do what you want, Harrison.”
Harrison whimpers. The giant sniffles and sobs.
Traffic is snarled, mostly because our lumbering, distraught friend caused a fender bender. No one can see him, at least not most folks, but his very presence sends discord rippling through the congested air above the East River. It’s the third mash-up this week, and the Council finally caught wind, and, well, here we are.
“I’m not sure I should cut him,” Harrison reports.
Surely one of these passing cars has a spare cup of coffee in it.
“The thing is, according to Council Bylaw 89.2, the river giant is a Causal Disturbance Entity, and I should thereby cut him and send him to the Deeper Death, thereby ending his existence entirely and for good.”
I peer through the crisscrossing tension wires, into the window of a black SUV. That guy has two coffee cups in his drink holder and no one in the passenger seat. Dickhole.
“However, there are two complications: the river giant has not technically made himself visible to the general public, and he hasn’t caused any mass loss of life or property damage in excess of forty thousand dollars—not by my guess, anyway. Wouldn’t you say, Carlos?”
“Not unless that Winnebago that got trashed at the exit ramp was full of cocaine.” My arm doesn’t quite reach, so I slide my cane through the steel crossbeams.
“Ha, no, we probably would’ve heard about it if it was.”
“What’s the other thing?”
“What other thing?”
Success! The tip of my cane clacks against the side of the SUV. The window slides down with a whirr. “What the fuck!” the driver yells. He’s burly and wearing those Terminator sunglasses that grandmas realized weren’t cool in 1994. I’ll take the L.