Praise for the InCryptid novels:
“The only thing more fun than an October Daye book is an InCryptid book. Swift narrative, charm, great world-building . . . all the McGuire trademarks.”
—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times-bestselling author
“[Half-Off Ragnarok is] slightly over-the-top fun, a genuinely entertaining good time, [and] an urban fantasy that, despite the title, isn’t about the imminent end of the world.”
—Tor.com
“Seanan McGuire’s Discount Armageddon is an urban fantasy triple threat—smart and sexy and funny. The Aeslin mice alone are worth the price of the book, so consider a cast of truly original characters, a plot where weird never overwhelms logic, and some serious kickass world-building as a bonus.”
—Tanya Huff, bestselling author of The Future Falls
“McGuire’s InCryptid series is an ever-evolving, fast-paced, and wonderfully witty series, but this fifth installment may very well be the most entertaining yet. McGuire has an uncanny talent for voices, and the narrative in this story is snarky, sweet and instantly engrossing. . . . New readers will have very little trouble jumping into this adventure, but there are added benefits for readers who have followed the adventures of the Price family throughout the series.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Exciting . . . McGuire creates a sense of wonder and playfulness with her love for mythology and folklore, weaving together numerous manifestations of a single theme. Her enthusiastic and fast-paced style makes this an entertaining page-turner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“McGuire has created a rich, tongue-in-cheek, and wholly unique urban fantasy world.”
—Barnes & Noble SFF Booksellers’ Picks
“Discount Armageddon is a quick-witted, sharp-edged look at what makes a monster monstrous, and at how closely our urban fantasy protagonists walk—or dance—that line. The pacing never lets up, and when the end comes, you’re left wanting more. I can’t wait for the next book!”
—C. E. Murphy, author of Raven Calls
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire:
InCryptid Novels
DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON
MIDNIGHT BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL
HALF-OFF RAGNAROK
POCKET APOCALYPSE
CHAOS CHOREOGRAPHY
MAGIC FOR NOTHING
TRICKS FOR FREE *
SPARROW HILL ROAD
October Daye Novels
ROSEMARY AND RUE
A LOCAL HABITATION
AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
LATE ECLIPSES
ONE SALT SEA
ASHES OF HONOR
CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
THE WINTER LONG
A RED ROSE CHAIN
ONCE BROKEN FAITH
THE BRIGHTEST FELL *
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2017 by Seanan McGuire.
All Rights Reserved.
Cover art by Aly Fell.
Cover design by G-Force Design.
Interior dingbats created by Tara O’Shea.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1752.
Published by DAW Books, Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.
Ebook ISBN: 9780698183544
DAW TRADEMARK REGISTERED
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—MARCA REGISTRADA
HECHO EN U.S.A.
Version_1
For Shawn, because he wouldn’t let me get him an axolotl.
Love and amphibians, you nerd.
CONTENTS
Praise for the InCryptid Novels
Also by Seanan McGuire
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Family Tree
Epigraph
Prologue
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
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Price Family Field Guide to the Cryptids of North America
Playlist
Acknowledgments
Impossible, adjective:
Not possible; unable to happen.
Improbable, adjective:
Not very likely to happen; not probable.
Probably not a very good idea anyway.
See also “bad plan.”
Prologue
“Every time I think my family has plumbed the depths of stupidity, somebody goes and finds a goddamn shovel.”
—Jane Harrington-Price
The upstairs bedroom of a small survivalist compound about an hour’s drive east of Portland, Oregon
Three months ago
ANTIMONY SAT CROSS-LEGGED in the middle of the room, one hand pressed hard against her thigh and the other held open in front of her, palm up and fingers spread. She stared at the air above her hand like it had personally done her wrong and needed to be punished for its sins.
“Just breathe,” said the room’s other occupant. Mary Dunlavy—family babysitter and family ghost, even though she hadn’t been a part of the family until long after she died—sat with her knees drawn to her chest, watching Antimony concentrate. “We both know you can do this. You’ve done it over and over again without meaning to. You just need to find the focus that turns it voluntary.”
“Because look how well ‘involuntary’ worked for Carrie,” said Antimony, still glaring at the air.
Mary raised her eyebrows, looking bemused.
Antimony swallowed a sigh. Getting exasperated with the one person even semi-equipped to help her was a bad plan. Sure, it was a plan she was familiar with and really good at executing, but . . . still a bad plan. “Fictional character,” she said. “Stephen King book. She moved things with her mind. Burned down half the town where she lived before dying horribly.”
“Huh,” said Mary. “I�
��ll have to check it out.”
She wouldn’t. Mary knew it, and Antimony knew it, and so neither of them needed to say anything about it. Mary existed in a ghost story—they couldn’t call it living, not when she’d been dead so much longer than she’d ever been alive—and she didn’t need horror novels if she wanted to be spooked by the things that went “bump” in the night. They were all around her, even when she was alone, because she was one of them.
Mary was also the only person who was both reliably available and had actually known Grandpa Thomas before he disappeared. (Grandma Alice, who probably knew him better than anyone else in the world, wasn’t around enough, and Antimony wasn’t sure asking a woman who thought bear traps were appropriate gifts for children to help her get her powers under control would be a good plan.) Mary had seen Grandpa Thomas do magic. Real, practical magic, the sort that ran in families and meant that sometimes having a nightmare meant waking up because the sheets were on fire.
Antimony was tired of taking the batteries out of her smoke detector and telling her parents she’d burned her hand on the hotplate during roller derby practice. She wanted this under control, and she wanted it under her own terms. She knew she wasn’t supposed to ask Mary for favors, but she was allowed to ask about family history, and Grandpa was family history. Grandpa was a loophole. Hence the closed door and a moment of privacy stolen while the rest of her family was downstairs watching her older sister Verity dance on live television. Because that was a good idea.
“Focus,” said Mary. “If you can do it while you’re asleep, you can do it while you’re awake.”
“I can fly when I’m asleep,” muttered Antimony. She narrowed her eyes, still staring at the air above her hand. It was all molecules. Little air molecules, moving faster and faster, until—
There was a spark, like someone had tried to strike a lighter and failed. It flared and was gone in an instant, leaving the smell of heat hanging in the air. Antimony yelped and dropped her hand. Mary smiled.
“I remember when your grandfather showed me that trick,” she said. “He was so proud of himself. ‘Look at this thing I can do,’ he said, to the girl who can walk through walls and won’t ever age. But it was just the tip of the iceberg. Magic is so much more.”
“Holy crap,” said Antimony.
Someone flung the bedroom door open so hard that it slammed against the opposite wall. Antimony and Mary whipped around. Kevin Price—normally the calmest and most level-headed member of the family—was standing in the doorway, wild-eyed behind his wire-framed glasses and panting slightly, with either exertion or distress.
“Annie, we need you,” he said.
Antimony pushed herself off the floor as she said, “You’re supposed to knock before you barge into my room.” The words sounded like whining even to her own ears.
Kevin shook his head. “It’s an emergency,” he said, before turning and running back down the hall. The sound of feet pounding on the stairs followed. Mary and Antimony exchanged a look. Mary disappeared, presumably reappearing in the living room. Antimony bolted for the door.
The word “emergency” wasn’t used casually in the Price home. It could mean a lot of things. It could mean a death, or a kidnapping, or a Covenant purge starting in one of the cities under their protection. It could mean a cryptid sighting they couldn’t explain away, something that would bring the Covenant down on their heads once and for all. It could mean genuine, inescapable disaster.
By the time she reached the bottom of the stairs, Antimony was moving so fast that she had to grab the banister to stop herself from slamming into the wall. She used her remaining momentum to whip around and into the living room, where the rest of her family—Mom, Dad, her older brother Alex and his fiancée, Shelby, both visiting from Ohio—were fixated on the television. Mary was in front of the screen, but that wasn’t a problem, since she was half-transparent with shock: Antimony could see through her to the image of her big sister, Verity, missing her wig and covered in blood, launching herself at the giant snake that had broken through the dance floor.
“Is this going out live?” she asked. Her voice was very loud.
“Yes,” said her father, and his voice was very soft.
They watched in mute horror as the battle played out, ending with an explosion and the great snake crumpling to the stage. Verity stood, battered but unbroken, and turned to the camera. She looked exhausted. She looked infuriated. It was a common combination for her. “My name is Verity Price,” she said. “This is my continent. Stay out.” Then she shot the camera. The picture died, replaced by a “technical difficulties” sign.
The living room was silent for a long moment before Alex breathed, “Holy shit.”
That about summed it up, really. Antimony looked to her father. “What’s going to happen now?” she asked. She hated how young she sounded, like a little girl asking her parents to make everything better—but in that moment that was how she felt.
“I don’t know,” said Kevin. “I really don’t.”
“Everything is about to change,” said Evelyn, and she put her face in her hands and cried.
One
“It’s better to act than it is to react. Acting gets you in trouble. Reacting all too frequently gets you dead.”
—Alice Healy
A deserted house on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon
Now
DON’T GET ME WRONG. Poltergeists have a place in a healthy spectral ecosystem. They wouldn’t exist if they didn’t. Everything evolves for a reason, even the different sorts of ghost people become after they die. Nothing in this or any other dimension is inherently evil.
And none of that was really a comfort with the ghost of an eleven-year-old boy doing his level best to drop an entire house on my head.
“Tyler! I’m here to help you!” I shouted, ducking around the nearest corner. A waterlogged dresser flew past overhead, shattering when it hit an exposed support beam. Either it had been full of beetles—eww—or Tyler was somehow creating them. When the dresser gave way, the bugs came flowing out, so plentiful that it seemed impossible they could have fit inside there. I squeaked and plastered myself against the wall, trying not to hyperventilate. I don’t have a specific problem with bugs, but there’s a big difference between seeing a single beetle and having a wave of them flowing toward your feet.
Mary sighed, stepping in front of me and drawing an arc across the floor with her toe. The beetles parted as they ran up against it, running in either direction, never crossing the line. After they had gone about three feet, they popped, becoming clouds of green mist that rose into the air and dissipated.
“Okay, this is officially the grossest ghostbusting job I have ever been on,” I said, as calmly as I could. It wasn’t all that calm. “Where the hell is Artie?”
“I can check, but it means leaving you alone with Tyler,” cautioned Mary. A splintering sound from the other side of the wall confirmed that Tyler’s tantrum was still in full force. “Are you sure you’re down for that?”
“If it means finding out where my so-called backup is, yes,” I said.
Mary vanished. A microwave flew through the doorway and slammed into the wall next to the dresser. Unlike the dresser, it didn’t burst into spectral cockroaches or break into a pile of splinters. Also, it could have crushed my skull, which I am fond of leaving uncrushed. I swallowed a yelp and moved farther down the hall, trying to keep my exits in view. With the way this had been going so far, I was going to need to run again before much longer.
The trouble with going up against ghosts is that most of them aren’t bad, just confused. They don’t get why I’m alive and they’re not. Sometimes that’s a fair question, like with Tyler, who died when he was eleven. He’d been riding his bike, following all the rules of the road—even wearing a helmet—when a drunk driver blasted around a corner and slammed into him, not giving him a chance
to swerve. If there was any mercy in the situation, it was that Tyler had died instantly.
But maybe that wasn’t actually merciful. Because he’d died instantly, he hadn’t had any time to process what was happening. One moment he was there. The next moment he was gone. The moment after that, he was back, spectral, confused, and coming home to haunt his family. They’d only lasted six months before they moved away; who could live in a house that shook and groaned and sometimes cried in the voice of your dead son in the middle of the night?
That all happened four years ago. Tyler had been alone ever since, growing stronger, angrier, and more confused. It was a terrible situation for a kid to be in, alive or dead.
I would have had a lot more sympathy if he hadn’t insisted on throwing things at my head, but hey. Nobody’s perfect.
“Tyler, dammit, could you calm down?” I stayed pressed against the wall, hoping that by shouting at the kid without giving him an immediate target, I could get him to chill out—or at least to stop throwing things. “We’re not here to hurt you!”
The air in front of me shimmered, and a spectral preteen boy appeared. He looked more like a ghost than either of our family phantoms: Rose and Mary both tended to manifest as fairly normal-looking teenage girls. Sure, Mary had white hair and terrifying babysitter eyes that could make me confess to damn near anything, but fashion hair dyes and cosplay contacts exist. You know what doesn’t exist? Makeup that can make a living person transparent and faintly blue, that’s what. Tyler looked like a really good CGI effect, the sort of thing I had exactly zero interest in getting up close and personal with.
“Liar,” he hissed. “Exorcist. Liar.”
“If I were an exorcist, would I have a ghost with me?” It seemed like a reasonable question.
Apparently not. Tyler scowled. “You’re trying to trick me,” he accused. Behind him—well, technically, through him—I saw the busted remains of the dresser start to pull themselves together. He was getting ready for another volley.
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