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- Herausgeber: Titan Books
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
A gripping, snappy creature feature from the master of horror noir about two detectives—one dead, one living—hired by an embittered old landowner to banish a bloody cosmic monster from his ancestral home, perfect for fans of Cassandra Khaw, Charles Stross and Lucy A. Snyder. Ford and Neuland are paranormal mercenaries—one living, one undead; one kills the undead, the other kills the living. Heading west to look for work and wait for the heat from their last job to cool down. There Tilda, a young woman, hires them to track and kill a demon haunting a mansion in remote northern California for wealthy landowner, Shepherd Mansfield. As Ford and Neuland investigate the creature they uncover a legacy of blood, sacrifice and slavery in the house. Forced to confront a powerful creature unlike anything they've faced before, they come to learn the biggest monster in this story might just be the person paying them.
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“A thrilling, inventive, pulpy, bi-coastal romp with a bloody beating heart.”
Paul Tremblay, author of The Cabin at the End of the World and A Head Full of Ghosts
“A perfect collision of haunted house terror and private-eye noir. Dead solid perfect!”
Jonathan Maberry, New York Times-bestselling author of Cave 13 and Patient Zero
“The Pale House Devil showcases Kadrey’s gift for gritty characters and snappy dialogue, but also his talent for eerie settings and lean, cruel horror.”
Cassandra Khaw, author of Nothing But Blackened Teeth
“A snappy, delicious mix of Lovecraftian horror and pulp noir. In a world where magic reigns and the dead can be reborn, two upright guns-for-hire see that justice prevails.”
Alma Katsu, author of The Hunger and The Fervor
“A perfect, meaty morsel of a story merging traditional pulp with modern mythology.”
Delilah S. Dawson, author of The Violence, Bloom and Star Wars: Phasma
“Hardboiled hit-men and haunted house horrors—makes for a fast-read pulp treat.”
Kim Newman, author of Anno Dracula and many more
“A horror-noir filled with grotesque evil and witty, tough-guy banter. Ford and Neuland jump off the page like Hap and Leonard with demons.”
Christopher Golden, New York Times-bestselling author of Road of Bones and All Hallows
“The Pale House Devil is a fast-paced riot of a horror novella with the perfect combo of creepy and comedic.”
V. Castro, author of Goddess of Filth, The Haunting of Alejandra and more.
“The Pale House Devil is taut, entertaining, and satisfying. A top-drawer supernatural noir!”
Lucy A. Snyder, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of Sister, Maiden, Monster
“Great characters, sharp dialogue, complex relationships. . . Kadrey loads every page with dread and delight.”
Tim Lebbon, author of The Silence and many more
“This book is scary, jaw-dropping, often hilarious and, I hope, the start of a beautiful friendship.”
David Quantick, writer of Veep, All My Colours and more
“Reads like it’s the lovechild of Raymond Chandler and Shirley Jackson possessed by the spirit of Robert Bloch.”
Johnny Mains, author of A Man at War
“Sinister, strange, and sassy as a sixties gumshoe, The Pale House Devil is a darkly sparkling gem.”
Dan Coxon, editor of This Dreaming Isle and Isolation
“A delightfully monstrous romp, the perfect mix of noir, urban fantasy and horror.”
Angela Slatter, award-winning author of The Path of Thorns
“Every page thrums with vibrant, horrifying, riveting hard-boiled adventure. This book was an inspiration.”
Sam Rebelein, author of Edenville
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The Pale House Devil
Print edition ISBN: 9781803363899
Signed edition ISBN: 9781803367798
E-book edition ISBN: 9781803363905
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: October 2023
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© Richard Kadrey 2023
Richard Kadrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
1
It was close to midnight in Manhattan and they were still waiting in the van. Ford, short and wiry, was behind the wheel, while Neuland—bulkier and a foot taller—slouched in his seat trying to keep his head from hitting the ceiling of the van. They were dressed all in black and had black balaclavas on their faces so that the only things visible were their eyes—and someone would have to look carefully to see them. They’d been parked at the edge of the alley since twilight and both men had long since grown bored. Still they waited, their rifles propped against their legs.
Their employer—Mr. Garrick—hadn’t given them a description of their target, just the bare outline of what was supposed to happen and how they were supposed to stop it. It was annoying. They didn’t work that way normally, but Garrick promised to pay them double their normal fee, so they went along with his nonsense.
“Do you think that’s them?” said Neuland.
A few yards ahead of them in the alley, a well-dressed man and a haggard woman appeared to be negotiating some kind of deal. Ford watched through what resembled a pair of binoculars, but the tubes were carved from a yew tree and the lenses were the shaved corneas from the eyes of thirteen hanged men.
“It’s not them,” said Ford. “From the look of them, the girl’s got pills or party potions and the guy’s a tourist who doesn’t know how to haggle. Besides, they’re both dodos.”
Dodo was what Ford occasionally—and many others routinely—called the undead. It bothered Neuland, who was also undead.
“Please don’t use that word. It’s demeaning,” Neuland said. “And it makes you sound like a hick.”
“Sorry.”
“We prefer Marcheur.”
“You’re right. I’m tired and didn’t think.”
“It’s all right.”
“No. It was rude and I’m sorry.”
“You can’t help how you were raised.”
“But you’re my partner and I should be more considerate.”
“Apology accepted,” said Neuland. “Now, are we going to shoot either of those two or not?”
“No. The deal is supposed to be someone alive selling something to a Marcheur. That lets these two off the hook.”
“Maybe. Let’s keep an eye on them. One of them could still be involved.”
The van felt cramped after all this time, and they’d finished the coffee hours ago. Ford wanted a smoke, but didn’t dare light up where the cherry-red end of the cigarette could be spotted. So, they waited in silence.
The dealer and the tourist finished their business, and the tourist went into the rear of a bodega while the woman remained in the alley. She checked her watch several times.
“You’re right,” said Ford. “She’s part of the deal.”
“Nervous?”
“Impatient. I mean, look at her twitch. It won’t be long now.”
“I hope you’re right.”
They sat quietly for a few minutes before Ford said, “Really, man, I’m sorry about the dodo thing.”
“I told you it’s all right.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, and also, you should look out the window. This might be it.”
Ford sat up as a young woman approached the Marcheur. The woman was in a purple velvet dress and had straight black hair that hung down to her waist. He scanned the two women through his special binoculars.
“You’re right,” he said. “The one in the velvet dress is alive. But I don’t like it.”
“Me neither. Garrick didn’t say the target was a woman. Just dressed in velvet, right?”
“That’s right.”
Neuland shook his head. “I don’t shoot women.”
Ford looked at him. “We’ve both shot women.”
“Really evil ones. Like Elsbeth Bathory evil. Not some little thing in a party dress.”
“Let’s keep watching. Maybe she’s the right kind for shooting.”
For the first time, the nature of the assignment weighed down on Neuland. He didn’t like the situation one bit, but he knew that if this was indeed their target, he’d have to take the shot. It was his job to kill the living. Ford killed the dead.
Neuland said, “Please tell me they’re plotting something nefarious.”
“Shit,” said Ford. “Shit.”
“What?” He didn’t like the tone of Ford’s voice.
“There’s something else. The party dress?”
“Yes?”
“She’s pregnant.”
Neuland reached out and took the binoculars. The haggard undead woman’s aura was a grayish purple while the young woman’s was a bright purple.
“What the hell is this?” said Neuland. “If she’s selling her kid, I sure as hell will shoot her.”
“Yeah, Sir Galahad? And kill the kid too? I’m going to keep watching. I want to know exactly what’s going on.”
Neuland was mad now. He knew his distaste for shooting women was hypocritical since they were every bit as capable of evil as men. Worse, not wanting to shoot a mother was the rankest kind of sentimentality. He didn’t like having strong emotional responses to these situations. Strong emotions were for the living, like Ford. He could fly into a rage at a moment’s notice and it accomplished nothing. The undead were supposed to be above such things, but here he was. Fretting about some stranger selling what, rationally, was hers to sell.
Another moment passed and Ford said, “A necklace.”
“Not the kid?”
“Not the kid.”
“What kind of necklace?”
“Expensive looking. Earrings too. Some bracelets. All gold. All nice-looking stuff.”
“Let me see,” said Neuland, and Ford handed him the binoculars. He was right, the undead woman was examining a pile of jewelry in a decorated wooden box that the young woman held out.
Neuland handed the binoculars back to Ford and said, “You know what this means.”
“Of course.”
“It might cost us our fee.”
“There’s no helping that.”
“I guess not.”
Ford started the van and they drove to Mr. Garrick’s office, where they’d arranged to meet after the hit. They let themselves into the building with a key Garrick had given them and rode the elevator to the penthouse level of the old office building. Neuland was out of the elevator first and didn’t bother knocking on Garrick’s office door before going in. Garrick, sixtyish and in a sharply tailored suit, looked up in surprise. He smiled at the men.
“That was quick,” he said. “You boys are every bit as efficient as they say.”
The two men came in and Neuland stood very close to Garrick’s desk so he could loom over the man. They’d left their rifles in the van.
“Efficient,” said Neuland. “That’s because we can read a scene and know what’s happening, even from a distance.”
“It’s what keeps me alive and my partner in one piece,” said Ford.
“We read the scene tonight, Mr. Garrick.”
“And we didn’t like it.”
Garrick scowled at the men. “What’s it your business to like or not like a particular killing? I hired you to do a job. Did you do it or not?”
“No,” said Ford.
“You see, the target was pregnant.”
“What difference does that make?” said Garrick.
“She was selling her personal jewelry,” said Ford. “It was in a silly little box. Something cheap and gaudy. The kind someone young like her would love.”
“And?” said Garrick.
“It was very expensive jewelry,” said Neuland. “Much too expensive for her, considering the quality of her dress. The jewelry might have been hers, but she didn’t buy it.”
“They were a gift,” said Ford.
“From you,” said Neuland.
Garrick sat back in his big leather office chair. “What the hell are you talking about? I hired you as killers, not psychics.”
“There’s nothing psychic about it,” said Ford.
“It’s like we said, about being able to read a scene. You see, a young woman selling jewelry like that—jewelry she couldn’t possibly afford—can only mean one thing.”
“And what’s that?” said Garrick snidely.
“That she’s using her rich lover’s gifts to her to finance an escape,” said Ford.
“From the lover,” said Neuland. “You hired us to kill her because you got her pregnant, and that’s an inconvenience. She was smart enough to know that something was up and was buying a ticket out of town.”
Garrick slammed his hands on his desk and stood up. “Don’t get high and mighty with me, boys. You’re murderers. Not priests. And you don’t get a cent until the bitch is dead.”
Ford and Neuland looked at each other.
“I think you should explain it to him,” said Ford.
“Obviously,” said Neuland as he took a Sig Sauer P220 pistol from his jacket and emptied the entire clip of .45 rounds into Garrick’s body. The man slammed to the floor, his blood splashing onto the desk and the curtains and the window behind him.
The moment his partner was finished, Ford began going through the drawers in Garrick’s desk looking for money. Neuland went through Garrick’s pockets.
“Anything?” said Ford.
Neuland shook his head.
“Two thousand in cash in his wallet, but that’s it.”
“Damn. Well, let’s take it and go. We need to leave town.”
“Not yet,” said Neuland. “I don’t think we’re done. Garrick is the kind of guy to have an insurance policy.”
Ford stopped.
“You’re probably right.”
“We’ll know soon.”
A minute passed before Garrick’s corpse began to twitch. His limbs convulsed and his eyes fluttered open and shut. His shoulders spasmed and his teeth chattered as if he was cold. Then he stopped, grabbed his desk chair, and dragged himself to his feet. Erect, he looked at Ford and Neuland and said, “You’re both dead men.”
“No. I’m the dead one,” said Neuland.
“And I kill the dead,” said Ford, pulling his own pistol. He shot Garrick between the eyes with one of his special cold iron bullets and the man fell back to the floor.
The killers left, knowing he wouldn’t get up again.
“So, where are we going?” said Neuland. “We can’t stay in New York.”
“Europe?”
“I don’t like flying and I hate ships even more.”
“We could drive to Montreal. Bigsby is always offering us jobs,” said Ford.
“Too cold. My joints get stiff.”
Ford said, “Right. So where?”
Neuland thought for a moment.
“West. As far west as we can go.”
“Like cowboys.”
“Sure. Like cowboys.”
“Goddamn Garrick,” said Ford.
“Lousy dodo,” said Neuland.
Ford looked at him. Neuland laughed, then so did Ford. He said, “I’ll get us train tickets.”
2
They caught a train the next morning from the Port Authority for a three-day trip to Los Angeles. Ford got them a sleeper cabin and they settled in. During the night they’d bought some paperback mystery novels and magazines. Each man had earbuds and music on their phones. They both enjoyed trains and understood how to travel by land—how to slow their pace, how to move within the confines of their small cabin and be comfortable with longs periods of quiet with just the rattle of the tracks filling the space between them.
Ford had picked up snacks the night before, but around six he decided to get a real dinner in the dining car and asked if Neuland wanted to join him.
“No thanks. Those places make me uncomfortable.”
Ford said, “Yeah, but we should really talk about our work situation. And I’m starving.”
“Can’t we talk when you get back?”
“I’d like someone to watch my back on the off chance that Garrick has friends. Besides, I’m probably going to fall asleep when I get back.”
It was the nature of the undead not to sleep. Neuland would simply go into a dreamless fugue state for a few hours every couple of days and that was all the rest he needed. Sleep was one of the few things for which he envied the living, and he didn’t want to deprive his partner of a pleasure he wished for himself.
“Fine,” he said, suddenly annoyed by their situation. About being on the run. However, there was nothing to do but go along with it and see how it played out. He put on his shoes and followed Ford to the dining car.
