Dead Matter
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Praise for
DEADER STILL
“Deader Still is such a fast-paced, engaging, entertaining book that the pages seemed to fly by far too quickly. Take the New York of Men in Black and Ghostbusters, inject the same pop-culture awareness and irreverence of Buffy the Vampire Slayer or The Middleman, toss in a little Thomas Crown Affair, shake and stir, and you’ve got something fairly close to this book.”
—The Green Man Review
“It has a Men in Black flavor mixed with NYPD Blue’s more gritty realism . . . if you think of the detectives as working the night shift in The Twilight Zone. It’s a book (and a protagonist) that is going places, and those who enjoy something fresh in urban fantasy will enjoy what they find. Strongly recommended.”
—SFRevu
“Deader Still is a refreshing, exciting urban fantasy with elements of romance and horror that will appeal to fans of Jim Butcher.”
—The Best Reviews
“A fun read . . . The pace moves right along, running poor Simon a little ragged in the process but providing plenty of action. If you liked Dead to Me, it’s a safe bet you’ll like this one even more.”
—Jim C. Hines, author of The Mermaid’s Madness
“Deader Still is a fun, interesting, and witty read. It is something a little different, with a male protagonist, tongue- in-cheek attitude, and interesting mystery.”
—Urban Fantasy Land
“It has a little bit of everything for the paranormal junkie . . . unique from a lot of the urban fantasy genre. This is a fantastic series.”
—Bitten by Books (5 tombstones)
“Nice touches . . . There is a lot to like here.”
—VOYA
DEAD TO ME
“Simon Canderous is a reformed thief and a psychometrist. By turns despondent over his luck with the ladies (not always living) and his struggle with the hierarchy of his mysterious department (not always truthful), Simon’s life veers from crisis to crisis. Following Simon’s adventures is like being the pinball in an especially antic game, but it’s well worth the wear and tear.”
—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Dead and Gone
“Part Ghostbusters, part Men in Black, Strout’s debut is both dark and funny, with quirky characters, an eminently likable protagonist, and the comfortable, familiar voice of a close friend. His mix of (mostly) secret bureaucratic bickering and offbeat action shows New York like we’ve never seen it before. Make room on the shelf, ’cause you’re going to want to keep this one!”
—Rachel Vincent, New York Times bestselling author of Prey
“Simon Canderous is the kind of guy who can do magical things with his hands . . . literally. With only his wry sarcasm, self-deprecating humor, and preternatural ‘talent’ for psychometry to keep him out of trouble, Simon navigates the supernatural underbelly of New York City with a style and panache worthy of a thousand sequels.”
—Amber Benson, author of Cat’s Claw
“Urban fantasy with a wink and a nod. Anton Strout has written a good- hearted send-up of the urban fantasy genre. Dead to Me is a genuinely fun book with a fresh and firmly tongue-in-cheek take on the idea of paranormal police. The laughs are frequent, as are the wry smiles. I’m looking forward to seeing what he does next.”
—Kelly McCullough, author of MythOS
“Written with equal parts humor and horror. Strout creates an engaging character . . . clever, fast paced, and a refreshing change in the genre of urban fantasy.”
—SFRevu
“In much the same vein as Mark Del Franco’s Unquiet Dreams or John Levitt’s Dog Days, Strout’s urban fantasy debut features plenty of self-deprecating humor, problematic special powers, and a quick pace, with the added twist of overwhelming government bureaucracy. Strout’s inventive story line raises the genre’s bar with his collection of oddly mismatched, entertaining characters and not-so-secret organizations.”
—Monsters and Critics
“Imagine if Harry Dresden or Angel had to work in a poorly run office, dealing with office politics and red tape. It’s a great debut.”
—CHUD.com
“A wickedly weird debut from a writer who makes being dead sexier than it’s ever been before. And who doesn’t love a debonair, divination-having, ghost-seducing, cultist-abusing detective in New York? Imagine Law & Order but with hot ghostly chicks, rampaging bookcases, and a laugh track.”
—Carolyn Turgeon, author of Godmother: The Secret Cinderella Story
“A strong debut . . . Seeing the world through Simon’s eyes is a funny, quirky, and occasionally scary experience. Strout’s world will be well worth revisiting.”
—Romantic Times
Ace Books by Anton Strout
DEAD TO ME
DEADER STILL
DEAD MATTER
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Group (USA) Inc. 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
DEAD MATTER
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY Ace mass-market edition / March 2010
Copyright © 2010 by Anton Strout.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions. For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson
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eISBN : 978-1-101-18534-6
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http://us.penguingroup.com
For my father,
who wears his pride in me like a badge of honor.
I work every day to be worthy of it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Once more we leap into the breach, dear friends. I’ve missed you. So has Simon. Ignore the bat in his hand. However this book ended up in your greedy little mitts, I wanted to say welcome. Thanks for reading me. Stay and enjoy.
There are many players on this stage who make this endeavor of crafting a book possible: everyone in the haunted halls of Penguin Group, especially my friends and colleagues from paperback sales; my editor, Jessica Wade, known around the halls of Ace as the Swift Red Pencil of Justice; copy editor Valle Hansen; Annette Fiore DeFex, Judith Murello, and Don Sipley, for a stunning cover; Erica Colon and her crack team of ad/promo people; Jodi Rosoff and my publicist, Rosanne Romanello, who send me places and keep me from signing babies; Michelle Kasper; my agent, Kristine Dahl, and her assistant, Laura Neely, at ICM, who answer all my foolish author queries without strangling me; the Dorks of the Round Table—authors Jeanine Cummins and Carolyn Turgeon, who needs to finally admit she is a fantasy author; the League of Reluctant Adults, for keeping the lounge bar stocked; Lady Group, for keeping Orly sane while I write; glamazon Lisa Trevethan, for her keen beta eye; Jennifer Snyder, who maintains UndeadApproved.com, the unofficial fan site, which I usually check first to see what I’m up to; my family—both the biological and chosen ones; and finally my wife, Orly, who keeps me smiling and always on track both in my life and writing. And if you’ve read this far, I just want to say thanks again to you. You’re the best.
What then is to become of man?
Will he be the equal of God or the beasts?
—Blaise Pascal
Om nom nom . . .
—Count Dracula
1
When it came to working for New York City’s favorite underfunded supersecret paranormal investigation agency—known as the Department of Extraordinary Affairs—high-stakes decision making was par for the course. People lived or died when it came down to fighting ghosts, cultists . . . even the occasional chupacabra. My personal stress from handling the caseload of Other Division meant I barely kept my sanity as it was, but right now I was facing the hardest decision of my life. “Choose, Simon,” my ex-cultist-turned-girlfriend Jane said in a stern tone.
“I . . . I can’t.”
“For God’s sake,” she said, giving me a gentle swat to my arm. “It’s cheese. How hard can it be to pick a cheese?”
I turned away from the assortment of cheeses in the display cooler in front of me to look at her. Jane wore jeans and a tight black T-shirt with a cartoon-ghost corpse on it that read CASPER WASN’T SO FRIENDLY. Her normally big blue Bambi eyes were narrowed at me in mock disgust, the rounded contour of her face looking a little sharper since her long blond hair was pulled back from her face into a ponytail. In the background behind her the rest of my local supermarket went about its own business, but the look Jane was giving me made it feel like she was shining a spotlight on me.
I turned back to the display. “Clearly you don’t understand Taco Night, then,” I said. “We could go for the Mexican blend, which seems like an obvious choice. But! We also have pepper jack, which in my opinion gives the tacos a hot, zesty flavor.”
Jane reached past me, grabbed a packet of the Mexican blend, and threw it in her basket. “I cannot believe we’re discussing this,” she said. “Can’t you use your psychometry to divine which cheese to pick?”
I glared at her. “It doesn’t work that way,” I said. I held up my gloved hands. “Yes, I can touch objects and read their histories, but that doesn’t help me figure out which cheese to choose.”
“Wearing your gloves again, I see,” Jane said.
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said.
“I thought you were in control of your power these days.”
I let out a tired sigh. “The way I’ve been using my psychometry on casework for the Department lately, it’s just easier to wear them to keep from triggering on stuff outside of work. I’d like to go a whole evening without using my psychometry, if only to keep from taking a power-induced hit to my blood sugar.”
Jane’s look was stern, concerned. “You should really take better care of your health like that,” she said. “You’re working too hard. This is your first night off from the Department in weeks . . .”
“Someone’s got to pick up the slack with Connor out,” I said, feeling a little on the spot.
“I know, I know.” Jane looked as if she was about to go into full-blown agitation, but stopped herself. She closed her eyes, let out a long breath, then opened them. “I know,” she said, softer this time. “I’m being selfish. Connor’s your partner and I know he’s entitled to all his vacation time, but taking it all at once?”
“Can we not talk about Connor Christos or work right now?” I asked. “Can we just concentrate on us and tonight . . . ?”
“Fine,” Jane said, smiling. She held her hands palms up to the heavens. “Let us not spoil the sanctity of the sacred Taco Night.”
We wandered off together arm in arm, each with our own basket, in search of the other ingredients. The rest of our shopping trip took only a few more minutes—sour cream, ground beef, lettuce, tomato—but when I hit the canned-goods section, I had to stop. Once again, I was at a crossroads.
“Refried beans,” I said, looking around. “I mean, is there any other option? Do they offer just fried beans? And what beans are they frying in the first place?”
“Just grab a can, Seinfeld,” Jane said. She checked her watch. “I’d like Taco Night to happen, you know, while it’s still Taco Night.”
“But I wanted to make everything from scratch,” I said. Jane glared at me. “Hey, I used to be quite the cook, you know, in my bachelor days.”
Jane reached into the basket I was carrying. She held up a bright yellow box with a cartoon sombrero on it. “I see,” she said, rattling it around. “I suppose these pre-made taco shells meet your ‘from scratch’ criteria?”
I opened my mouth to explain, but instead shut it and grabbed a can of refried beans off the shelf. I could see that the novelty of spending all night in the grocery store striving for authenticity was starting to wear on both of us. We headed off to the registers, but I stopped just short of getting in line.
“What did you forget?” Jane asked, laughing and shaking her head.
“Salsa,” I said. I leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Be right back.”
Jane nodded. “I’ll hold our place.”
I ran off in search of the elusive condiment, but halfway down one of the aisles I heard the clatter of several items falling over, followed by the sound of screaming coming from one of the other aisles. I ran up the one I was in, rounded the corner, and turned into the next, stopping dead in my tracks.
A lumbering figure filled the entire width of the aisle, menacing a few people farther along it. It was humanoid, but only if I pictured a human made out of melted wax. It looked naked, pale, with its shoulders nearly reaching from shelf to shelf. Its hands and feet looked like claws and were made of something hard that clicked against the smooth surface of the store floor. When it heard me, it whipped its head around and a wave of terror ran over me as I saw its face for the first time. Its mouth was a gnarled mass of giant pointed teeth that stuck out in every direction. A mix of slobber and decay hung from its maw, dripping onto the laminated tiles of the store floor.
The few people who had been in the aisle ran off as Jane rounded the corner at the front end of it. The monster spun its head around to face her, letting out a low growl through its maw of tangled teeth. Wary
, it turned its body so it could easily keep an eye on both of us, but it took its time because its talons kept sliding against the smooth surface of the store’s floor.
I took a few steps down the aisle toward it, more to get closer to Jane at the far end of it than to cozy up with the creature itself. “How’s it looking down there?” I shouted down to Jane. “Is it clear?” She looked off to both sides, then nodded.
“Good, then,” I said. “You might want to run.”
Much to her credit, Jane stood her ground. Slowly she took her basket and placed it on top of a stack of nearby cereal boxes. She wasn’t about to leave me to deal with this thing alone—or at least she was putting on one hell of a brave front. Personally, I was having a tough time doing it, but at least I had my trusty retractable bat hanging just inside my black leather coat.
I felt like a gunslinger preparing for high noon. I reached inside my coat and undid the safety strap that held the collapsed steel of the bat in its custom holster. I kept my movements subtle. I didn’t want to do anything sudden to alarm the creature, but I wanted to be prepared if it charged me, and the bat was my preferred weapon of choice. When it came to combating the supernatural, blunt trauma beat guns almost every time.
I looked the creature over. I had no clue what the hell it was, but one thing was for sure . . . Someone had beaten this monstrosity with not one but two ugly sticks.
“What’s it going to be, fugly?” I said. I looked to Jane. “Sweetie, Director Wesker’s still got you categorizing all those occult books at Tome, Sweet Tome for Greater and Lesser Arcana, yes?”