First published 2012 by Jurassic LondonSW8 1XN, Great Britain

www.pandemonium-fiction.com

ISBN: 978-0-9573475-3-3 (eBook)

Introduction copyright © Anne C. Perry and Jared Shurin 2012“A Study in Viscera” copyright © Archie Black 2012

“But I Didn’t Eat the Deputy” copyright © Jenni Hill 2012“The Glove” copyright © Glen Mehn 2012

“Something Fishy” copyright © Den Patrick 2012

Edited by Anne C. Perry and Jared Shurin

Cover by Sarah Anne Langton www.secretarcticbase.com/

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,

mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owners.

Crime and Merriment 4

Anne C. Perry & Jared Shurin

A Study in Viscera 6

Archie Black

But I Didn’t Eat the Deputy 14

Jenni Hill

The Glove 20

Glen Mehn

Something Fishy 24

Den Patrick

Contributors 28

Contents

My, how time flies. A year ago, we released the first Stocking Stuffer. The festive chapbook

had a ‘darkly humorous’ theme – three fantasy stories with a twist. It was our second-ever book, with our first, Stories of the Apocalypse, having been released the month before.

This year’s Stocking Stuffer is our twelfth book. Counting Apocalypse, (which is now out of print), we’ve published four anthologies, four chapbooks, three novelettes and one beautiful novel.

What a year.2013 will be even bigger. We have two anthologies in the pipeline: The

Lowest Heaven (coming this spring, with the Royal Observatory Greenwich) and The Book of the Dead (coming in fall, with the Egypt Exploration Society). The start of the year also includes the long-awaited ‘Cafe de Paris’ edition of A Town Called Pandemonium and the publication of Speculative Fiction 2012, a collection of the year’s best online reviews and commentary, co-edited by Justin Landon.

Three new novelettes are scheduled as well: Archie Black’s ‘Uncle Smoke’, Will Hill’s ‘The Sad Tale of the Deakins Boys’ and Adrian Tchaikovsky and Janine Ashbless’s ‘Reading Between the Lines’. Archie’s and Will’s novelettes will come with exclusive new content, and Adrian and Janine’s book will be its first publication anywhere.

Our chapbook series will continue with 1853 in January, as well as companion volumes to both the new anthologies. Plus, of course, next year’s Stocking Stuffer... and then 2014.

That’s going to be really big.

Crime and Merriment

Anne C. Perry & Jared Shurin

5

Meanwhile, within this slim (and virtual) volume, four of our favourite authors have combined to create a collection of fiendish tales of mystery, madness and holiday mirth.

Archie Black kicks things off in style with ‘A Study in Viscera’, a locked-room mystery with no shortage of suspects. The story features the same cabal of disgruntled villiannesses that starred in last year’s Stocking Stuffer.

Jenni Hill’s ‘But I Didn’t Eat the Deputy’ also features the return of two of our favourite characters: Lili and Georgia. The story of how these two met can be found in Crossroads, although judging by the events of ‘Deputy’, they’ve been up to quite a lot of mischief since then. Lili and Georgia are in a classic whodunnit, and time is running out.

In ‘The Glove’, Glen Mehn gets a bit meta, as an award-winning author comes to terms with his new publishing arrangement. Every cloud has a silver lining and a hard-working writer can find inspiration in the unlikeliest of places.

Finally, Den Patrick’s steampunk – trenchpunk, even – scamp Valente makes another appearance in ‘Something Fishy’. When we last saw Valente, in 2011’s Stocking Stuffer, he was testing his new Tesla rifle (with shocking results). This year, Valente’s the one biting the bullet, figuratively, as he’s suspected of murdering a prominent general...

From all of us at Pandemonium, have a very merry holiday season. And don’t forget to lock the doors.

Not that it’ll make a difference.

LondonDecember 2012

Lillitha of Darkhaven, the Maestra of Mistery, put her hands on her hips and sighed. Spread-eagled on a lumpy mattress before her lay the ravaged body of what had been, relatively recently, Prince Nonpareil, barbarian king-to-be of the Western Wilds. On either side of her were ranged her compatriots in evil – Mistress Mori, wife of the spreading dark; Eveanizae, Hetaera of Hell; Bal-Shebal, the ruiner of realms; Lady Derisive, green-skinned and grumpy; and Aethelreada ‘the always-ready’ of Azizar. In a corner sniveled a pimple-faced lad of about thirteen – the recently deceased’s stable boy. It was he who’d found the body and raised the alarm.

***

Strangely, despite the superb reputation and supposed popularity of the Starving Stag, most of the neighboring tables that evening had been empty. Lillitha was reasonably confident that the unfilled chairs had something to do with the fact that she and her friends had descended unexpectedly upon the little tavern earlier in the day, and spent several raucous hours bemoaning the state of the omniverse over bottles of pestilential wine. In any event, they’d seen the stable boy – Burp or Fart or whatever absurd name he’d been assigned by Prince Nonpy – scuttle by earlier carrying a tray heaped with food and a foaming jug. Mori had recognized him instantly, admitting after a little prodding that she’d seduced Nonpy a few months before as the second phase in her scheme to open a portal to the seventh daemon dimension in Farkar, capital city of the Western Wilds.

“It didn’t even work,” Mori had wailed. “He wasn’t even the right king-to-be!”

A Study in Viscera

Archie Black

7

Several hours, and many more bottles of wine later, the stable boy had reappeared, pale beneath his adolescent blebs, and screeched in a cracking voice that Nonpy was dead. He’d then burst into tears and collapsed before the fire. Eveanizae, she of the raven-black tresses, marched over to the lad’s shaking body, pulled him upright by his greasy thatch of hair and shook him until his teeth rattled before recalling that she hadn’t yet demanded he explain himself.

“In… upstairs!” the child croaked. “We was just taking a nice day off between killing the obsidian dragon of Dramomar—“

“What?!” screeched Lady Derisive, who bred obsidian dragons as a hobby.

“—an’ heading back to Farkar! The prince was fagged out, so I said a nice restish-like break was what was wanted, an’, an’, an’ the barkeep gave the prince his own room because it was the best in town, an’ I just brung up some supper before heading to the stable to eat me gruel, an’ I come back to clear the dishes away an’, an’, an’ he was dead! Please, ma’am, can you stop shaking me now?”

Eveanizae dropped the lad and muttered a quick incantation to clean the boy-scum from her hand.

“Are you certain he’s perished?” asked Mistress Mori, kneeling beside the boy. “He sleeps very heavily.”

“Sure as Bal-Shebal’s teeth got teeth, ma’am!” he wept. Bal-Shebal, who’d gotten up to join the group around the sobbing stable boy, grinned her shark’s grin. All three rows of her teeth glinted in the firelight. The boy, who’d peered through his hands to catch the effect of his oath, wailed in terror.

Lillitha shoved Bal and Evie aside and picked the boy up by the fraying collar of his shapeless, rough-spun tunic. “Take us to the body, boy, and no harm will come to you.” Bal coughed. “Yet,” Lill amended.

The lad wet himself, making Aethelreada laugh, wrenched himself out of Lill’s grip, and scurried up the stairs. “After you,” Lill bowed to her cohorts, and followed as they swept, skittered, slid, slunk and slimed their way up to the first floor of the Starving Stag.

***

8

“Well,” began Lill, “here’s the problem. Nonpy’s definitely dead, and I’m pretty sure he didn’t die from natural causes.”

“What clued you in, Lill?” giggled Bal. “The blood-scourge octopus attached to his face or the fact that his rib-cage is stapled to the wall?”

“Native detective ability,” Lill responded airly. “Something doesn’t smell right.”

“It could just be the lad,” Mori suggested. “I don’t think warrior-princes place too much of a premium on clean stable boys.”

Lill used her staff of Samarthia to prod the body. Something popped wetly deep inside it, and a jet of purple smoke puffed out of the gaping hole where Nonpy’s heart had once beaten. “Perhaps,” Lill said, “or perhaps it’s the flesh-eating bacteria someone appears to have introduced into his bloodstream.” She wafted the purple smoke toward herself and sniffed appreciatively. “E-fangoria does produce that characteristic bouquet, y’know. Cloves and honey and… mmm. Festerslug topnotes. Oh! Someone immunize the kid, would you?”

Lady Derisive rolled her eyes and tossed a vial of something at the stable boy, who was tearing at his throat and making little strangling sounds in the corner. The vial exploded upon impact, obscuring the boy in a haze of green mist. He coughed, and the strangling sounds ceased. “Please, ma’am,” he gasped, as the mist cleared. “Please. Just let me go an’ I swear I won’t never tell no one you killed the prince.”

Bal slithered over to the boy and wrapped a tentacle around his neck. “And which of us, exactly, are you accusing of murder, child?”

The boy gurgled. “Bal, honey,” Aethelreada sighed, “you have to let him take a breath

first.”Bal looked over her shoulder and smiled. “I’m just having a little fun

with him.” She returned her blazing red gaze to the boy’s face and gave another little squeeze. Two of his zits popped. “So, kid. Pick a villain. Any villain.”

Lill gave Bal a little whack on the shoulder with her staff. “Leave off, Bal. I think the answer’s pretty clear.” Bal-Shebal released the boy and gave his chin an affectionate chuck before standing up. The stable boy fainted.

“All right, Detective Inspector Evil,” Lady Derisive said, “who done it?”

9

Lill poked the body again. “Now, ladies. I don’t have to remind you that we each have the means to, erm, rather shorten a man’s lifespan. So let’s just take it as read that we each of us could have, shall we say, sent him down the brimstone path.”

“Yes, but when?” burst out Aethelreada. “We were all sat around the same table together all night!”

Lill continued, unperturbed. “It’s equally undeniable that we also each had opportunity to toddle up here and put the prince out to pasture. We’ve had the first rule of adventuring parties burned into our brains since we were in the egg: where go the stable lads, so go the warrior-princes. Mori pointed the kid out hours ago. So we knew Nonpy was somewhere about the premises. And we’d all been drinking rather a lot, and we all left the table, by ourselves, at least once between the time Mori saw the boy and, well, now.”

“Yes, but we all went outside,” Eveanizae pointed out.“Which of us doesn’t have the ability to fly, teleport, render ourselves

invisible or cast doubling spells?”Eight feet and one pair of cloven hooves shuffled uncomfortably.“So you must admit, it’s beyond question that each of us had the

opportunity to get up here unseen and wreak a little havoc.”The boy in the corner had come to at some point during the conversation.

“But why,” he croaked. “Prince Nonpareil was so good! The best… the best of all of us.”

“Well, you’ve kind of answered that question for yourself, haven’t you?” Mori murmured kindly. “We’re villains, child. We eat good for supper.”

“Literally, in Bal’s case,” Eveanizae added.“The kid brings up a good point, though,” Lill continued. “Who among

us as a motive for offing Nonpy? Mori, you’re the obvious answer: you and he had a thing going a while ago. You admitted as much earlier this evening. And the rib-cage thing – you did something similar to Doctor Bloodbane last year.”

Mori scowled. “Maybe. But flesh-eating bacteria? That’s Aethelreada’s signature move.” She kicked the bed, jolting the body and releasing another puff of purple smoke. “Plus, Aethy is deep in some scheme to usurp the throne of the Western Wilds. You can’t deny it, Aeth.”

Aethelreada of Azizar shrugged. “The thing is, I’m a long-game kind of girl. Strike down one warrior-prince with a designer bacteria and two more

10

appear in his place. My plan is more about destabilizing the local currency and the flooding the market with cursed gold than taking out one barbarian at a time. Plus, there’s an octopus stuck to his face.”

“Octopuses really are more Bal’s thing,” Lill said. Bal, who’d been menacing the stable boy with her tentacles, whipped them behind her back and arranged her features into a sheepish expression. “And she’s perpetually pissed off that no one remembers she sank Atlantis,” Lill continued. “It’s not in any way unlikely that ol’ Nonpy here–” she unlatched the octopus from the prince’s ruined face; it came free with a little sucking noise, taking Nonpy’s check with it. Lill handed the little creature back to Bal. “–Ol’ Nonpy here probably credited Lord Fangrill or someone with the job, and Fangfrill boasted about it to Bal. We all know how Bal holds a grudge.”

“I laid waste to that bloody city three times,” Bal grumbled, setting the little octopus on her shoulder. “No one ever remembers.”

“And Eveanizae,” Lill soldiered on, “he’s covered in imp bite-marks. You’re the one who collects imps, I hardly have to remind everyone.”

Eveanizae shrugged. “Imp bites aren’t necessarily fatal. Anyway, why would I kill him? Which I didn’t.”

“He blew up half your castle last year,” Lill said. “You mentioned it not two hours ago.”

“Yeah, well, he’s also been going around slaying obsidian dragons, and we all know how weird Der is about obsidian dragons. I’ll bet you that rib-cage up there that if we dig around in that gaping wound a bit we’ll come up with an obsidian dragon’s tooth or two.” Eveanizae rolled up her sleeves and plunged her hands into the slick red mess where Nonpy’s stomach and large intestines had once resided. In the corner, the stable boy sounded as though he were trying to weep and vomit simultaneously.

“I’d just like to point out, apropos of nothing,” Der said, eyeing Eveanizae’s progress, “that obsidian dragons are really bloody hard to breed.”

Eveanizae, up to her elbows in viscera, grunted. “You have to admit, though – umph – that you’re – urk – a little weird about them. Ah hah!” She pulled her hands from the body and waved a pancreas under Lady Derisive’s nose. There was, indeed, a little black fang sticking out of it. “See? Tooth.”

Lady Derisive crossed her arms and frowned. “That doesn’t prove anything. That could belong to any species of black dragon.”

11

Bal-Shebal rolled her three eyes. “Right. What an amazing little coincidence, that the tooth of some species of black dragon appears in the entrails of a guy who made a name for himself killing some species of black dragon, in the same pub where a villain who famously breeds some species of black dragon is having a nice little drink.”

“Is that any more or less suspicious than the fact that he had a blood-scourge octopus stuck to his face a hundred and seventy-three miles from the nearest ocean?” Lady Derisive yelled.

“Now hang on just a minute, ladies.” Aethelreada stepped forward and put a hand on Der’s shoulder. “Lillitha has failed to make any mention of the fact that he’s also missing his heart. And who among us brews fell potions from the hearts of warriors?”

Lillitha smiled. “Patience, patience. I was getting there.” She rummaged inside her robes for a moment and produced an ebony box, inlaid with demonic patterns of gold and mother-of-pearl. She flipped it open with a little flourish and proffered the purplish lump inside to those assembled. “Now, yes, absolutely. This is his heart, and I took it. And, I admit, I slipped up here with the intention of ripping it from his breast. He lopped off my left little toe last time we fought, so I definitely had a motive for taking him out. I mean, above and beyond the fact that these things,” she shook the little box, “are really handy for potion-brewing. Did you know you get twice as much from a heart removed while still beating?

“My point is that I did have motive and means and opportunity. As did we all. But the fact of the matter is this: he was already dead when I got here. And he already looked like this.” She waved at the bloody pulp on the bed. “I took his heart because, well, why not? He was already dead, and I’d been planning on it anyway. Which, I conclude, is what happened with all of you, too.”

“That’s right!” came a chorus of voices. “I thought it was weird that he didn’t struggle more,” murmured

Eveanizae meditatively.“None of this,” Lill continued, again indicating the sticky corpse,

“is half as messy as it should have been. I know all your work; you’re all consummate professionals. If any of us standing here had actually killed Nonpy, there’d be absolutely no question whatsoever which of us did it.”

“But,” Mistress Mori said, furrowing her brow, “that only leaves…”

12

Bal-Shebal wrapped a tentacle around the stable boy’s neck and lifted him to his feet. “That only leaves this.”

Lady Derisive had moved away from the group standing around the bed, and was peering into corners and under boxes. After a moment she uttered a triumphant exclamation and returned to Lill’s side, carrying what remained of Nonpy’s stomach. She handed it to Aethelreada. “You’re good at poisons and stuff, Aethy; any ideas?”

Aethelreada of Azizar sniffed the glistening mass in her hands. “Deadly nightshade. A classic. I noticed some growing around the stables as we came in this afternoon. And… hops. He must have ingested it in his beer. It would have killed him… well, not very quickly, and pretty painfully. Nice work.” She dropped the entrails onto the bed.

“So,” Lillitah of Darkhaven, Maestra of Misery, concluded, “Nonpy was already dead when we each tried to kill him. And the person who did kill him was no less than his loyal stable boy, who drugged his beer and then ran off long before any of us ever got to him.”

“Urk,” the stable boy said.“Yes,” Mistress Mori addressed him, “but why? What about friendship

and, uh, goodness and all that stuff you people are always going on about?”“Der, clean him up a bit, will you?” Lill asked. Lady Derisive murmured

a little spell and the filth, grease, vomit, urine and pimples vanished from the boy’s skin. Before them now stood a very promising specimen of virtuous manhood: young, blond, straight of back and sturdy of countenance, even with a tentacle wrapped around his neck.

“As I thought,” Lill shook her head. “Ladies, any guesses?”“By the ever-burning hellfires, he looks just like Nonpy!” Eveanizae

gasped. Bal dropped the boy as though he were contagious. He fell into a handsome little heap on the blood-soaked floor.

Lill knelt by his side and smoothed his hair from his face. He shuddered in horror and tried to bat her away. “Now, kid,” Lill said gently. “Why did you kill Prince Nonpareil?”

“He’s,” the boy squeaked, “he was my father!”“Yes,” Bal said drily. “We gathered.”“He never knew!”Mori nodded. “They usually don’t.”

13

“He, he promised he’d make me mam a princess and then he, he, he left her, an’ then she had me!”

“Men,” Aethelreada sighed.“An’ I never seen him until he come through town looking for a stable

boy!”“But you always knew you were special,” Eveanizae offered.“Yes! The warty ol’ witch that lives down the swamp says I’m destined

to be king and save the world! An’ then the prince come through town an’ mam seen him and says he’s yer da an’ then she died!”

“And the job was open because his previous stable boy had just discovered he was the son of somebody or other and left on his own quest, I presume,” Lill suggested.

“The only way I can fulfill me destiny an’ save the world is if I’m king! An’ he’d be king afore me!” The boy’s voice cracked and he peeked up at Lill through his fingers. “I want to be king now.”

Lill stood, leaving the princeling in a shuddering heap at her feet. “Well, ladies. We’ve solved the mystery of who killed Nonpareil, and why, and how. I say we leave the little love to himself for a few years. He should make a reasonably interesting opponent someday – if he ever recovers from the PTSD, anyway.”

Bal cheered. “C’mon, girls. Let’s get back downstairs. Next round’s on me!”

Lili addressed the crowded room. “I suppose you’re all wondering why I’ve gathered you here…”

Mrs Edelstein’s mouth fell open, as if in shock. Mr Winneker paced the floor guiltily, and Mr Truman moaned softly, like someone with a bad hangover.

“Now, what do we know? One: that an officer of the law is dead. Two: that someone has stolen the key to the cells. Three: that someone in this room … is a murderer!”

“Braiiins…” moaned Mrs Edelstein, and lunged for Lili’s throat. The horde soon followed.

***

Ten minutes earlier:Lili finished her examination of the sheriff’s broken body, sprawled

messily on the stairs. After giving it a final prod with the toe of her boot, she walked back down to the holding cells.

“The key’s not there. Not on him, or anywhere else down here.”“You’re absolutely sure?” Georgia pressed her face through the bars,

trying but failing to get a look at the body. “He had it when he locked me up!”

The drunk man in the opposite cell nodded his head in agreement. “He kept it around his neck.” The man in the suit who was sharing his cell didn’t say a thing, he just rocked quietly in the corner.

“But it’s not there now. There’s not much of him there either, if you catch my drift.”

But I Didn’t Eat the Deputy

Jenni Hill

15

Georgia attempted to reach for Lili’s hand through the bars, but recoiled when she saw it was covered in blood and gore. “Okay, I believe you. Looks like you checked pretty thoroughly. One of those things got him when he was on the stairs, and we, er, we heard it all.” She looked sick.

Lili wished she could hold her through the bars.Georgia continued, “You don’t, well, think it could have eaten the key,

do you?”“Sure it could. I’ve found weirder things inside them. They’re like

sharks. Wedding rings. Pages of a bible. That little metal dog you get in Monopoly.”

“Seriously? Why were you even rummaging around in a zombie’s stomach in the first place?”

“I was retrieving the key that would rescue my other girlfriend from a jail cell.”

Georgia glared at her. The drunk, who’d introduced himself earlier by the name of Bill, looked fascinated. “That the truth?”

“Nah. I wanted the dog back.” Lili explained. “I always play the dog.”“Oh, lord. I’m dating a crazy person.” “A crazy person who’s about to rescue your ass. I just have to work out

which one of them killed him.”“While not getting killed yourself.”“Simply elementary, my dear Georgia!” Lili reached into her rucksack

and took out a shotgun and shells, both of which she passed to the other woman, and a machete, which she brandished, grinning. “A kiss for luck?”

“Always.” Georgia kissed her through the bars. “Just promise me, no grandstanding, okay?”

***

“Someone in this room… is a murderer!” echoed down the stairs. “I said no grandstanding!” Georgia shouted.Upstairs, Lili dodged a bite from Mrs Edelstein, the elderly zombie’s

nightgown flapping as she lunged by. Instead of clamping down on her neck, the dead woman gummed her leather jacket instead.

“Aha! One suspect down! Mrs Edelstein, although you were the eager first to try to chow down on my entrails, you are not the murderer! How

16

do I know this? You have false teeth, false teeth that you neglected to put on when you were attacked in your bed this morning.”

She lowered her voice, using a more serious tone that wouldn’t be heard downstairs. “But I’m sorry. There’s no turning back. Not for any of you.” She removed Mrs Edelstein’s head from her shoulders with one efficient swipe of the machete.

Hands thrust out for Lili’s face. She jumped up on one of the police sergeants’ desks and the zombies clawed at her boots.

“Hey! Those are my good shoes!”Georgia shouted from downstairs. “I just remembered – it sounded

like the murderer – I mean, the zombie was wearing high heels!”“My lovely assistant-detective Georgia heard high heels – which I have

deduced means the murderer must have been one of the women in this room–” Lili adjusted her imaginary deerstalker hat and bounded from one desk to another.

“Check Mr Truman!” shouted Bill the drunk.“Georgia heard high heels, which might have led a lesser detective to

believe it was one of the women, however, Mr Truman is wearing a rather fetching pair of crimson stilettos, I must admit-” Lili jumped down to get a good look at Mr Truman.

“However he appears to be wearing immaculately applied red lipstick to match – something that he wouldn’t be doing if he’d just gnawed upon the bones of the town sheriff!”

Although Lili managed to put down Truman before he ruined his make-up, she had abandoned the high ground and was now backed into a corner.

***

When one of the zombies clambered down the stairs, and had to be dispatched by the shotgun, Georgia knew that Lili was in trouble.

“Got any other clues, Bill?” she begged. The drunk shook his head. “What about you, tall, dark and shaky?” the man in the cell opposite

turned around, his eyes wide with fear. “Any clues?”“No, no I can’t,” he quivered.

17

“Why not?” The man didn’t respond, other than to hide his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket and turn his face away. “What’s your name, honey?”

“No.”Bill nudged his cellmate with his foot. “Answer the nice lady.”“No no no no,” he seemed caught in a loop.Bill kicked him. Hard.“Bill!” Georgia gasped, at the same time as the man in the suit blurted

out “Steve!”“Okay Steve,” said Georgia. “You’re going to tell me anything, and I

mean anything, about what you heard that might help us find that key. Then we’re going to get out of here, Lili and I are going to destroy the freaky statues in the museum that are causing this, and get you back to your … family?”

“My cat. One of those hairless ones. He’s called Mr. Pinky.” Steve smiled blissfully.

“We’re going to get you back to your Mr. Pinky.”“Lucifer’s swinging cock!” shouted Lili. Something went thump

upstairs. Two zombies came lumbering into the basement and Steve turned sharply back to face the wall.

Georgia could hear the undead snuffling around the sheriff’s corpse. She picked up the shotgun and reloaded it while waiting for a clear shot.

“Now Steve, I don’t want you to panic, but there’ll be a few more loud noises while I clear away this trouble. You just keep wracking that brain of yours for more clues that’ll help Lili break us out.”

“We’ll be safe in here. Have you thought of that? We’re safer in here than out there. I don’t know anything.” Steve was more lucid now, but also more shifty.

“Listen, we can make it safe out there. For everyone. We would have stopped this sooner if that interfering sheriff (Godresthispoorsoul) hadn’t arrested me.” The two zombies had crept into view, moaning curiously at the tasty-smelling humans behind the bars. She raised the shotgun. “We’ll be safe-”

BANG. The shot echoed painfully around the cells.“–when we get out of here and I–”BANG.

18

“–destroy those statues. Everybody will be safe, including that wonderful woman out there–”

One of the zombies wasn’t quite dead yet, and waved an arm from the floor, hopefully. Lili cried out faintly upstairs.

“–the women I happen to love, who’s about to become zombie kibble because she’s trying to save our skins!”

Georgia reloaded the shotgun, panting slightly. “What I’m saying is, I guess I’d do just about anything to save her in

return.” Was the loaded gun a threat or just a coincidence? She’d seemed sweet

as apple pie, earlier that night. Ears ringing, Steve studied the girl pointing the barrel of the gun unsteadily into his cell and decided that it might not be safer behind bars after all.

“Fine. Fine. You heard the sheriff die, he didn’t fight back very hard, did he? A big guy like that? I think he knew his killer. And the things he said, he seemed so … betrayed. There was a rumour going around the courts a while back that he was dating the coroner, Dr Baker. She’s, er, blonde, short but she wears heels, and probably wearing a white coat too?.”

Georgia didn’t waste any time. “Lili! There’s a coroner, Dr. Baker! Steve says she’s blonde, wearing a white coat, can you see her?”

Lili, bedraggled, blood-spattered, sans leather jacket but still holding on to her machete, tackled the culprit and slung them both down the stairs. She barely managed to keep the zombie’s teeth away from her throat as they both fell to the floor.

Prying herself free from the coroner’s grasping hands, Lili sprung back up the stairs and slammed the basement door on the depleted but still oncoming horde. She wedged her machete in as a gory doorstop and turned her attention back to Baker.

“It was a crime of passion, a crime committed in this station, the very home of the law herself! The grisly end of a sordid affair. I have used all of my considerable skills to deduce–”

Steve coughed.“With help from my unscrupulous criminal informant –”“I’m a lawyer!”“With help from my unscrupulous informant –”

19

The zombie rose to its feet, and started hissing like a cobra about to strike.

“… that judging from your footwear, your dishevelled appearance and your secret relationship with the deceased, that you are the murderer!” Lili took a dagger out of her belt, whirled around and flung it with a flourish. The knife hit the zombie right between the eyes. “That you, my dear, dear departed Dr. Baker, ate the sheriff.”

“But she didn’t eat the deputy!” shouted Georgia.“You’re ruining my moment, honey!” Lili retrieved the dagger and

grimaced at the task ahead of her. “Right. Time to get alimentary on the good doctor.”

You must teach her. She stares at you with wide eyes, around the gaffer tape you’ve wrapped around her head, right over left in the back.

She’s ready to learn.

“It’ll be all right,” you tell her. “God needs you to know right from wrong. You’ve got to know what kind of execrable conduct the world can produce to truly understand Redemption. Just a little touch of darkness, in service of the Greater Good.”

“Did you write these words, sir?” he asks, showing me the mobile he’s been reading from.

I looked at the, what was it, DI? DC? I can never keep them straight. “Um, yes, well, that’s what it says, Simon Hawkin, there on the page. That’s me...” I don’t know what to call him – officer? Constable? Detective? “Sir” I try, playing it safe, “but what do you want from me?”

“You’re suddenly something of a sensation, aren’t you? Fortunes turned around, innit? You’d been writing this sort of... Dragons. Wizards. Lord of the Rings sort of thing, right? But now you’re a hot ebook star. Never understood them ebooks myself. I like that Andy McNab, but what’s wrong with paper? You, though, zero to bestseller with this series. Bidding war on a new book right? Can you tell me about that? Maybe you could tell me where you were on the 25th, then, sir? From ‘round noon through... 7PM inclusive?”

That was the day I was being not-quite-fired by my publisher.

***

The Glove

Glen Mehn

21

Fuming up the Borough High Street after that phone call, near that lovely butcher’s on St Thomas Street, going over the conversation, trying to work out what else I could have done. That’s when I saw the glove there, lonely, lying in the street.

It was so sad, the gloves, abandoned in autumn and wintertime. Stuck on fence posts or lying in gutters waiting for their owners who are searching for them in other places, forever separated from their mirrored mates. If they’d stayed together they could have ended up anywhere, on an adventure in Moscow, picked up by mistake and sparking a love affair when reunited with their owner. But lost, separated, they were alone, useless, forever. Forlorn. Destined for the bin.

Bastard Fred. I picked up that lonely glove there in the crossing, at dusk, and it just

came to me. Bastard fucking cunting Fred. I’ll show you ebooks.

***

“Maybe you should try getting on Facebook? Twitter? Some other social media? Gaiman does well with that. It’s about brand awareness. You’re not just a writer. You’re a brand. They want to know the real you. They want uniqueness and connection. Read up on the economics of abundance,” he’d said.

“God, Fred, I’m on Twitter. I’ve got over a thousand followers, hardcore fans. I run contests, give away signed copies, all that. I engage, right? What else can we try? Take the new book to America...” He’s definitely still conflicted about the business models. This certainly goes back to what Saul Williams said about Reznor after his initial “disheartened” comment, noting: “I think Trent’s disappointment probably stems from being in the music business for over 20 years and remembering a time that was very different, when sales reflected something different, when there was no such thing as downloads.... Trent comes from that world. So I think his disappointed stems from being heavily invested in the past.”

“Simon... This is the thing - we’re going to pass on the option. Your sales are... Look, you’ve got promise, so I can get you on our new ebook programme. If you hit your targets we’ll do a print edition”.

22

I, published author of over five hundred thousand words of fiction, holder of three major awards for short fiction, have no words.

“But Jesus, Fred... all those awards?”“I know, Simon. They’re great. That’s what allows me keep you on –

look, mate, I’m doing you a favour. The ebook route – it’s something we expect a lot of growth in. You’ll have to pick up some of the slack, though – minimal viable product and all that...”

“Don’t...” I bite down on ‘patronise’. “Aren’t ebooks the rubbish bin of the online megamalls?”

His voice drops. “Mate, you’ve got to see it as an opportunity. Turn around work quickly. I think for you it’ll be brilliant. Use Twitter and that... Your drafts are good, so you could churn some work out fast, something short, maybe start a serial?”

I consider this for a moment, and am just about to reject it when the coward cuts his losses.

“Mate, I’ve gotta run – weekly meeting. Let me know, k?”So that was it, then. Ebooks. The 99p special bin. Retrench. Rebuild.

Except that it’d be harder. An unknown writer is a risk, but one who doesn’t sell...

The phone went. “Simon? Right, sorry, forgot – Your unsold stock of Lord of the

Underworld?”Shit.“Well, We’re... They’re going to pulp it. You can have them for the cost

of the shipping, though, if you want. Then you can sell it or...”Or rush me off the phone. I could imagine several thousand copies of

my own work filling my flat floor to ceiling. Pulped?

***

“So after that call, I went for a walk down the Borough High Street”.“Sorry, what time was that, sir?”“Gloaming”. He looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry. Twilight.” Twisting my

mouth at the very word.“Around half six, then. Would you wait while we confirm this with your

publisher?”“Do I have a choice?” He doesn’t answer.

23

I choose. And wait.***

The shite tea has gone cold and coagulated and I’m past wanting a cigarette by the time he comes back, accompanied by a craggy-faced older man. Bad cop, I reckon.

“Good afternoon, sir, I’m DI Lewis. Your story checks out, sir, but… here’s the thing. Your story contains certain similarities an ongoing investigation. The Coroner read it – you’d think he’d relax with something lighter – and he said that this entire investigation fell together over lunch. So. Can you perhaps explain where this came from?”

I’d been wrong. He was all old public school boy, top education. It made me nervous, but I’d nothing to hide.

“I... It just came to me, on the walk. After the talk with my publisher, I went for a walk, up the Borough High Street. Picked up a glove from the centre of the crossing where I turn to the butcher’s. It sprung out, fully formed, like Athena, the whole bloody thing, there in the rain. It was good.

“So I shoved the glove in my pocket and went and bought pencils and a A5 pad and wrote it in one go.”

“I see, sir. At this point, it is my duty to inform you that you are a person of interest to an ongoing investigation. If you could just fill in your details here – you’re not planning on travelling, are you? We may need further assistance with our inquiries.” I meet cold blue eyes as I take the pen, and it hits me, and then I realise. The glove. The pen.

There across the road, stumbling. Another one on the list. Such a long list, so many lessons to learn. So much work to reveal the Divine Purpose. The never-ending struggle. The little ones will only have their Eternal Reward if they know right from wrong. You tried to avoid it, but the Calling brought you back into it. You pocket the pen and spiral notebook, reach for your gloves, but one has gone missing.

I write down my information, hand DI Lewis back his card, and slip the pen in my pocket. He meets my eyes, and he knows, and I know, and we know that we know.

I’ve got my next instalment. Which is a good thing. I wasn’t sure if I could keep the quality up, but now... Now I’ll be seeing lots of DI Lewis.

Somewhere near Coventry, 1916, just before noon.

“He was fine when I left him his breakfast,” said Harry, eyeing the man slumped over his half-eaten breakfast. He looked smaller in death than he had in life.

“He asked not to be disturbed. Said he had a lot of correspondence to catch up on.”

The train now rested at a station in God-knew-where. Harry was a big man, tall and broad, with an honest face. Too tall, in fact, to test the new armoured steam tractors he was so fond of. He’d have given anything to be with the Heavy Branch, down at Bovington in his beloved Dorset. Instead fate had conspired to leave him stranded on a weapons-testing base in Lancashire. It had been a long six months. His trustworthiness had seen him placed as an assistant to Valente. The inventor fetched a Gitane from an inside pocket before patting himself down for a box of matches.

“Where are those damned things?” Valente muttered, the dark cigarette perched on his lips.

“Treating this awfully casually, aren’t you?” Harry struggled not to sound peeved. It was a common complaint when he spoke with the Senior Weapons Inventor.

“Nothing casual about it. A man needs to smoke if he’s to think.” He finally located the matches and struck one. The snik and fizz of phosphorous filled the cabin.

“The general is dead,” said Harry, as if talking to a five-year old.Valente gestured to his eyes. “These still work, you know.”Harry eyed the man suspiciously. There was much about Valente he

didn’t like. His smoking, his gambling, the way he could seduce women

Something Fishy

Den Patrick

25

seemingly on a whim, the constant scent of carbolic soap and engine grease. And he was half-Italian. Harry had never met an Italian, but he was fairly sure no good had ever come of being half of one. Or indeed half of anything.

“So,” said Valente brightly, “what do we know?”“What are you talking about?”“The facts, man! The facts.” He flicked his ash onto a saucer and

regarded Harry expectantly.“We’re on a train.”“Jolly good. The future of the human race is assured with such a

perspicacious man as you.”Harry restrained his temper. Attacking a senior officer would do his

career no good at all. Or his pocket book.“We’re transporting the Mark VII Tesla Rifle to London, where General

Biles will demonstrate its effectiveness and seek more funding.” “Good, good.” Valente took another drag on the Gitane, “I could

murder someone for a cup of coffee right now.”Harry stared, aghast.“Oh, sorry,” the inventor gave a half-hearted shrug. Harry wondered if

‘valente’ was Italian for ‘insouciant’.“So, how did he die?” asked Valente.“There’re no obvious knife or bullet wounds. No sign of garroting. No

ligature marks on the neck to indicate a strangling.”Valente may as well have been ignoring him, humming a decidedly

off-key version of Waltzing Maltida.“The lack of external trauma would suggest poison.”“Very good. No sign of a struggle, lending more weight to the poison

theory. Furthermore the cabin is locked. Care to locate said poison?”“The kippers are the most obvious suspect.” Harry glowered at the

general’s unfinished breakfast.The general had requested a sleeper cabin, although the journey from

Preston to London hadn’t warranted it. Harry had locked the door after them to ensure no one discovered the general’s death before they’d had time to investigate.

“And who had access to the keys?”“The general, obviously. And yourself. As Senior Weapons Inventor

you would insist on having access to the prototype.”

26

“Very good.” Valente blew out a plume of blue smoke and held up a brass key. “And my motive?”

“That General Biles would somehow claim credit for your work, securing a promotion for himself, whilst you languished in obscurity, becoming steadily more dissolute.”

“I think you mean ‘insolvent’.”“Possibly. Probably both.”“Anyway, that’s impossible.” Smoke jetted from Valente’s nostrils.

“Everyone knows who I am.” This wasn’t a boast, but could be well considered an embroidery. Everyone above a certain clearance level knew of Valente.

“And you lost a considerable sum of money to him just four nights ago in a poker game.”

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about that.”“Unlikely.” Harry folded his arms across his chest. “You lost a week’s

wages. Which is why you’ve been cadging money from me.”Valente coughed into his hand and look abashed.“Did you do it? Did you use the key and poison the general’s kippers?”“No, of course not.”“If the Germans wanted to compromise someone you’d be the natural

choice. You’ve uncertain loyalty to the crown and debts that need paying. You’re perfect.”

Valente shrugged and looked at the door.“What is it?”“Oh, nothing,” said the inventor, with a slow smile.A soft click as the door was unlocked from the outside. It slid open and

a waiter stepped into the cabin, eyes full of anxiety.“Fancy some kippers?” asked Valente, grinning like a wolf.“Erm, what?”“Kippers. Very British dish. They’re ghastly. I find they disagree with

me quite dreadfully. Do you enjoy kippers?”“Maybe I should come back later?” The waiter had carefully not looked

at the corpse slumped over the table. He made to step back into the corridor, but Harry had already slid the door closed behind him.

“You weren’t expecting anyone to be here, were you?”

27

The waiter swallowed. He was an unremarkable type with watery blue eyes and sandy-coloured hair. His eyes widened in horror. Harry quickly realised why.

“Just one bite. Can’t hurt.” Valente was holding the plate in one hand, the other holding a fork loaded with fish, as if he were feeding an infant. “I say you should always be open to new experiences. Like that time Harry was in Paris. That chorus girl was extraordinary, wasn’t she?”

Harry blushed, regretting ever taking Valente into his confidence. The waiter shook his head emphatically.

“Please, I don’t want the kippers.”“You mean you ‘don’t want any kippers’. An easy mistake to make

when English isn’t your first language.” Valente smiled. “Take him away, Harry. Looks like we’ve found our German poisoner.”

ARCHIE BLACK lives and works in London. She is currently writing a book about Dorothy L. Sayers.

JENNI HILL is a science fiction editor who lives in North London. She has a Grade 2 in violin.

GLEN MEHN now lives in London (after living in New Orleans, San Francisco, Kampala, and Lusaka), running a nonprofit in East London that helps people start and grow new ventures that use technology to create social impact. This doesn’t give him nearly enough time to read or write, but we’re working on that.

DEN PATRICK was born in Dorset in 1975. He has at various times been a comics editor and letterer, a book seller, a burlesque reviewer and freelance writer. Den’s fantasy series will be coming out in 2013 from Gollancz.

***

SARAH ANNE LANGTON loves words and pixels. Draws books. Writes books. Scribbles a lot about comics for Forbidden Planet. Qualified Astronaut. Part time archaeologist. Full time geek.

***

ANNE C. PERRY hails from California and lives in London. She reviews monster movies for the geek culture blog Pornokitsch and edits books for a living.

JARED SHURIN also writes for Pornokitsch. He is a trained BBQ judge.

Contributors

STORIES OF THE SMOKE brings you London as you’ve never seen it before - science fiction and fantasy in the great tradition of Charles Dickens. With stories from Adam Roberts, Sarah Lotz, Lavie Tidhar, Kaaron Warren, Aliette de Bodard and many more. Illustrated by Gary Northfield and introduced by Christopher Fowler. A portion of each sale is donated to English PEN. (Out now - until May 2013)

LOST SOULS is a collection of forlorn and forgotten stories, carefully selected by the editors of the Pandemonium series. The anthology brings together tales of woe and loneliness, redemption and humour, featuring starving artists, possessed Popes, damned kings and repentant prisoners. Illustrated by Vincent Sammy. A portion of each sale is donated to Samaritans. (Out now)

A TOWN CALLED PANDEMONIUM sits four days’ from the Texas border. Many call it Hell, but some call it home: the ambitious, the desperate, the foolish and the mad. Ten writers circle the wagons to create this shared-world Western, with contributions from Will Hill, Sam Sykes, Archie Black and Scott Andrews. Illustrations by Adam Hill. (Out now - until November 2013)

The Pandemonium Chapbook series collects new stories from distinctive new voices - all for less than £1. CROSSROADS contains four devilish tales of bargains gone wrong (and right). FIRE holds three stories of the Dickensian Weird. STOCKING STUFFER 2011 collects three tales of darkly humorous fantasy.

www.pandemonium-fiction.com

Pandemonium Titles