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  Praise for the Novels of Caitlín R. Kiernan

  The Drowning Girl

  “With The Drowning Girl, Caitlín R. Kiernan moves firmly into the new vanguard, still being formed, of our best and most artful authors of the gothic and fantastic—those capable of writing fiction of deep moral and artistic seriousness. This subtle, dark, in-folded novel, through which flickers a weird insistent genius, is like nothing I’ve ever read before. The Drowning Girl is a stunning work of literature, and if I may be so blunt, Caitlín R. Kiernan’s masterpiece.”

  —Peter Straub

  “In this novel, Caitlín R. Kiernan turns the ghost story inside out and transforms it. This is a story about how stories are told, about what they reveal and what they hide, but is no less intense or suspenseful because of that. It’s a tale of real and unreal hauntings that quickly takes you down deep and only slowly brings you up for air.”

  —Brian Evanson, author of Immobility

  “The Drowning Girl features all those elements of Caitlín R. Kiernan’s writing that readers have come to expect—a prose style of wondrous luminosity, an atmosphere of languorous melancholy, and an inexplicable mixture of aching beauty and clutching terror. It is one of those very few novels that one wishes would never end.”

  —S. T. Joshi, author of I Am Providence: The Life and Times of H. P. Lovecraft

  “This is a masterpiece. It deserves to be read in and out of genre for a long, long time.”

  —Elizabeth Bear, author of Range of Ghosts

  “Kiernan pins out the traditional memoir on her worktable and metamorphoses it into something wholly different and achingly familiar, more alien, more difficult, more beautiful, and more true.”

  —Catherynne M. Valente, New York Times bestselling author of The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

  “Caitlín Keirnan is a master of dark fantasy and this may be her finest work. Incisive, beautiful, and as perfectly crafted as a puzzle box, The Drowning Girl took my breath away.”

  —Holly Black, New York Times bestselling author of Black Heart

  “A beautifully written, startlingly original novel that rings the changes upon classics by the likes of Shirley Jackson, H. P. Lovecraft, and Peter Straub, The Drowning Girl brings Caitlín Kiernan to the front ranks of contemporary dark fiction. Chilling and unforgettable, with a narrator whose voice will linger in your head long after midnight.”

  —Elizabeth Hand, author of Available Dark

  The Red Tree

  NOMINATED FOR THE SHIRLEY JACKSON AWARD

  NOMINATED FOR THE WORLD FANTASY AWARD

  “You may find your mind returning frequently to this tale, attempting to reconcile the irreconcilable, and you may find yourself, like me, bowing to Kiernan’s artistry, and her ability to create Mystery. This is her most personal, ambitious, and accomplished work yet.”

  —Locus

  “Kiernan’s chiller provides a strange and vastly compelling take on a New England haunting, and captures its spirit unnervingly well. Kiernan’s still-developing talent makes this gloriously atmospheric tale a fabulous piece of work.”

  —Booklist

  Daughter of Hounds

  “Kiernan’s handling of underworld figures is impressive, and this book proves she’s as adept at writing crime as she is dark fantasy . . . a thrilling page-turner that also features the depth, complexity, and unflinching willingness to contemplate the dark that we’ve come to expect from her books.”

  —Locus

  “A hell-raising dark fantasy replete with ghouls, changelings, and eerie intimations of a macabre otherworld. . . . The complex plot springs abundant surprises . . . on its juggernaut roll to a memorable finale . . . an effective mix of atmosphere and action.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  Murder of Angels

  “I love a book like this that happily blends genres, highlighting the best from each, but delivering them in new configurations. . . . Lyrical and earthy, Murder of Angels is that rare book that gets everything right.”

  —Charles de Lint

  “[Kiernan’s] punk-rock prose, and the brutally realistic portrayal of addiction and mental illness, makes Angels fly.”

  —Entertainment Weekly (A-)

  Low Red Moon

  “Low Red Moon fully unleashes the hounds of horror, and the read is eerie and breathtaking. . . . The familiar caveat ‘not for the faint of heart’ is appropriate here—the novel is one of sustained dread punctuated by explosions of unmitigated terror.”

  —Irish Literary Review

  Threshold

  WINNER OF THE INTERNATIONAL HORROR GUILD AWARD FOR BEST NOVEL

  “Threshold is a bonfire proclaiming Caitlín Kiernan’s elevated position in the annals of contemporary literature. It is an exceptional novel you mustn’t miss. Highly recommended.”

  —Cemetery Dance

  Silk

  WINNER OF THE INTERNATIONAL HORROR GUILD AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL

  FINALIST FOR THE BRAM STOKER AWARD FOR BEST FIRST NOVEL

  NOMINATED FOR THE BRITISH FANTASY AWARD

  “A remarkable novel.”

  —Neil Gaiman

  “A daring vision and an extraordinary achievement.”

  —Clive Barker

  “Caitlín R. Kiernan writes like a Gothic cathedral on fire.”

  —Poppy Z. Brite

  BOOKS BY CAITLÍN R. KIERNAN

  Novels

  Silk

  Threshold

  Low Red Moon

  Murder of Angels

  Daughter of Hounds

  The Red Tree

  The Drowning Girl: A Memoir

  Writing as Kathleen Tierney

  Blood Oranges

  ROC

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  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 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, Auckland 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

  First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Caitlín R. Kiernan, 2013

  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.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Kiernan, Caitlín R.

  Blood oranges / Caitlín R. Kiernan.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-101-59485-8

  I. Title.

  PS3561.I358B58 2013

  813'.54—dc23 2012032442

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  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 Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Books by Caitlín R. Kiernan

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Note from the Author

  Epigraph

  CHAPTER ONE - THE MATTRESS

  CHAPTER TWO - SONGS FOR MY FUNERAL

  CHAPTER THREE - BOBBY NG, ALICE CREGAN, AND THE TROLL WHO LIVES UNDER THE BRIDGE

  CHAPTER FOUR - LIMBO AND CLEMENCY

  CHAPTER FIVE - THE BLUNDERBUSS, BOSTON HARRY, AND THE BEAST

  CHAPTER SIX - A RUDE AWAKENING, A NEW TROLL, AND JACK DOYLE

  CHAPTER SEVEN - BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE

  CHAPTER EIGHT - AND THE WORLD FALLS DOWN

  Author’s Biography

  If your ears, eyes, and sensibilities are easily offended, this book is not for you. If you want a romance novel, this book is not for you. And if it strikes you odd that vampires, werewolves, demons, ghouls, and the people who spend time in their company would be a foulmouthed, unpleasant, unhappy lot, this book is not for you. In fact, if you’re the sort who believes books should come with warning labels, this book’s not for you. Also, please note: Siobhan Quinn is not a very good writer. Fair notice.

  To paraphrase Ursula K. LeGuin, this is me taking back the language of the night. If only for myself.

  The Author

  You know what the definition of a hero is? It’s someone who gets other people killed. You can look it up later.

  —ZOË WASHBURNE

  Revenge is never a straight line. It’s a forest. And like a forest, it’s easy to lose your way. . . .

  —HATTORI HANZÔ

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MATTRESS

  First off, taking out monsters absolutely doesn’t come with a how-to manual. Fuck that shit you see on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The only “watchers” I’ve ever had are the cops and such, people who might wonder what the hell I’m up to in the middle of the night, wandering about in various unsavory places. People who might ask inconvenient questions, or see shit they’re not supposed to see. So, yeah. No helpful mentor. What I’ve learned, I taught myself. It’s all trial and error in the trenches. And another thing, I’ve never met anyone else who does this. Not even one. If there’s some worldwide network of girls and guys who off demons, they’ve never bothered to contact me. Near as I know, I’m it. The one and only. Likely, that’s not true. Surely other people are crazy enough to do this. Surely other people have idiotic, suicidal vendettas of their own. But I figure none of us lives very long, once we set to work. I sure as hell didn’t.

  Then again, I’m probably not a model of excellence. That is, if I were going to imagine the ideal monster hunter, she wouldn’t have dropped out of school and run away from home at age twelve, and she sure as hell wouldn’t be a junky. Yes, I’m a junky. Well, I was. Heroin. I like to tell myself I only started shooting up because of the monsters and the insanity and all, but I’m pretty good at lying to myself, and that’s probably just another lie. The truth is, junk feels good. Way better than sex. You hear that, but it’s not just hyperbole from the drug dealers. That’s the god’s honest fuck-you sideways truth. Never yet had an orgasm that could compare to a fix. Want to know about junkies without going to the trouble to become one yourself? Just read William Burroughs, because that shit’s gospel.

  Okay, so you know I kill monsters, and I’m an addict, and I figure that sets things up for the story of how my life went from being screwed up to being royally fucking fucked up in the space of a few hours. Well, to be truthful, in the space of about five minutes, though it did get worse as the night wore on (as you’ll see).

  If there were a how-to book, Demon Slaying for Dummies, or The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Vampire Hunting, or a Wikipedia entry, or whatever, I think Rule No. 1 would be something like: Do not, under any circumstances, stop in the woods on the night of a full fucking moon and shoot up, when you know the rogue werewolf you’ve been tracking for a week is probably pretty close by.

  That’s another thing, okay? In monster movies, people do dumb things, and oftentimes, those dumb things get them killed. Or worse. And I’ve heard people bitch about it. “Hey, nobody’s that stupid. He wouldn’t do that. She wouldn’t do that. I don’t buy it.” But all those naysayers are wrong, and they’re wrong with a big ol’ capital W. Wrong. Let’s forget my little indiscretion I mentioned above. I’ve lost count of the people I’ve seen die at the hands of the nasties because they did something that was just plain stupid. The sort of shit we all like to tell ourselves we’re too smart to do. But we ain’t. Not you, not me, not anyone. The nasties bank on that, and it pays off.

  Some dude hears a thud on the roof of his parked car? He doesn’t drive like hell without once looking back. No. He gets out to see what made the thud. Some chick hears the proverbial thump in the night from a dark room? Nine times out of ten, she doesn’t go straight to the phone and call 911. Nine times out of ten, she reaches into the room, switches on the light, and gets the last surprise of her life. Or (and this one always gets me) she stands at the threshold and calls out, “Anyone there?” Or . . . let’s say you got a couple of inebriated young assholes from Tau Kappa Epsilon out on a dark road, hoping to get some something-something from a couple of drunken little sisters. Let’s say they’re pulled into a boneyard, because college boys, they have this notion cemeteries make girls all snuggly and easy. So, here they are, copping a feel, sporting hard-ons, and thinking they’re about to get lucky when the air starts stinking of rotten meat. And I don’t mean just a whiff. I mean stinking of the flesh of the dead. So, what do they do? They roll up the windows and get back to business.

  You don’t believe me?

  I don’t care.

  Point is, the way you think folks behave, and the way they really do, those two things frequently have very little in common with one another. The prey has a tendency to imagine itself smart enough to outwit the predators. No. Strike that. The prey rarely even bothers to believe there are predators. Also, I’m not talking about rapists, murderers, and thieves. I’m talking about predators. I’m talking about the creatures lurking around out there with appetites most human beings can’t begin to imagine, the ghoulies intent on making a meal of you and yours, or, hell, just intent on torturing someone until they grow bored enough to contrive some especially messy way to finish the job. Ever seen a cat play with a mouse? That’s what I mean, only not with cats and not with mice. What I mean makes cats look pretty damn merciful.

  Anyway, let’s set aside for now how and why it was I started in killing monsters (and continue to do so). There will be plenty of time for that later. Let’s get back to that warm night two Augusts ago, stalking that werewolf in the woods off the Hartford Pike, just a few miles outside Providence. Just back from the Scituate Reservoir. There’s a turnoff for a dirt road, and that’s where I cut the engine and left the car. A few days earlier, there’d been a murder about two hundred yards back from the highway. Was in all the local papers and on Channel 6, everywhere. The corpse was discovered nine feet up a white pine, gutted, decapitated, and tucked neatly into the limbs. The cops were on beyond clueless (I have someone on the inside, but that’s another story, which gets back to me being a junky), though there was talk of animal tracks at the scene of the murder, and talk of bears, because, you know, Rhode Island is crawling with nine-foot-tall man-eating bears. Everyone knows that, right? But I digress.

  It had been a good summer. I had a couple of pretty spectacular takedowns under my belt from June and July alone. Which means I was getting cocky, and sloppy, and, besides, I was either high or strung out about half the time. These are the unfortunate combinations that make for wicked outrageous calamity. The stuff t
hat can turn the hunter into the hunted in the blink of an eye. Blink. You’re a hundred and twenty pounds of fucking hamburger. So, there I was, the moon so bright you could have read a newspaper by it. The farther I walked, the harder it was to hear the cars out on Hartford Pike. Now, I’d planned to shoot up when I was done for the night. That’s usually how it went back then. I liked to think of it as my just reward for fighting the good fight, etc. and etc. But my rig and a dime bag of China White was right there in my army-surplus shoulder bag, buried under the various grisly tools of my trade.

  And I stood there a moment, not far from where they’d found the dead woman. There were strips of yellow crime-scene tape lying on the road, and I figured the wind had ripped them loose from somewhere else. There was a sort of hot breeze, and the yellow tape fluttered. I listened to the woods for, I don’t know, five or ten minutes, and made one of those stupid scary-movie decisions no one likes to think real people make. I didn’t smell a dog (though the kill had all that trademark werewolf style), and, believe me, the bastards stink. I told myself the perpetrator was probably miles away, and that night I wouldn’t be settling any scores, full moon or no full moon. Possibly I was upwind. Whatever. I left the dirt road, went maybe twenty feet into the underbrush, crouched down behind a big oak, and fixed. Simple as that. I was just feeling the rush and untying the rubber hose from around my left bicep when I heard it coming for me through the trees. Coming at me fast and hard, and I knew exactly what I was hearing. Nothing else in the woods of New England makes that sort of noise. That much noise. Oh, and, belatedly, I smelled it. And I knew I was absolutely and utterly fucked.

  Now, up on the big screen, this is the moment when Our Plucky Young Heroine would do something amazing. She’d grab her crossbow (loaded with silver-tipped bolts, blessed by Father O’Malley), pull off some kung fu moves so slick they’d make Jackie Chan wet himself, and drop the Big Bad Wolf in that very last second before the beast can rip out her throat. Then she’d say something witty.