Dark Duets Part 1

DARK DUETS.

ALL-NEW TALES OF.

HORROR AND DARK FANTASY.

Edited by.

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN.

AN INTRODUCTION.

Christopher Golden.

Writing, I often say, is a solitary occupation, but I am not a solitary person. What I am is someone who shares his enthusiasms. I've never been able to help it. If you talked to my cla.s.smates from elementary school, some of them may recollect my embarra.s.sing lunchtime habit of erupting with an impromptu survey: "Whoever likes peanut b.u.t.ter," I might blurt, "raise your hand!"

And, of course, my hand would be waving.

When I love a book or a movie or a television series, I want everyone else to love it just as much. One rewarding element of working in one of what I quite proudly consider "the geek trades" is that I will, in all likelihood, find myself in a room in which, were I to shoot up my hand and shout "Whoever likes stories about grave robbers, haunted zeppelins, and evil children with their heads on backward, raise your hand," there are likely to be others with their hands waving. I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that you, dear reader, might actually be one of those.

This enthusiasm can be contagious, and when you are a storyteller and many of your friends share the same occupation (compulsion), sometimes a strange, alchemical reaction takes place. Over the years, I have had far more than my share of moments when I have been chatting with a writer friend and the lightning bolt of inspiration strikes us both at the same time. A joke or a crazy idea has led to a sudden shared recognition that something very cool has just been born, and that it is up to us to make it grow.

Not all collaborations begin this way, of course. More often than not, they are purposeful, the result of two authors who admire each other's work and set out to find something they want to write together. Perhaps one has a concept that she can't quite figure out the shape of on her own, and a fresh perspective is desired.

No matter how it comes about, I've always been a fan of the team-up. The results are always fascinating, truly entertaining, and sometimes even magical. I can still remember when I first learned that Stephen King and Peter Straub were writing The Talisman. And yet, despite the fact that so many of us wish to share our enthusiasms, collaboration is actually fairly rare. Writing fiction is usually a very personal, intimate process, and finding someone with whom you'd like to share that process is more difficult than you might imagine. In fact, collaboration in general is harder than you'd think. Logic would suggest that since you are halving the number of pages that you, yourself, are responsible for, you are halving the work involved. In truth, collaborative fiction is more work than writing something by yourself. But the work, and the relations.h.i.+ps that may spring from it, and the magic that sometimes results, are their own rewards.

As a lifelong fan of the team-up, I've often wished and hoped to see two of my favorite writers pool their abilities on a piece of fiction. As an editor, I decided to see if I could make that happen. The book you hold in your hands is the result.

The pitch for Dark Duets was simple: an anthology of stories written by pairs of writers-and in one case a trio-who have never collaborated before. Just as the individual stories meld the talents of authors for the first time, the authors themselves are a combination of elements and genres. While the stories all fall beneath the umbrella of dark fiction, within these pages you will find the darkest of horrors and the most twisted tales of suspense, noir oddities and urban fantasy, paranormal romance and darkly comedic speculative fiction.

The best part of editing this anthology came from not knowing what to expect. As each new story arrived, I found myself delighted with the variety and inventiveness-and sometimes the total lunacy-of these collaborations. The authors, it seemed, were having a blast, so much so that more than one story grew to novella length and I suspect will soon sp.a.w.n further adventures of their central characters.

So many of the best and most interesting conversations of my life have begun with the phrase "Wouldn't it be cool if . . ."

And it is. Oh, it is.

I couldn't be happier with the results of this mad experiment.

Take your seats; the orchestra is warming up and the performers are taking the stage. There will be many strange songs sung this evening, all of them dark duets.

TRIP TRAP.

Sherrilyn Kenyon and Kevin J. Anderson.

He huddled under the bridge and hid from the world outside, as he had done for as long as he could remember. . . . No, he could remember a time before that, but he didn't like those thoughts, and he buried them away whenever they appeared.

The bridge was old and unimpressive, long ago marred by spray-painted graffiti, mostly faded now. The county road extended from an Alabama state highway and crossed over a creek that was more of a drainage ditch, overrun with weeds and populated with garbage tossed out from the occasional pa.s.sing car. Brambles, dogwoods, and milkweed grew tall enough to provide some shelter for his lair.

Skari lurked in the shadows next to piled cans, mud-encrusted debris he had hauled out of the noisome drainage ditch, a bent and discarded child's bicycle (struck by a car). A stained blanket provided very little warmth and no softness, but he clung to it nevertheless. It was his. All the comforts of home.

He had a shopping cart with a broken wheel, piled high with the few possessions he had bothered to keep over . . . over a long time. He hunched his back against the rough concrete abutment, s.h.i.+fting position. The dirt and gravel beneath him was a far cry from the gra.s.sy, flower-strewn meadow he sometimes saw in his dreams. He didn't belong in meadows anymore-just here in the shadows, standing watch at the nightmare gate. He had to guard it. Skari wouldn't leave his post.

The tall milkweed rustled aside, and he looked up at the freckled face of a skinny little girl. "I see you there," she said. "Are you a troll?"

Skari tensed, half rose from his crouch. Many layers of tattered and filthy clothing covered his skin, masked his monstrous features. The girl just blinked at him.

"What are you doing here?" When he inhaled a quick breath, through the humidity and the odors of the drainage ditch, he could smell the little girl. The tender little girl.

"My brother says you're a troll, 'cause trolls live under bridges. You're living under a bridge," the girl said. "So, are you a troll?"

Yes, he was, but she didn't know that. In fact, no one was allowed to know that. "No. Not a troll," he lied.

She smelled tender, savory, juicy.

"Come closer."

The girl was intrigued by him, but she hesitated. She was smart enough for that at least.

Skari squeezed his eyes shut and drove his head back against the concrete abutment of the bridge. Again. The pain was like a gunshot through his skull, but at least it drove away the dark thoughts. Sometimes it just got so lonely, and he got so hungry here. He'd been thinking about eating children, tasty children . . . thinking about it altogether too much.

With a crash through the underbrush, a boy came down the embankment. Her brother. He looked about nine, a year or two older than the girl. Both were scrawny, their clothes hand-me-downs but still in much better condition than Skari's. The children did have a raggedness about them, though, a touch of loss that had not yet grown into desperation. That would come in time, Skari knew . . . unless he ate them first.

Next to his sister, the boy made a grimace and said with a taunting bravery that only fools and children could manage, "I think you're a troll. You smell like a troll!"

Skari leaned forward, lurched closer to the edge of the shadow, and the children drew back, but remained close, staring. "Methinks you smell yourself, boy."

Rather than hearing the threat, the boy giggled. "Methinks? What kind of word is methinks?" He added in a singsong voice, "Methinks 'methinks' is a stupid word."

Skari grumbled, ground his teeth together. His gums were sore. He picked at them with a yellowed fingernail. No wonder witches ate children. It was sounding like a better and better idea to him. His stomach rumbled.

He wanted to lunge out from the gloom, but he knew the nightmare gate was there somewhere behind him, just waiting for him to let down his guard. Skari had been a.s.signed here to stand watch, sentenced to stay here.

For many centuries, evil had bubbled up from the depths of the world, and the nightmare gates through which demons traveled always appeared underneath bridges. Skari couldn't leave his post, had to stay here and protect against anything that might come out. It made no sense to him why a vulnerable spot might appear under this small county-road bridge in northern Alabama, but it was not for Skari to understand. He hadn't felt the evil gate in some time, although there was plenty of evil in him.

"How long have you been there, mister?" asked the girl.

"Longer than you've been alive."

A car peeled off the highway and drove along the county road. Its engine was loud and dyspeptic, one tire mostly flat so that as the car crossed the bridge overhead, it made a staccato trip-trap-trip-trap-trip-trap.

"What's your name?" the boy asked, as if it were his turn to dare.

His name. Yes, he had a name. Other people had called him by name, laughed with him, even a beautiful maiden who had once whispered it in his ear. But not anymore. He had no friends, no home, just what he clung to under this bridge where he stood guard.

But he did have a name. "Skari."

"Scary Skari!" the boy shouted, and the girl laughed with him.

"Come closer!" He was so hungry for those children, so anxious to emerge into the sunlight again, even though it would cause him pain, make him twist and writhe. Skari grew ill from the very thought. It might be worth the pain, though, just for a bit of freedom . . . or maybe just for a taste of fresh meat.

"Billy! Kenna! Leave the poor man alone."

The two children whirled, startled. They looked as if they'd been caught at something.

Their mother came up, a woman on the edge of thirty, her brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. She wore no makeup, but her face was washed clean. Her clothes also had that worn look to them.

"He's a troll, Ma-he lives under a bridge," said the girl, Kenna.

"He smells," said Billy.

The mother looked mortally embarra.s.sed, rounded up the two as she peered under the bridge where Skari huddled with all his possessions. "I am so incredibly sorry they disturbed you. What can I say?" She hauled the children out of the weeds, maybe to keep them safe from him. "They both flunked home training, but it wasn't from lack of effort on my part."

She sounded conversational, a forced friendliness, as if she felt they had something in common.

"Why does he live under a bridge, Ma?" Kenna asked.

Skari was startled to see the woman hesitate. A bright sheen of tears suddenly appeared in her eyes. "Just be thankful we don't live there."

He heard the unspoken Yet in her voice.

"It's all right," Skari said. "They weren't bothering me." His stomach growled, but not loudly enough for anyone else to hear. "I've been called worse than smelly . . . and that by my own family."

"Well, I appreciate your understanding. I'm Johanna. It was nice meeting you."

She seemed uncomfortable, backing down the embankment, protecting her children-and good thing. She didn't want them talking to strangers, especially ones who hid under bridges. Especially trolls.

The air was full of the whine of insects, laden with ozone. Overhead, dark thunderheads clotted. If a downpour came, it would make the humidity more tolerable for a while.

"We need to get back to the car, kids," Johanna said. "It's the only shelter we've got."

"I don't want to go back and sit in the car, Ma! It's hot."

"Been there for days. There's nothing to do," Billy added. "When are we gonna keep driving?"

"As soon as we get gas money. Somebody'll come by."

Whenever Skari saw people, they were from the cars that stopped at the rest area on the highway next to the bridge. It had beige metal picnic tables, trash cans, running water, restrooms, and not much else. Not even traffic. Skari had seen vehicles come and go, and most of them didn't stay long, but now he remembered a rusted station wagon piled with belongings. It had been there a while. He thought he'd heard a loud m.u.f.fler, a struggling engine, tires crunching gravel, doors slamming-two nights ago? Johanna and her children probably had a handwritten sign on a sc.r.a.p of cardboard asking for help with gas money or food.

Skari tried to remember how to make conversation. Some part of him didn't want the family to go away . . . not yet. "Are you having trouble, ma'am?"

"No . . . yes . . . maybe."

"Which is it?"

"All of the above. But it's my problem. Don't trouble yourself."

Skari glanced behind him, sensed the nightmare gate. But the barrier was strong, stable-as it had been for many years. Nothing was trying to get through right now. He ambled closer to her, taking comfort in the thunderclouds that muted the afternoon sunlight.

"We don't got a home no more," Kenna said. "The mean man made us leave."

"What mean man?"

Their mother let out a heavy sigh. "We were evicted. I lost my job a year ago and haven't been able to find another one. I used up my savings, and we're trying to make it to Michigan where my cousin lives."

"Michigan?" He didn't have much familiarity with maps anymore, but he did understand that Michigan was a long way from northern Alabama.

"We'll manage somehow," the mother said. Fat raindrops started to strike the ground. "We just need a little to get by, step by step. If we make it to Michigan, we can have a fresh start." Her expression tightened, as if she had forgotten about him entirely. "We'll find a way to survive."

Before he could stop himself, Skari blurted out, "It's not so bad. You and the girl could live off the fat of the boy for at least three days."

Johanna's eyes widened and she drew back, startled. Billy thought it was a joke and he nudged his sister. "They wouldn't want me anyway. Girls are the ones made out of sugar and spice and everything nice."

Skari's stomach rumbled. "Don't believe too many fairy tales."

The rain began falling in earnest, thick drops pattering and hissing all around them like whispered laughter. Johanna grabbed the two children. "Come on, back to the car!" She flashed a glance over her shoulder, then ran with a squealing Kenna and Billy off to the rest area.

Skari went back under his bridge, took up his post at the long-sealed nightmare gate, and watched the world as the rain washed the scent of children from the air.

WATER RAN DOWN the side of the bridge, trickles turning his dank and gloomy lair into a soupy mess. Skari just huddled there. The bugs seemed to enjoy it, though. Even after the storm stopped, leaving only leftover droplets wrung out from the sky, he heard frogs wake up in the creek. Something splashed in a puddle farther downstream. It wasn't yet full dark, but the clouds hadn't cleared.

All the burbling background noise masked the sound of stealthy footsteps, and the fresh rain covered the girl's scent until she appeared. "Mister Skari, are you hungry?"

He was startled. The appet.i.te became ravenous within him. Was she taunting him? He could lunge out right now, grab her before she could run, use his dagger to break her up into delectable pieces, roast her meat over a fire and have a feast. But after the rain, he'd never be able to build a fire. No matter, he was hungry enough to eat her raw.

Skari slammed his head against the abutment again to drive away the thoughts. No, no! The hungers, the dark desires had always been gnawing in him, but he could fight them back. He could . . . he could!

Kenna extended a rumpled white paper sack. "I brought hamburgers. Do you like fast food?"

No, I don't like fast food. I want something slow enough I can catch!

"Hamburgers?" he asked, his voice a croak.

"Somebody gave them to us at the rest area. They're leftovers. Mostly good, but the fries are cold and soggy. I wanted to offer you the last one. Ma doesn't know I'm here." She extended the sack closer, and with a quick movement he might have been able to s.n.a.t.c.h her wrist. "It's still fine. Only a bite taken out of it."

With a sense of wonder, Skari took the sack and pulled it open. An explosion of wondrous smells struck him in the face. His mouth watered. He was so hungry!

He stuffed the burger into his mouth, fished around with his paws in the bottom of the bag to grab every small, withered french fry. "Thank you," he said, his words m.u.f.fled around the food. Tears stung his eyes.

He remembered feasting with some of the other warriors, a delicious banquet thrown by the victorious lord after a particularly long and b.l.o.o.d.y battle. They had slain countless scaly demons that day, driven them back through the nightmare gate and barricaded it under a stone bridge. Skari remembered how much blood there was in the air on the battlefield, how the smoking black demon blood had a sour acid smell, unlike the vibrant freshness of the roasted boar in the lord's fire pit, unseasoned meat s.h.i.+mmering with grease. He and his fellow foot soldiers had eaten the celebratory feast, drinking the lord's best wine and his cheapest ale. It was all so delicious!