Discount Armageddon

  Praise for Discount Armageddon

  “The only thing more fun than an October Daye book is an InCryptid book. Swift narrative, charm, great world-building… all the McGuire trademarks.”

  —Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times

  Bestselling Author

  “Seanan McGuire’s Discount Armageddon is an urban fantasy triple threat—smart and sexy and funny. The Aeslin mice alone are worth the price of the book, so consider a cast of truly ORIGINAL characters, a plot where weird never overwhelms logic, and some serious kick-ass world-building as a bonus.”

  —Tanya Huff, author of The Wild Ways

  “Discount Armageddon is a quick-witted, sharp-edged look at what makes a monster monstrous, and at how closely our urban fantasy protagonists walk—or dance—that line. The pacing never lets up, and when the end comes, you’re left wanting more. I can’t wait for the next book!”

  —C. E. Murphy, author of Spirit Dances

  “Smart, whimsical and bitingly funny, Verity Price is a kick-ass heroine that readers will love. Just when I thought she couldn’t surprise me again, she would pull some new trick out of her hat—or in the case of her throwing knives—out of her corset. I would send Verity and my Jane Jameson on a girl’s night out, but I’m afraid of the damage bill they would rack up!”

  —Molly Harper, author of

  Nice Girls Don’t Bite Their Neighbors

  DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy

  from Seanan McGuire:

  InCryptid Novels:

  DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON

  October Daye Novels:

  ROSEMARY AND RUE

  A LOCAL HABITATION

  AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT

  LATE ECLIPSES

  ONE SALT SEA

  DISCOUNT

  ARMAGEDDON

  AN INCRYPTID NOVEL

  SEANAN MCGUIRE

  DAW BOOKS, INC.

  DONALD A. WOLLHEIM, FOUNDER

  375 Hudson Street, New York NY 10014

  ELIZABETH R. WOLLHEIM

  SHEILA E. GILBERT

  PUBLISHERS

  http://www.dawbooks.com

  Copyright © 2012 by Seanan McGuire.

  All Rights Reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-57687-8

  Cover art by Aly Fell.

  Interior dingbat created by Tara O’Shea.

  DAW Book Collectors No. 1579.

  DAW Books are distributed by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  If you purchase this book without a cover you should be aware that this book may have been stolen property and reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher. In such case neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Nearly all the designs and trade names in this book are registered trademarks. All that are still in commercial use are protected by United States and international trademark law.

  First Printing, March 2012

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

  PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

  For Phil.

  Let’s dance.

  Price Family Tree

  Cryptid, noun:

  1. Any creature whose existence has been suggested but not proved scientifically. Term officially coined by cryptozoologist John E. Wall in 1983.

  2. That thing that’s getting ready to eat your head.

  3. See also “monster.”

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  “I really don’t think you should put your hand inside the manticore, dear. You don’t know where it’s been.”

  –Enid Healy

  A small survivalist compound about an hour’s drive east of Portland, Oregon

  Sixteen years ago

  VERITY DANCED CIRCLES around the living room, her amateurish pirouettes and unsteady leaps accompanied by cheers and exultations from the horde of Aeslin mice perched on the back of the couch. The cheering of the mice reached a fever pitch on the few occasions where she actually managed to get both feet off the ground and land again without falling. Her brother looked up from his book, snorting once before returning to his studies. At nine, Alexander considered himself above younger sisters and their tendency to act like complete idiots when given the slightest opportunity.

  Evelyn Price leaned against the hallway arch with her youngest daughter balanced against her hip, watching Verity dance. A hand touched her shoulder. She sighed without looking around. “Kevin, I don’t know what we’re going to do about getting her to take her studies more seriously.”

  “She’s six. I wasn’t taking my studies seriously at that age either.”

  Evelyn laughed. “Should I ask the mice about that one, or would you like to admit that it’s a lie and save us all the sermon?”

  “All I’m saying is that she’ll settle down if we give her a little time. I promise, Evie. She’ll come around.” Kevin Price stepped up next to his wife. Antimony reached her three-year-old arms up toward him. He plucked her from her mother’s hip, hoisting her up to his own shoulder. She giggled. “What did Very decide she wasn’t going to do this time?”

  “Hide-and-seek,” said Evelyn.

  Most children treated hide-and-seek as a game. This alien behavior never failed to shock and scandalize the Price children once they achieved school age and went marching off to the local elementary to be socialized. For them, hide-and-seek was a serious business, one that centered on finding likely routes of ambush and escape and learning how to cut them off. Alex had received his first concussion during a game of hide-and-seek. He was five at the time. Kevin wasn’t sure the boy had ever been so proud of himself before or since.

  The thought of Verity refusing a hide-and-seek session was worrisome, especially since she’d always been better at it than her brother—a fact that made her want to “play” as often as possible. “What did she want to do instead?”

  “She says she wants to dance,” Evelyn said, watching Verity whirl around the room like a tiny blonde dervish. “That’s all. Just dance.”

  One

  “True love always shoots to kill.”

  —Alice Healy

  A nightclub in downtown Manhattan

  Now

  MUSIC PUMPED THROUGH THE CLUB’S SPEAKERS, distorted until it was barely more than a pounding bass line with a sprinkling of grace notes. It was perfect dance music, the kind that makes feet tap and thighs twitch with the need to get up and move. My own feet were tapping. I forced them to stop. There’d be time for that soon enough, but for the moment, waiting was still the name of the game.

  I hate waiting.

  Sarah had mana
ged to acquire a half-circle booth that was empty except for us. It would have been impossible for anyone else. I’m not even sure she realized she was doing something impressive. I leaned sulkily back in my seat, trying to look casual as I sipped my nonalcoholic “Cosmopolitan”—club soda, grenadine, and a maraschino cherry for that finishing touch—and scanned the dance floor.

  “So, Verity, tell me, are you looking for our nasty friend, or are you sizing up the competition?” Sarah’s tone was mild, but I could recognize the warning lurking underneath the question.

  “Sorry,” I said, looking guiltily away from the floor.

  “Aren’t you always?” Sarah was sitting in the center of the booth, partially so she could lounge nonchalantly against the burgundy vinyl cushions, and partially so she wouldn’t be in the way if I needed to move suddenly. Her choice of seating had the added bonus of keeping the crowd at a distance, since the full length of the table was between her and the rest of the club. Sarah doesn’t like being touched, something that’s generally viewed as a major loss by the male population of whatever city she’s in. She has classical black Irish coloring, with pale skin, thick black hair, and eyes that are an almost perfect ice blue. Add in her svelte figure and delicate features, and it’s no wonder she’s beating the boys off with a stick.

  Not that most of them would know how to handle the revelation that she bleeds clear and doesn’t have a heartbeat, but hey, what’s a little inhumanity between friends? Sarah’s family, even if it’s through adoption. And there’s something to be said for bringing a telepath along when you’re hunting rogue cryptids through Manhattan’s hottest party spots. Without her, I would never have been able to get past the velvet rope.

  She was still eyeing me. “My mind’s on the job,” I said defensively, plucking the cherry from my drink. “Really. I swear.”

  “Uh-huh.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “Do we have to have the ‘don’t lie to the telepath’ talk again? It won’t take long. I say ‘don’t lie to the telepath, it never works,’ you glare at me, and then you go find something you can hit.”

  “Finding something I can hit is the plan.” I popped the cherry into my mouth as I glanced at the dance floor. Mmm, food coloring and sugar. “He’ll show. His patterns have been regular up to now, and this is the next stop on his circuit.”

  “Well, I don’t know how much help I’m going to be. Ghoul minds are hard to tell from human minds under the best of circumstances. With this many drunk, horny people in one place, I’d be lucky to spot a serial killer, much less a ghoul.”

  “If you do spot a serial killer, let me know. Sitting here is making my feet itch.” My shoes were doing worse than that, but that’s what I get for wearing five-inch heels. They have a practical application—it’s almost impossible for me to pull off a good salsa without heels on. That doesn’t make them comfortable. At least when I was dancing, I had something to distract me from the way they bent my arches.

  Neither of us was dressed for comfort. Sarah was playing the bored celebutante, which necessitated that she wear the appropriate “uniform”: a skirt that could double as a belt, a backless silver handkerchief top, and knee-high leather boots. The temptation to snap a few pictures with my phone and mail them to our cousin Artie was almost impossible to resist. His head would probably explode.

  Sarah looked miserable. That didn’t matter; no matter how miserable she was, her telepathy would keep everyone around us seeing what they expected to see when they looked our way. Wearing the right things and drinking the right drinks just made it easier, since she didn’t have to work as hard to convince them.

  My skirt was slightly longer, but only because it’s borderline impossible to fit a thigh holster under a micromini. I made up for my shameful modesty with a blood-red velvet bustier that looked appropriately scandalous—and better yet, had steel corsetry boning and gave me room for five strategically placed throwing knives. Between those, the steel tips on my heels, and the perfume bottle of holy water in my purse, I was loaded for bear. More accurately, I was loaded for ghoul. This one was hunting in midtown, which is a big no-no, and had killed fifteen girls that we knew of. There were probably more that we’d managed to miss. Not okay.

  “If he’s here, he’ll be on the floor,” I said, trying to sound casual.

  I could tell from the look on Sarah’s face that she wasn’t buying it, but her sense of telepathic ethics wouldn’t let her admit that. She raised her eyebrow again before sighing and waving toward the floor. “Go. You’ll feel better. I’ll toss up a flare if I pick up on him.”

  “You’re the best!” I was out of my seat almost instantly, leaving my drink on the table as I made a beeline for the teeming mass of bodies on the dance floor. Steel-tipped heels can go a long way toward clearing a path, especially when you’re not opposed to “accidentally” stepping on a few toes. The smell of sweat, spilled alcohol, and a hundred different perfumes assaulted my nose, making my head swim. I dove into the crowd.

  The secret of good club music is the downbeat. Even the world’s worst dancer can’t help picking up a little rhythm when the bass is pumped high enough, and a good DJ can work a crowd like it’s just another kind of musical instrument. This DJ wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t terrible, and that was all I needed. I worked my way past the first tiers of dancers—the ones too drunk, too disinterested, or too interested in looking for a different kind of “dance” to defend their places in the center of the floor—and gave myself over to the beat, letting it tell my body where to go. It didn’t matter that I was there because something was killing club kids in what was currently my city. It didn’t matter that my clothes were Scotchgarded against bloodstains, not sweat. It didn’t even matter that all of my formal training was in the ballroom styles. I was dancing. Everything was going to be okay.

  The natural pulse of a good dance floor means the best dancers wind up getting pulled toward the center, sucked inexorably forward as they pass through the ranks of the less invested and the less skilled. I had half a dozen partners within the first five minutes, each trying to catch my eye as they shook whatever they had in my direction. They knew the rules of the floor, and when the tempo of my steps knocked theirs out of the game, they were graceful enough to let me go.

  I wound up packed into the place where the circles of dancers compressed to nearly nothing, sharing that coveted spot with three couples, two other single women, and a man about my age who seemed to be comfortable dancing by himself while he sized up his options. He looked like he’d just about settled on one of the women—a lanky brunette in hip-hugger designer jeans—when I hit the circle. His attention shifted, a predatory gleam lighting up his eyes.

  Single white male seeks single white female for …what, exactly? I gave him a once-over as he moved toward me, disguising the look with a flirtatious wink. All his clothes were dark, and the fabrics looked naturally stain-resistant. No scars, no tattoos, no jewelry; good-looking in that generic movie extra sort of way. The kind of guy you’d happily dance with for a little while, maybe even follow home if you were in the mood for something nastier than a little grinding.

  “Hey,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “I haven’t seen you here before. You’re good.”

  “You, too,” I shouted back.

  “Wanna dance?”

  “Sure thing!” That seemed to complete the pleasantries, and it was straight to business for my mystery man. He closed in like a heat-seeking missile, cupping my hips with his hands as he matched his rhythm to mine. A little tacky for a first date, maybe, but that’s nothing for a first dance. I’ve done tangos with men who thought my ass was a squeaky toy. Compared to them, Mr. Mystery was being nothing but polite.

  I looked at him more carefully as we writhed around the center circle together, and frowned. His teeth were white, slightly crooked in an adorable way, and normal. He couldn’t be our ghoul. Human flesh is tough to chew, and ghouls who take their dinner straight off the bone inevitably do a num
ber on their choppers. If my dance partner had been a ghoul passing for human, he would have either had perfect dentist-purchased caps or been keeping his lips shut. This wasn’t our guy. I let my body go back on autopilot, scanning the crowd around us.

  The normal ebb and flow of dancers continued, people falling back as they got tired or being pushed forward as they caught their second wind. Only the inner circle stayed mostly the same. Emphasis on the “mostly”—one of the couples was leaving, the woman laughing, the man giving a tight-lipped smile that completely hid his teeth.

  Shit.

  “Oopsie. I think I drank too many martinis. I need to go puke,” I said, and ducked away from a startled Mr. Mystery, shoving my way after the departing ghoul and the woman who was about to be his next victim. It was easier to get out than in, mostly because there were so many dancers happy to take my place, and to shove me farther toward the edge of the dance floor. I caught a glimpse of my former dance partner as he turned his attention to a redhead in a sparkly tube top, already forgetting about me. Oh, well. He wasn’t that hot.

  Who was I kidding? He was insanely hot, and I haven’t been able to finish dancing with a guy—or “dancing” with a guy—since I got to New York. Still, with a woman in immediate mortal peril, this wasn’t the time to worry about my love life. I kept moving forward. I was surrounded enough that there was no way Sarah would pick up on my mental distress call, and it’s not like she could do anything about it if she did. Sarah’s not a fighter. All she really knows how to do is sit calmly and camouflage herself until the trouble goes away.

  I finished pushing my way off the dance floor and stopped to scan the club, searching for my quarry. I finally spotted them by the front door, him helping her into her coat, her grinning ear to ear. Such a gentleman. Only once he got her outside and alone, all those good manners would go right out the window.