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  Contents

  Summoning

  AN INTRODUCTION

  Suffer the Children

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Preacher

  Browning

  Preacher

  Browning

  Addie

  Browning

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Preacher

  Addie

  Pipers

  CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  A Bad Season for Necromancy

  DAVID LISS

  Alive Day

  JONATHAN MABERRY

  Chapter 1: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 2: Echo Team

  Chapter 3: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 4: Echo Team

  Chapter 5: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 6: Echo Team

  Chapter 7: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 8: Echo Team

  Chapter 9: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 10: Echo Team

  Chapter 11: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 12: Echo Team

  Chapter 13: Rattlesnake Team

  Chapter 14: Echo Team

  Chapter 15: Echo Team

  Chapter 16: Echo Team

  Chapter 17: Echo Team

  Chapter 18: Echo Team

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  About the Authors

  Summoning

  AN INTRODUCTION

  Whenever writers come together, ideas are born.

  In July of 2011, Christopher Golden and Jonathan Maberry sat in a Chinese restaurant in Rhode Island, discussing the nature of story and of plot. It has been said that there are only seven basic plots, and that each and every story can be reduced to fit within the parameters of one of those fundamental structures. While the authors of Four Summoner’s Tales could debate that assertion for eons, that dinner conversation brought Golden and Maberry into a tangential discussion about diverse works that share the same root plot, and how the quality and value of a story comes in the details and in the approach of the individual writer.

  In other words, it’s all in the execution.

  Wouldn’t it be interesting, they mused, to give a group of very different writers the same short, simple premise—just a single sentence, without any other parameters—and see what the result would be?

  Long before the fortune cookies arrived, musing turned into planning, and not long thereafter came the single-sentence premise from which the authors would work:

  A strange visitor comes to town, offering to raise the townsfolk’s dearly departed from the dead—for a price.

  It was agreed that the authors could interpret “strange visitor,” “town,” and “raise” any way they liked. The stories could be set in the past, present, or future, in a fantasy world or the real one, and be based on science or magic.

  The novella form was chosen as the best platform for this endeavor, long enough for plots to be fully explored and brought to fruition, but short enough to still be collected side by side. At novella length, four seemed the perfect number . . . thus, Four Summoner’s Tales.

  The only question that remained was who would pen the other two novellas, but Maberry and Golden found themselves in swift agreement, quickly enlisting Kelley Armstrong and David Liss, both renowned for their talent and imagination. Soon, the ideas began to coalesce . . .

  Suffer the Children

  KELLEY ARMSTRONG

  ADDIE

  Addie slid through the forest as silent as a lynx, her beaded moccasins muffling her footfalls. The young stag wasn’t as quiet. When it vanished from sight, she could track it by the crackle of autumn leaves under its hooves. Finally, it stopped to feed and she closed the gap between them until she could see it, small antlers lowered as it tugged at a patch of grass not yet brown and withered.

  Addie eased the bow from her back, notched an arrow, and took aim. The buck’s head jerked up. She loosed the arrow, but it was too late—the buck was in flight. Addie fired a second but too quickly, spurred by frustration and anger, the arrow lodging in a nearby maple.

  When the crash of the fleeing deer subsided, she peered around the dawn-lit forest. Something had startled the beast and it hadn’t been her. She would never have been so careless.

  Addie pulled her coat tighter against the chill. The jacket was too small for her now—she’d grown nearly a half foot in the past year—but she refused to let Preacher and Sophia buy one from the traders. She wanted to make one exactly the same way, doing everything from killing the deer and mink to curing the leather to sewing the cloth. There was not another twelve-year-old in Chestnut Hill who could claim the same. Not a girl of any age. Her parents may not have given her much, but they’d taught her to look after herself.

  They’d also taught her—unintentionally—how to sense danger. So now, after the buck had bolted, she went still and listened. She paid particular attention to noises from the north, upwind of the deer, presuming it was a scent that had startled it. After a few moments, she heard the tramp of boots on a well-packed path.

  Addie eased her bow onto her shoulder and pulled her skinning knife from its sheath. Then she slunk soundlessly through the woods. She knew exactly where to go—there was only one trodden path in the area, used by the villagers to get to the lake. When she was near enough to see figures, she crouched behind a low bush.

  It was two men. One middle-aged, perhaps thirty, the other so ancient that even with a cane and the younger man’s arm, he shuffled along. Neither was from the village. A hundred people lived in Chestnut Hill and Addie knew every one. The only travelers they saw were trappers and traders, and precious few of either so deep in the forest, three days’ ride from Toronto. These men were neither traders nor trappers. Settlers, then? Lured north by the promise of land or work on the railroad or in the mines? Settlers needed supplies, though, and these men carried only packs on their backs. No wagon. No cart. Not even horses.

  And where had they come from? The road lay on the other side. The men headed toward town on a path that only led from the lake. Trappers did come through the forest, but she saw no sign of such gear on these men. They hadn’t come across the lake—it was too small, with no settlements nearby save Chestnut Hill.

  Addie slipped through the forest to get a closer look. Both men had short hair and neatly trimmed beards. Though they wore long coats, she could see their clothing underneath. White shirts and black trousers. They looked as if they were heading to church.

  Missionaries. That’s what they had to be. Perhaps they’d been traveling on foot from Greenville, ten miles away, and gotten lost in the forest, taking the first well-trodden path they saw. It didn’t matter where they had come from, only that they were heading to Chestnut Hill.

  How would Preacher feel about other men of faith i
n his town? She ought to warn him. With any luck, they’d just be passing through. Chestnut Hill might not even allow them to stay, given that it still reeled from the tragedy that had Addie out in the woods, avoiding the glowers and glares of villagers, blaming her for the simple fact that she lived. That she’d survived.

  She was about to start back when the younger man looked straight at her. She froze, telling herself she was mistaken; there was no way he could have heard her, no way he could see her now, dressed in brown behind the dying leaves of a cranberry bush. But he didn’t simply glance her way. His eyes bore straight into hers, and when they did, she swore her heart stopped.

  “You there,” he called. “Girl.”

  How could he tell she was a girl? She was dressed as a boy, in trousers, her dark hair pulled back.

  “Girl,” he called again. “We’re heading to Chestnut Hill. Is this the way?”

  Her parents had taught her to look after herself because no one else would do it for her. She knew now they’d been wrong—and so she did try to be kind, to be helpful as Preacher and Sophia counseled. Yet even as she spurred herself to step from behind the bush and lead this man to Chestnut Hill, she looked into his eyes and she could not move, could not speak.

  The man released his grip on his elder’s arm and started toward her.

  “We’re here to help, child,” he said, his voice low and soothing, like Preacher coaxing Sophia’s cat from under the porch. “We know what Chestnut Hill has suffered and we wish to—”

  Addie bolted from her hiding place, running back toward the village like she had a black bear on her tail.

  PREACHER

  Preacher was taking confession behind the village outhouse. As the wind sliced through the weathered boards, bringing a blast of the stench from within, he reflected that this might not be the place to conduct such a holy endeavor.

  He also reflected that it was rather a fitting choice, given the astounding inappropriateness of the entire situation. He was as suited to the position as the location was to the task.

  He’d come to Chestnut Hill to teach, along with his wife, Sophia. They’d been doing so in Toronto together, and when this offer came, Sophia begged him to consider it. They’d been wed six years, and she’d had yet to conceive, a situation that bothered her far more than it did him. She’d begun to wonder if it was the noisy and noisome city affecting her health. The job in Chestnut Hill seemed the best way to test such a theory. Preacher didn’t care much where they lived, as long as she was happy, and off they went.

  They’d arrived in Chestnut Hill to find the local priest had been taken by the same influenza as the schoolteacher. So the council had made a decision. Two teachers was a luxury, one they were willing to bestow on their beloved children, but it seemed equally important that they be reared as proper Christians. Sophia would teach and her husband would take the priest’s place.

  Preacher had argued most strenuously against this arrangement. He was not a man of the cloth. That was all right, the council had replied—they’d never really wanted a papist anyhow and the good father had simply been the only man who’d take the position. Preacher could obviously read the Bible. That was enough.

  It was not enough. He knew that, felt the deception in his gut every day. He was not a God-fearing man. He wasn’t even a God-loving man. Sophia was the churchgoer, though he’d attended when he could, to please her. She’d offered to take the position instead, but the council had been aghast at the suggestion. Men taught the word of God. Even, it seemed, wholly unsuitable men.

  So, from that moment on, he was Preacher. Despite his best efforts to retain his name, only Sophia called him Benjamin. To everyone else, he was Preacher. The false prophet of God.

  Now he sat straddling a wooden bench, his back to old Millie Prior, listening to a litany of offenses too trivial to be called sins, as he tried not to inhale the stench of the outhouse. As for why he held confession here, it was the village’s decision—not a commentary on his ability but based, like all their choices, on simple convenience and expediency. Even if it was a papist custom, the people still expected confession, and the outhouse was discreetly removed from the village, used only when folk were out and about and couldn’t get home to utilize their own facilities. It had a bench, in case people had to wait their turn during a festival or such. It made sense, then, to have the priest—and now the preacher—hold confession there.

  As he listened to Millie admit to envying her sister-in-law’s new dress, a commotion sounded in the woods behind him. When he saw who it was, he had to blink, certain his vision was impaired. His foster daughter never made a noise, and here she was, barreling toward him like a charging bull, dead leaves and branches cracking underfoot.

  “Preacher!” Addie said, stumbling forward. “There’s men—”

  As Millie glared over, Preacher said, “I’m sorry, child. I’m hearing confession. You’ll need to leave.” Then, behind Millie’s back, he motioned for Addie to simply step to the side and pantomime the news, which she did, mouthing that she’d seen missionaries heading to town as he gave Millie two Hail Marys and absolved her of her sins.

  “But I’m not done, Preacher,” Millie said. “I still—”

  “We ought not to take up too much of the Lord’s time, Miz Prior. If you need to unburden yourself of more, we can do it at your next confession.”

  She grumbled, but there was no rancor in it. Everyone knew God was a busy man—she simply thought she deserved more of his time than others. Once she was gone, Preacher strode over to Addie. She was obviously agitated, but he knew better than to offer any of the usual parental comforts, like a hug or even a squeeze on the hand.

  When he was a boy, he’d found a dog half-dead in an alley and though he’d nursed it back to health, it was never quite right, always wary, always expecting the worst. His mother said someone had beaten it when it was a pup, and he ought to do his best to be kind to it, but he ought never to expect too much. It would always cower at a raised hand, anticipating a beating, no matter how often it got a pat on the head. Addie never cowered, but she had that same look in her eyes, always wary, always expecting the worst.

  “Missionaries, you said?” he whispered as he walked over to her, hiding in the forest until Millie was gone.

  “Two men. I don’t like the looks of them.”

  “Indigent?” he said. When she seemed confused, he said, “Vagrants?”

  “No, they were dressed as fine men. I just . . . I didn’t like their looks. They said they were coming to help us. After . . . what happened.”

  Preacher sucked in breath. “Snake-oil salesmen.”

  “Yes!” Addie said. “That’s what they put me in mind of. Peddlers. We had some a few years back, when they were thinking of putting the railroad through here. They sold my ma a cream that was supposed to make her look young again and it didn’t work and my pa got so mad at her for wasting the money . . .” She trailed off, her gaze sliding to the side. “It wasn’t good.”

  No, Preacher was certain it wasn’t. Not much had been “good” in Addie’s young life. Sometimes, the wilderness did things to people, especially those like her folks who stayed out there, away from the villages. People weren’t supposed to live like that. It was as if the forest got into their blood, leached out the humanity. He’d been there, when they’d found Addie’s parents. You’d have thought a wild creature broke in. That’s what they told Addie anyway. Whether she believed it . . .

  Preacher looked down at his foster daughter, holding herself tight as she peered into the forest, watching for trouble. No, he hoped she’d believed them, but he doubted it.

  “I’ll go warn the mayor,” he said. “No one needs the kind of comfort they’re selling. Perhaps we can stop them before they reach the village. Can you run home and tell Sophia? She might hear a commotion, and she ought to stay inside and rest.”

  “Is she still feeling poorly?”

  He nodded. “But if anyone asks, she’s busy writing
lessons for when school starts again.”

  Addie gave him a look well beyond her years. “I know not to tell anyone she’s unwell, Preacher.”

  He apologized and sent her off, watching her go, bow bobbing on her thin back. Their house was across town; it was quicker cutting through the village, but she always took the forest. Once she disappeared, he headed into town.

  Sophia was indeed unwell, yet it was no grave cause for concern. Celebration, actually. After three years in Chestnut Hill, her dream had been realized. She was with child. And it could not have come at a worse time.

  Preacher strode toward the community hall. That’s where the mayor and his wife would be. Where he ought to have been, even though it wasn’t Sunday. For the past month, he’d spent more time in the hall—which doubled as the church—than he had at home. Tending to the living. Tending to the dead.

  So many dead.

  These days, the only villager as busy as Preacher was the carpenter, building coffins. Tiny coffins, lined up in the community hall like props for some macabre play—a tragedy unlike anything the Bard himself would have dared put to paper.

  Thirty-six dead in a month. One-third of the entire village. Eight elderly men and women had passed, but the rest were children. In September, twenty-four children had trooped back to Sophia’s class for the year. When they reopened the school, she’d have six. And there would be no little ones starting for years after that. No child below the age of five had survived.

  Diphtheria. Not that anyone other than Preacher and Sophia used the word. Here, it was simply “the sickness,” as if there were no other that mattered.

  What had Chestnut Hill done to deserve this? How had they offended God?

  They had not. Preacher knew that. He’d gone to university. He knew about Louis Pasteur and the role bacteria played in disease. That was why Sophia had disbanded school as soon as they realized it wasn’t merely children’s coughs and colds. That was why they had urged the town to quarantine the sick. They had not listened, of course. Everyone knew the way to treat ailments of the chest was with hot tea, a little whiskey, and plenty of prayer.