Madhouse, p.1

Madhouse, page 1



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  Praise for the Novels of Rob Thurman


  “[Cal and Niko] are back and better than ever…a fast-paced story full of action.”


  “A strong second volume…Cal continues to be a wonderful narrator, and his perspective on the world is one of the highlights of this book…. The plotting is tight and fast paced, and the world-building is top-notch.”

  —Romantic Times


  “A roaring roller coaster of a read…[it’ll] take your breath away. Supernatural highs and lows, and a hell of a lean over at the corners. Sharp and sardonic, mischievous and mysterious…. The truth is Out There, and it’s not very pretty.”

  —Simon R. Green

  “A strong first novel.”


  “Cal’s a sarcastic, sardonic narrator who pulls the reader into his world, both the good and the bad. Tightly plotted and fast-paced…full of twists and turns.”

  —Romantic Times

  “A subtly warped world compellingly built by Thurman…. This book has an absolutely marvelous voice in Cal’s first-person narrative. The combination of Chandleresque detective dialogue and a lyrically noir style of description is stunningly original.”

  —The Green Man Review

  “A damn fine book, and excellent first effort.”


  “Gripping, fast-paced fantasy.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  Also by Rob Thurman




  Rob Thurman


  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, North Shore 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 © Robyn Thurman, 2008

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-1012-1285-1

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.


  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.

  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 electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  As always, for my mom




























  I would like to thank, as always, my wonderful editor, Anne Sowards; thanks also to Tina, Erica, and Cam—Penguin’s Charlie’s Angels of kicking publishing ass; Dr. Linda James for her assistance in the medical areas; Jeff Thurman of the Federal Bureau of Investigation for his weapons advice; the unequaled art and design team of Chris McGrath and Ray Lundgren; my agent, Jennifer Jackson; Shannon and River—forever the twins; Jordana, friend and inspiration for the Nature Channel reference; Shawn and Beth, for keeping my Web site up and running; and fellow writer Mara.

  I have taken great liberties with the tunnel system at Columbia University, as well as with the interior of Buell Hall. It was all in the interest of the plot, I promise you, but as a result, reality has suffered. My apologies to reality.

  Then again, what has reality ever done for me?


  I hated kidnapping cases. Hated them with an unholy passion.

  And trust me, unholy was something I knew about—hell, I wore it like a faded old T-shirt. One I’d had since birth. There were those who said I couldn’t let go of that, and that it was long past time I did. But hey, if you can’t bitch about your monster half, what can you bitch about?

  As for kidnappings, no surprise there on how I felt about them. Several months before, someone I knew had been kidnapped—two someones, actually. Although the second taking had lasted less than an hour, the first had lasted two weeks. Despite the difference in time, they had both left their mark, physically and mentally. My shirt and jacket hid the first. I wasn’t sure anything hid the second, but I gave it my best shot with caustic sarcasm, brittle bravado, and good old-fashioned denial. That was a triple threat that had done well by me for a long damn time, and I had no plans to give it up now.

  I was briskly swatted on the back of my head. “I’m curious, Cal. Do you plan on paying attention any time soon or would you like to have the kidnappers reschedule? I’m sure they’ll be amenable. Kidnappers so often are.”

  Niko Leandros. He had been one of those who had disappeared on me, even if only temporarily. As brothers went, he was a good one, despite a horrifying obsession with health food, meditation, and things generally not revolving around pizza and beer. But we all have our crosses to bear…. Mine was to be smacked when I wasn’t with the program, and his was to be overeducated, as self-aware as the Dalai Lama, and to keep my ass alive. Poor bastard.

  “I’m paying attention,” I lied instantly, rubbing the back of my head and giving him a wounded glare.

  He snorted, but didn’t call me on it as sharply as I deserved. Apparently the swat was punishment enough. “Then let’s move on before you pay so much attention that you fall asleep where you stand.”

  Like I said, a good brother, and good brothers, besides keeping your ass alive, also don’t let it get away with much. But there was no denying he was letting me slide a little. Why? Because he knew me, and he knew a case like this wasn’t going to trigger any good memories. Grunting in reply, I moved along at his side. “So they kidnapped the mistress of a vampire,” I grumbled. “She’s a lamia. I’ve seen lamias and I don’t know why the hell anyone would want one bac
k.” Like vampires, lamias fed on blood. These days most vampires had found a better way, but lamias weren’t looking to improve themselves. And although they fed on blood, there the similarity to vampires ended. A lamia’s bite, usually on the chest—or if they were really into you, other, more sensitive parts—had a chemical in its saliva that paralyzed its victim. Like a leech they would stay fastened to you and drain your blood…very, very slowly. It could take days—days in which you couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t beg for a faster death.

  Sure, that’s my dream girl. Bring her on.

  But obviously a vamp felt different and here we were.

  “I think it matters less about his taste in bed partners and more about us getting paid.” I didn’t see his dark blond head move, but I knew Niko was scanning the area unceasingly.

  “I keep telling you, if you’d go with the whole trophy boyfriend thing, life would be a lot easier,” I pointed out helpfully.

  From the narrow-eyed look shot my way, apparently I wasn’t as helpful as I’d thought. Niko was tight with a vampire of his own, Promise. Promise was, to say the least, loaded. Five excessively rich, as well as excessively elderly, husbands in the past ten years had her set up for…well, not life—after all, she was a vampire. But it would keep her comfortable for a long, long time. And Niko absolutely refused to take advantage of it, not that he had some sort of macho hang-up. He simply would make his own way as we had all of our lives. Right now, making our way revolved around an agency we’d set up with Promise. Kidnappings, bodyguard work, cleaning some killer clowns out of a carnival…we were up for all of it. The fact that it didn’t quite cover our expenses yet had us working second jobs. Niko was a teacher’s assistant at NYU (pity the kid who walked late into one of his classes—decapitation is a big deterrent for tardiness). As for me? I tended to move around a lot. Mainly bars. It wasn’t good to get attached. I’d learned that from a lifetime of running from my relatives…the ones with claws and hundreds of teeth. And although the running had stopped, habits were hard to break. Which, I guess, is why we’d made monster hunting a career instead of an occasional necessity.

  And Central Park was full of them.

  They liked the park. It was big, and it was full of snacks. No one notices if a mugger, murderer, or rapist goes missing. It was a good place to hit the human buffet and not be noticed. We’d once had an informant here of the very same opinion. He was gone now, dead by Niko’s sword. Somewhere to the north lay a mud pit empty of a boggle with the worst New Yawk accent I’d ever heard. I kind of missed him sometimes. If nothing else, he’d been entertaining. Bloodthirsty and homicidal, but amusing—up to a point. Trying to kill Niko had been that point.

  “Are we there yet?” I checked my watch. We had about five minutes until the meet.

  “Did you look at the map that was sent with the instructions?” Niko looked down his long nose to ask in a forbidding tone that said he already knew the answer.

  “That’s what I have you for.” I grinned. “I’m just here to carry the heavy stuff. The union says thinking rolls me into overtime.”

  Niko pulled his katana from beneath his gray duster, looked at the moonlight glimmer of it, and then looked at me with an eyebrow raised.

  “Yeah, right,” I dismissed, unfazed.

  “You’re assuming I wouldn’t paddle you with it like the child you are.”

  Okay, that threat I bought. He could do it all right, and he actually might during one of our sparrings just for his own personal amusement.

  “And yes,” he added, “we are almost there.” He took another three steps. “And now we are.”

  I looked around, but didn’t see anything even in the bright moonlight. Shoving my hands in the pockets of my black leather jacket, I took a whiff of the cool November air. Instantly, I grimaced. I might not have seen anything, but I damn sure smelled it. The scent was dank—stagnant water with the ripe and rancid taint of day-old fish beneath it. “They’re coming.” I freed a hand and rubbed at my nose. “And they stink like you wouldn’t believe. Something from the water.” A fish of the day you definitely didn’t want to order.

  “Aquatic,” Niko murmured. “That narrows it down to a few hundred in the nonhuman pantheon. Very helpful.”

  “Hey, I tried.” Getting accustomed to the smell, I shifted impatiently on the grass and checked my watch again. “Crooks, monster or human, they’re all the same. No damn consideration.”

  I suppose that’s how my gun found its way into my hand as the first figure appeared out of the trees. “Bishop-fish,” Niko murmured. “Nothing extraordinary. Easy to kill.”

  If I was a little disappointed at that, I kept it to myself. As creatures went, it wasn’t that impressive. I’d seen someone more grimly unnerving in a mirror. Sometimes I wasn’t sure who I meant by that. It could’ve been the creature known as Darkling, who a year ago had crawled out of a mirror to put my body on like a snazzy suit and take it cruising on the road to hell, or it could’ve been my own mundane reflection. Either way, there was no denying the both of us had our moments and either of us could eat fish boy for lunch. Although dead Darkling, every molecule the monster to my half, might’ve enjoyed it a little more.


  Dappled here and there with the ghost of scales over nearly transparent pale skin, the bishop-fish had the form of a human. Sort of. The shape of his head was a little off. Hairless and only lightly scaled, it was oddly flattened and the mouth had thick, rubbery lips and tiny triangular teeth. No kelp eater, this one. He wasn’t wearing a stitch—not a damn thing, which told me he didn’t rub shoulders with the local New Yorkers much. I looked down. Even they would give that a glance. Yeah, that.

  Now I knew where fish sticks came from.

  I decided keeping my gaze on his eyes was the lesser of two evils despite their unblinking bulge. Guess you can’t blink if you don’t have eyelids. Round pupils took us in and the mouth opened to gurgle, “These are the demands. First—”

  That’s when I shot him.

  My patience with kidnappers was long gone before I had even taken a step into the park. I put a bullet in his chest, which exploded like an overripe tomato and splattered fluid in a wide arc. With his impossibly wide mouth gaping, he teetered and began to fall. I stepped forward and slipped the paper from the fleshy claw as Mr. Fish Stick crumpled to the ground with a disturbingly wet slapping sound. “I can read, asshole,” I muttered.

  Niko said from behind me, “Really? When did you learn?” Raising his voice, he asked mildly, “Is there anyone here we could negotiate with that my brother would find less annoying?” Like me, he knew there was someone else in the trees. I smelled them and he heard them. Rustle one leaf, step on one frost-brittle piece of grass, and he would hear it. He was all human, Niko, like our mother, Sophia Leandros, but when he did things like that you had to wonder.

  The smell I was picking up from a distance wasn’t as bad as that of the fish. It was the scent of old things and attic must and hundreds of abandoned spiderwebs. In other words, it smelled like Niko’s library of books. Knowing Niko would be watching its approach, I squinted at the paper in my hand, ignoring the damp slime on it. If the moon hadn’t been so bright and plump in the sky, I wouldn’t have been able to see anything. I might have monster smelling—whoopee…what a superpower—but I had human vision. As it was, I could make out only a few words. Money wasn’t mentioned. I wasn’t that surprised. Very few monsters were into the material world. Vampires, pucks, and werewolves liked to live high on the hog, but most of the nonhuman world was more interested in eating. Lots and lots of eating.

  The ransom mentioned people. Nice, plump people. Nice, juicy children. The kids. Why was it always the kids?

  Some kidnappers don’t want to earn their money, and some don’t want to catch their own dinner. Trade one lamia for a truckload of humans—what a deal. In the end they were all lazy psychotics and the one that finally came to Niko’s call was no different. You could all but see t
he waves of craziness coming from her, shimmering like heat off a summer road.

  “Black Annis.” Niko sounded almost pleased. “I thought she was a myth.”

  She scuttled with the back and forth motion of a poisonous centipede. Part of the time she was on two feet, the rest on all fours. She looked like an old woman, but not a sad wraith in a nursing home or cheerful crocheting grandma—unless it was one who’d have no problem picking her teeth with a sliver of Hansel’s gnawed leg bone.

  Now, this was a little more disturbing than the fish. And it became more disturbing when six more of her appeared to race across the grass.

  “You thought she was a myth. She. Singular. Is that what you were saying?” I dropped the paper to the ground. I still had my gun in my right hand and I drew my knife with the left from the double holster under my jacket. Ugly and serrated, the blade had been a constant and faithful companion for a while now. Niko did give damn fine Christmas presents.

  “Apparently the myth is incorrect. It only makes things more interesting,” he said blandly. “Surely a few old women don’t concern you?”

  Old women, my ass. The seven of them were covering the ground with freakish speed. Long, thick fingernails scored the ground, sending dirt and grass flying, and their teeth…let’s just say they weren’t the kind that got put in a glass on the bedside table. The Annises, Anni, Black Annies…whatever—they weren’t identical, but they were so similar they may as well have been. They all wore the same ragged black shifts too. Torn to streamers in places, the cloth fluttered and tangled as they ran. I saw flesh through the holes, flesh I suspected was cyanotic blue although it appeared gray in the glow of the moon. Whatever color it was, I didn’t want to see it.

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