SL Huang - Up and Coming - Stories by the 2016 Campbell-Eligible Authors

“I guess. According to my mom, I—”

She clapped her hands, gleeful. “Absolute! Especial, you. From me dreams. Me dream of you, you different. A light in dark, bright in dark. Sí, sí, sí. Me give antibiotic”—her smile rose in the light of the fire—“for pistola.”

Ren sat back, confused. “What?”

Her grin spread as she extended her hand, palm up. “Pistola.”

“She wants your gun,” Óscar explained.

“I know that. But how does she know I have a gun?”

“You shot up the whole valley, Ren.”

The Bruja picked up the shotgun, pointed both barrels at the ceiling, and pulled the trigger. The boys cringed as the click echoed impotently around the room.

“The world done,” she said, and threw the weapon to the rocks. “Son, gone.” She pointed to Ren. “Your world now. Me dream of boy born in darkness. Severed from all.” She cackled. “What comes for you, different than all other.”

“Óscar, let’s go. She can’t stop—”

He rose, she hissed and knocked the bowl from his hand. Stew sizzled in the fire. “Estúpid, me want pistola to end my dreams. End suffering. Nothing more. Take what you want.” She pointed to the boxes. “Me know what comes for you, from my dreams—call to water, to blood. Tall buildings, long boat. Shadows before and behind…”

“Give her the damn pistol,” Óscar demanded.

“She’s loca. I’m not doing anything she says. Dude, I—”

She gripped Ren’s arm. “Must leave them, in the end. A Noruec, me see. Ros Noruec.”

“Noruec?”

“…dreams of a boat, big waters, dark depths, the devourer eats all, eats us…”

“You have to,” Óscar demanded. “Christos, if she gives us the—”

“…face a darkness like no other, leave her, grow tall, to stand before the devourer as a man, all alone…”

Ren pulled free and took a step away, all sense of adventure fading. The old woman’s chanting made him sick. Her tattoos mixed with her wrinkles, creating a nauseating effect. About her, the shadows swirled as if they craved release. He wanted out of here, to run and keep running, out of the cave, past the farmhouse, to his bike and straight to Ronda.

“…even now, too late. Foscor, foscor comes…”

“Mierda,” Óscar pleaded, “give her the damn gun.”

“Fear will draw them,” she said, and smiled. Her hand remained out. “Dimoni nearby. Be careful. Me feel them at night. Estúpid even before they try to die.”

“Fine.” Ren placed the handgun on her palm and, without a second glance, hurried to the nearest crate. In the third box he found sheets of unused pills. Hundreds. He pawed through them until he found ones labeled PENICILINA. Near the fire, the Bruja kept laughing. “Fill your pack,” Ren shouted. “I’ll grab a torch.”

“No hide,” the Bruja called out, laughing, a brittle laugh. “All will die. Everyone around you die. Leave you alone. All alone…”

All alone.

Ren shuddered at the thought.

With the lantern held before them, Ren led Óscar up the slick staircase, his pockets full of the pill sheets, needing to get away from the old woman. Behind, the painted fish danced on the wall, undulating with the flickering flames.

“Good luck, Americano,” the Bruja called out, cackling.

Ren tuned her out and hurried, up and down the slippery stairs. Needing to get back home, see his mother’s face—halfway through the caverns when a single retort clapped in the darkness.

The muffled gunshot bounced off the cavern’s walls, repeating until the echo, like sunlight at dusk, faded and was gone.

Originally published by Tor.com

Sylvain had just pulled up Annette’s skirts when the drips started. The first one landed on her wig, displacing a puff of rose-pink powder. Sylvain ignored it and leaned Annette back on the sofa. Her breath sharpened to gasps that blew more powder from her wig. Her thighs were cool and slightly damp—perhaps her arousal wasn’t feigned after all, Sylvain thought, and reapplied himself to nuzzling her throat.

After two winters at Versailles, Sylvain was well acquainted with the general passion for powder. Every courtier had bowls and bins of the stuff in every color and scent. In addition to the pink hair powder, Annette had golden powder on her face and lavender at her throat and cleavage. There would be more varieties lower down. He would investigate that in time.

The second drip landed on the tip of her nose. Sylvain flicked it away with his tongue.

Annette giggled. “Your pipes are weeping, monsieur.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, nipping at her throat. The drips were just condensation. An annoyance, but unavoidable when cold pipes hung above overheated rooms.

The sofa squeaked as he leaned in with his full weight. It was a delicate fantasy of gilt and satin, hardly large enough for the two of them, and he was prepared to give it a beating.

Annette moaned as he bore down on her. She was far more entertaining than he had expected, supple and slick. Her gasps were genuine now, there was no doubt, and she yanked at his shirt with surprising strength.

A drip splashed on the back of his neck, and another a few moments later. He had Annette abandoned now, making little animal noises in the back of her throat as he drove into her. Another drip rolled off his wig, down his cheek, over his nose. He glanced overhead and a battery of drips hit his cheek, each bigger than the last.

This was a problem. The pipes above were part of the new run supporting connections to the suites of two influential men and at least a dozen rich ones. His workmen had installed the pipes just after Christmas. Even if they had done a poor job, leaks weren’t possible. He had made sure of it.

He gathered Annette in his arms and shoved her farther down the sofa, leaving the drips to land on the upholstery instead of his head. He craned his neck, trying to get a view of the ceiling. Annette groaned in protest and clutched his hips.

The drips fell from a join, quick as tears. Something was wrong in the cisterns. He would have to speak with Leblanc immediately.

“Sylvain?” Annette’s voice was strained.

It could wait. He had a reputation to maintain, and performing well here was as critical to his fortunes as all the water flowing through Versailles.

He dove back into her, moving up to a galloping pace as drips pattered on his neck. He had been waiting months for this. He ought to have been losing himself in Annette’s flounced and beribboned flesh, the rouged nipples peeking from her bodice, her flushed pout and helplessly bucking hips, but instead his mind wandered the palace. Were there floods under every join?

Instead of dampening his performance, the growing distraction lengthened it. When he was finally done with her, Annette was completely disheveled, powder blotched, rouge smeared, wig askew, face flushed as a dairy maid’s.

Annette squeezed a lock of his wig and caressed his cheek with a water-slick palm.

“You are undone, I think, monsieur.”

He stood and quickly ordered his clothes. The wig was wet, yes, even soaked. So was his collar and back of his coat. A quick glance in a gilded mirror confirmed he looked greasy as a peasant, as if he’d been toiling at harvest instead of concluding a long-planned and skillful seduction—a seduction that required a graceful exit, not a mad dash out the door to search the palace for floods.

Annette was pleased—more than pleased despite the mess he’d made of her. She looked like a cat cleaning cream off its whiskers as she dabbed her neck with a powder puff, ignoring the drips pattering beside her. The soaked sofa leached dye onto the cream carpet. Annette dragged the toe of her silk slipper through the stained puddle.