Jay Posey - Morningside Fall

This is an Advanced Reading Copy of the book and may not have been through the final editorial and proof-reading process prior to publication. Please do not quote from the text in reviews, or critique the text on the basis of perceived errors, without double-checking with Angry Robot to see if the final version has been amended.

Thank you.

Kitchener-bot says:

“Join the Robot Army mailing list at http://angryrobotbooks.com/robot-army/ to receive notification of advanced reading copies of all our books, press releases and so forth!”

Plus, if you love this book (as we sincerely hope you will) and would like to interview the author, or run any other sort of feature coverage on your blog / website, or in your magazine / newsletter please do get in touch via http://angryrobotbooks.com/contact .

In the shadow of the moon, the Thing lay in wait. Its prey was near and drawing slowly nearer. A fresh burst of vital signal pulsed like a heartbeat, a digital vibration that could be neither seen nor heard. Though the Thing could not taste, it processed the sensation into something like that of cold iron on the tongue. Claws extended. Soon.

The Thing no longer knew hunger, or thirst, or addiction. Yet it was compelled. Compelled to hunt. To reclaim. To optimize. Had its companions been near, it might have called to them to chase their quarry and corner it. Alone, however, the Thing was forced to ambush. An abnormal protocol.

Seconds remained. The prey would exit the narrow alley and pass into view. The Thing would strike. Others would come to take the harvest away. The Thing would begin to search anew. That was its process. Its function.

The prey appeared. Stopped, facing away from the Thing. Unaware. The Thing rocked back, muscles tensed to pounce. Then hesitated. Something strange. The Thing scanned, evaluated.

This one was smaller than most. But a sort of pressure emanated, radiated from it. A weight. Its signal was complex, multilayered, multithreaded. More intricate than any the Thing had before encountered. Had the Thing been capable of emotion, it might have felt something like awe. Or fear.

The prey turned to face the Thing. Unsurprised. Unafraid. Waited calmly. Raised its hand. The Thing leapt.

It felt its claws puncture, but the instant it made contact, the Thing experienced a piercing cold that bored into the center of its forehead and streaked through to the back of its skull. It cried out involuntarily, a static burst of white noise. The cold became white-hot behind the Thing’s eyes. A cleansing fire, like cobwebs vanishing in a flash of flame. And as the Thing fell to the ground, it remembered.

My name is Painter.

A man with a knife was standing in the hall. Wren could feel him, and lay still, absolutely still, like Mama had taught him, covers pulled tight to his mouth out of fear that his breath might escape and somehow invite attack.

Mama.

He could call for her. Scream. And then the man with the knife would disappear, and try again another time. Sometime when Wren might not see it coming, when he had no chance to stop it. Better to allow the plan to unfold until the attacker was committed. Maybe.

Whoever was out there wasn’t moving. Just standing. Waiting, maybe. Or listening. For an instant, Wren nearly pimmed his mother, quietly reaching out to her through the digital connection. But no. He might catch the burst of signal, recognize the warning, and then it’d be the same as a scream.

Wren’s eyes scanned the dim room, moonglow blue in the soft light of the night-light near the foot of his bed. Now he felt childish for having kept the light, and foolish for the disadvantage it forced on him. There would’ve been more places to hide in pure darkness. More opportunity to surprise his would-be attacker, or to slip out and escape. But not now. He’d limited his own options and traded imaginary dangers for real ones.

The person in the hall moved, and moments later Wren could hear a faint scratching at the door. Working the lock from the outside. Help wasn’t going to come. Wren would have to figure this one out on his own.

Carefully, carefully, he slipped sideways, stretching his foot out and down, down to the floor that now seemed too far away. When he finally made contact with the floor, he eased himself off the mattress, not daring to breathe, trying desperately to slide silently out from under the covers without shaking the bed. Just as he was about to get his other leg out, the door clicked once and the scratching stopped. Wren froze.

Silence stretched. The person was still there. Did he hear Wren? Or was he afraid that Wren had heard him? The leg that was supporting all of Wren’s weight started to burn. As he was trying to decide whether to shift back into the bed or not, the scratching resumed. Good. Still working on the lock then. Wren got his other foot on the floor and quietly shifted the pillows into a lump under the covers.

We often see what we expect , Three had once told him, and miss what we don’t.

Three, the man who’d given his life to get Wren safely to Morningside. Wren felt a cold knot in his chest, the fear mixing with a sudden sadness of loss. He swallowed and tucked the blankets in around the lumped pillows. Not very convincing, but maybe they’d buy him some time anyway.

The room was simple and small. A desk, a chair. Not many natural hiding places. Did he have time to switch off the night-light? No, the man with the knife might see the light go out under the door and then he’d know Wren was awake and aware. Instead, Wren grabbed the corner of the large comforter on his bed and pulled it towards the night-light. The fold cast a dark shadow across one corner of the room without disturbing the brightness near the door.

Wren’s bed was positioned in one corner of the room, the right side pushed against the same wall that held the door and the head against the wall adjacent. Sleeping in the corner had made the room feel smaller, more secure. Now, Wren was grateful to notice that the intruder’s likely approach to the bed would put his back to Wren’s hiding place.

There was something else, something in the drawer in the desk that might help, if Wren could just open it quietly enough. The door clicked again. Unlocked now. No time for anything else. Wren backed into the darkest corner of the room, diagonal from the door, tight in a ball, the chair the only thing between him and the entry. The first seconds would be the most dangerous; if the attacker scanned the room before entering, he might spot Wren in the corner. But if he was intent on the bed, Wren just might have a chance.

The boy watched the door handle with wide eyes. Tried to keep his breathing steady. His heart thundered so hard against his ribs he feared the man with the knife would be able to hear it.

From across the room, it was nearly impossible to tell if the handle was turning or not. But soon a crack appeared between the door and its frame and Wren knew the man was creeping in. At last the figure appeared, gliding like smoke seeping through the barely-opened door. He was backlit and silhouetted by the night-light, a slender figure with a hood. No, not a hood. Hair, long, past the shoulders. He was short, hunched in on himself; his frame slight, his movement controlled and delicate like a dancer.