Red Delicious

Siobhan Quinn is back and working a new case in the dark and satirical sequel to Blood Oranges. Half-vampire, half-werewolf Siobhan Quinn survived her initiation into the world of demons and monsters. But staying alive as she becomes entangled in underworld politics might prove to be more difficult. When the daughter of a prominent necromancer vanishes, it's up to Quinn to find the girl. But her search will land her directly in the middle of a struggle between competing forces searching for an ancient artifact of almost unimaginable power...

Praise for Red Delicious

"Gritty urban fantasy meets old-fashioned noir in this high octane sequel to Blood Oranges."—Publishers Weekly

"[A] rollicking good time...witty and snide and wonderfully awful."—Tor.com

"It feels great to be back in the world of Siobhan Quinn...The fast-paced, volatile and unpredictable nature of the story means there is never a dull moment."—The Bibliosanctum

Praise for Blood Oranges

"The New England setting is colorful and convincing, and Tierney populates it with a weird and splendid set of supernatural beings...A memorably exhilarating and engaging experience."—Kirkus Reviews

"An engagingly fresh perspective to well-trod territory...Colorful side characters and a fully realized setting make this a fast-paced series opener well worth checking out."—Publishers Weekly

"[Kiernan] has made it her business to turn the comfortable genres of imaginative fiction inside out. Now writing as Kathleen Tierney she introduces a heroine as fascinating and compelling as she is foul-mouthed and impatient."—Library Journal

"[A] fast-paced, profane, and combustive little thriller."—The Black Letters

Autorentext

Caitlin R. Kiernan

Leseprobe
The Girl Most of what I knew about Berenice Maidstone and her wayward kid sister had been covered in the backseat of Mean Mr. B’s silver Buick. I’d be going into this affair just shy of blind. He hadn’t slipped me a hush-hush dossier filled with the deepest, darkest secrets of the two or a Mission: Impossible–style “this tape will self destruct in ten seconds” cassette. Yeah, I could undoubtedly have fished out a few more details if I’d had the presence of mind to speak up. But I didn’t, and I wasn’t about to call him back. “Oh, hey. I’m a dipshit and totally forgot to ask, but . . .”

No. I’d had enough of his gloating for that particular day. So, could’a, should’a, would’a. Now move on.

She’s a student at Brown. Her and about ten thousand other people. Thanks, dude. That’s a lot to go on. Still, over the months since my death, I had cultivated a couple of contacts who, in turn, had a couple of snitches. It was a hit-and- miss, ragtag string of confidential informants who had to be compensated for tips that rarely panned out, but it was slightly better than nothing at all. Back home I made a couple of calls, the second to a back-alley dealer in pilfered karma and memories who went by Cutter. He occasionally fed me the lowdown on someone, and, in return, I mostly left him and his operation the fuck alone. Anyway, he promised to call me back as soon as he had time to see what he could dig up, as regards the specifics of Berenice’s comings and goings at BU.

“It’s important, Cutter.”

“Gotta be delicate on this one,” he sort of whined. If ferrets could talk, they’d sound like Cutter. “Prying into the Maidstones, that’s some dangerous undertaking.”

“No shit, but that’s the score.”

“You don’t ask much, do you?”

I kicked an empty Narragansett beer bottle at the door. It didn’t break. “Dude, you want me to go tellin’ B you’re being anything less than cooperative?”

“Quinn, you know it ain’t like that. You know—”

“Shoulder to the wheel,” I said. “That’s all I’m asking. Come up with something good, it’ll buy you a couple of months hassle free.”

“Well, I know this hacker—”

“I don’t care how you do it, just do it.”

Jesus, I love talking shit to douche bags.

I tossed the ridiculous Hello Kitty iPhone onto my puke-colored sofa, undressed, and spent the next half hour or so standing under the showerhead, letting the hot, hot water hammer my back and shoulders, my face and chest. The morning’s encounter with Rizzo kept playing over and over in my head, and despite B’s insistence that all was cool and no damage had been done by leaving the son of a bitch alive, I was fairly certain it was only a matter of time before that act of “mercy” came back to take a chunk out of my ass. By the way, when the loup Jack Grumet bit me that July night out at the Scituate Reservoir, he’d bitten me in the ass, so there was a precedent. B had bigger fish to fry at present, and that’s the only reason he hadn’t reamed me for not putting Bert Rizzo down.

By the time I finally got out of the shower and dressed in the cleanest clothes I could scrounge from the dirty assortment of T-shirts and jeans scattered about my bedroom, it was early afternoon. There was a Radiohead shirt that didn’t smell too bad. I sat down on the edge of my sagging mattress and stared longingly at the pillows. What possible difference did it make if I tracked down Ms. Maidstone today or tomorrow? As for Shaker, either he was dead or he wasn’t, and a few hours’ shut-eye wasn’t gonna change that, either.

I lay down, blinking at the sunlight through the windowpane. The clouds had begun to break up. I’d just shut my eyes when the phone started ringing.

No peace to the wicked, right?

I rolled out of bed and made it back to the sofa by the fourth ring. It was Cutter, and the extra-ferrety tremble in his voice was enough to tell me he was none too happy to be making this call.

“Senior year. Linguistics. I got her schedule and emailed it to you. Black hair, amber eyes—”

“Amber.”

“That’s what I said, ain’t it? Tall, too. Almost six feet, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble spotting her. Her address and phone number, they’re in the email. But you might want to try watching the Front Green, along Prospect Street. Seems she and some pals have a habit of congregating near Carrie Tower, round about sunset.”

“Sunset. In February?”

“Quinn, that’s what I heard. And that’s all I got for you. That and what’s in the email. And you didn’t hear none of this from me. I could go my whole life without so much as seeing one of the Maidstones, much less—”

“Cutter, how about you take a Valium and try to calm the fuck down? ”

“Two months,” he said. “Two months, free and clear.”

“That’s the deal, if this shit pans out.”

He hung up first. So much for sleep and letting it all slide until the next day. If B found out I had a lead and didn’t act on it right off, he’d go on the warpath, which I definitely didn’t need. I went back to the bedroom and slid a heavy wool sweater on over the T-shirt. No, it’s not as if vamps get cold—as I have said—but I knew I should make an effort at blending in. Lurking about at night, that’s one thing; broad daylight at a crowded campus, that’s another. So, mortal drag—the hazel-green contacts, the dental prosthetics, the heavy makeup to hide my waxy pale skin—my camouflage against detection from all those people who have no idea the nasties walk among them. And who are best off never learning …