Chasing the Moon

by A. Lee Martinez

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy; Action & Adventure; Humor & Satire

Synopsis

Unspeakable horrors threaten the earth in this fantastic new comic fantasy from the author of Divine Misfortune. Diana's life was in a rut -- she hated her job, she was perpetually single, and she needed a place to live. But then the perfect apartment came along. It seemed too good to be true -- because it was. The apartment was already inhabited -- by monsters. Vom the Hungering was the first to greet Diana and to warn her that his sole purpose in life was to eat everything in his path. This poses a problem for Diana since she's in his path. . .and is forbidden from ever leaving the apartment. It turns out though that there are older and more ancient monstrous entities afoot -- ones who want to devour the moon and destroy the world as we know it. Can Diana, Vom, and the other horrors stop this from happening? Maybe if they can get Vom to stop eating everything. . .and everyone.

Release date: May 25, 2011

Publisher: Orbit

Print pages: 320

Sample

“You’re doing it again,” Sharon said.

“Am I?”

The moon called to Calvin. After all this time he should’ve become accustomed, but it was always a distraction. Especially during the new moon when the silver orb disappeared in darkness.

Fenris, the monstrous thing, trailed behind the moon. The moon god shone like a fireball on those nights.

Tonight was only a half moon, though, and in some ways that was worse. During the full moon the voice was barely a whisper, and the horrible thing chasing after it turned a mottled, dark green that almost made it disappear. During the new moon the voice was so strong he could almost hear what it was saying, finding some comfort in the alien voice. But at the half moon the balance between his own mind and the horrid thing above was just right to allow it to claw and rake at his soul. It wasn’t intentional. Fenris was just as terrified and confused by the situation as he was, and it sought refuge in his mind, struggling against the endless, raging storm of madness.

Sharon turned Calvin gently away from the window and helped him with his tie. “I don’t know why you can’t ever make this straight.”

“I don’t know why it even matters,” he replied. “Nobody cares about the tie.”

“Oh, shush.” She put a hand to his lips. “It’s not going to kill you to dress up now and then.”

Sharon was tall, about twenty-five pounds heavier than Hollywood permitted non–character actors to be, with a smile that always managed to bring him down to earth.

“I just don’t see the point in—”

“You don’t have to see the point, Calvin dear. Sometimes we just do things because we do them. It’s tradition.”

He chuckled. Traditions meant little to him. Probably because he’d seen a thousand come and go.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Nice,” he replied automatically, without taking the time to look at her.

She wasn’t offended, having become accustomed to his moods. She put a hand on his cheek and turned his face away from the night sky. “Ready?”

He nodded absently. “I guess so. But couldn’t you go without me just this once?”

Sharon frowned. “That’s not how this works. You know better than that.”

“Couldn’t we put it off for a day or two?”

“We’re on a very specific schedule,” she replied. “Greg says that tonight is the night, that the arrangement of the heavens is exactly where—”

“Well, if Greg says so.”

“Don’t be like that.” She fell just short of a scolding tone, the kind reserved for misbehaving three-year-olds.

“I really don’t like that guy,” said Calvin.

“Nobody does.”

She always did know the right thing to say.

In point of fact, lots of people liked Greg. He was a likable person, almost pathologically so. Greg didn’t just want you to like him. He needed it. Calvin found that need cloying.

“Does it really matter if we skip this one?” he asked.

“A lot of people are looking forward to tonight. You don’t want to be responsible for ruining things, do you?”

“I guess not.”

“Good. Now get your shoes on. The car service should be here any minute.”

She gave him a light kiss on the cheek and left him to finish dressing. He owned more shoes than any straight, non-metrosexual man should. Sharon kept buying them. She said you could tell a lot about a man by his shoes. All he could tell was that he had too many shoes.

He reached for a pair of white sneakers.

“Oh, Calvin,” called Sharon from the other room, “if you’re going to insist on inappropriate shoes, could you at least wear the black ones?”

He grabbed the black sneakers and put the right one on. Something foreign wiggled between his toes. Annoyed, he removed the shoe and turned it upside down. A glop of yellow slime dropped onto the carpet.

“Ah, hell.”

The slime sprouted thick brown hair. A single eye opened and blinked at him.

“Sharon, I did it again!”

He reached for the glop, only to have it skitter under the bed.

“Goddamn it.” He dropped down onto the floor and probed in the darkness. “Sharon!”

“Oh, hell, Calvin,” she said. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Don’t tell me,” he replied. “Tell it.”

His hand closed on the moist, hairy thing, but it squirmed out of his fingers.

“Damn it,” he said. “Come here, you little bastard.”

The bed rocked as the thing growled and hissed. Spitting, it bit off Calvin’s hand. He pulled back a bloody stump, except the blood was black and as thick as tar.

“Ah, damn.”

The monster threw the bed to one side. The hairy lump turned to the window and howled at the moon. Then it hurled itself through the glass, plummeting to the ground far below with a long, startled gurgle that ended when it hit the pavement.

None of the lump beasts ever grasped the concept of gravity. More often than not, it was their undoing.

A new hand bubbled upward from his stump. The flesh was grayish, the veins a web of bright red. It would look more normal in a few minutes.

Sharon entered. She shook her head at the broken window.

“Honestly, Calvin. Sometimes I think you do this on purpose.”

He shrugged. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just get your shoes on.”

The bed fell back into place. The window un-broke. An invisible hand tried to pluck Calvin from the fabric of reality. It failed, as it always did. He was a barb stuck beneath the skin of the universe, an unwanted invader that could not be removed. The invisible hand scratched at him like a dog scratching at a flea. It didn’t hurt, but it was irritating.

The moon god wailed.

It was going to be one of those nights.

They went downstairs to a waiting black sedan. They sat in the back in silence. The driver didn’t need to be told where to go, and there was nothing to discuss. The routine was set. Sharon read a People magazine while Calvin stared out the window, watching the city pass. They rode into the well-to-do suburbs, where the houses hid behind stone walls and iron gates. The car pulled onto an estate and traveled down the winding driveway. Sculpted topiaries and pavement fell away to gravel and untended bushes. The gravel turned to dirt, and the bushes became a forest. Calvin wasn’t sure how large the estate was, but it took at least five minutes to drive from the gate to the house at its center. And the well-manicured lawns disappeared, consumed by a twisted wilderness.

The manor house was a foreign piece of civilization in an intentionally uncivilized place. Electric lights illuminated a few windows, but mostly fires in braziers or torches lit the way. Thirty-six cars were parked in the dirt clearing beside the front porch. Two more than last week, Calvin noted.

An older woman in a red dress and her young trophy husband in a tuxedo followed the torches to the back of the house. He’d seen them before but had never bothered to learn their names.

When Calvin exited the car a bearded man in a turtleneck averted his eyes and bowed slightly before scrambling away in badly disguised panic. Calvin frowned.

“Why do they always do that?” he asked.

“Be nice,” said Sharon.

“It’s just goddamn annoying, that’s all. I don’t see you doing that kowtowing nonsense.”

“And it’s a good thing I don’t. Someone has to make sure you keep your appointments.”

They circled to the back porch, a sprawling alcove of stone columns with twisted, inhuman figures carved into them. Most of the figures were hidden under overgrown creeping moss. Just enough effort had been made to keep the invading wilderness at bay. A small gathering place was cleared, large enough for the guests to mill about a table of cheese, wine, and caviar.

They were a varied group. The Chosen made no distinction among age, race, or gender. Greg’s need to be liked held no prejudice or preference.

The Chosen studiously avoided looking at Calvin. He thought about getting something to drink, but as soon as he stepped over there they’d bow and scrape and kiss his ass.

He was so sick of this.

Sharon read his mind. “I’ll get you a glass. Why don’t you have a seat?”

“Thanks. What would I do without you?”

He turned toward the marble throne at the top of the steps. It was hard and uncomfortable, but he’d gotten used to that. Greg, a smirking, sycophantic dullard decked out in that ridiculous lavender robe, stood beside the chair. Calvin glanced over his shoulder at Sharon for rescue, but she was already involved in a conversation with another guest.

“Might as well get this over with,” mumbled Calvin to himself. He pushed forth a smile as he approached the throne.

“So good of you to join us, Lord of the Wilds,” said Greg. “We are unworthy of your presence, much less your gifts.”

“Yes. Don’t suppose we could speed this up?” asked Calvin. “I’m not really feeling it tonight.”

Greg smiled. His smile, either by design or incompetence, was a smarmy, counterproductive achievement. Maybe it was only Calvin who saw it as such. Greg never had a lack of friends.

It was always this kind of asshole that Calvin found himself associating with. He sometimes wondered what it said about him.

Greg looked into the night sky. The design of the alcove and the strange magic of the estate made every star closer and brighter. The half moon glittered like a polished nickel.

“The stars are almost right,” he said. “Let them wipe away the corruption of civilization from these frail mortal shells.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Calvin sat on the throne. A charge tickled his elbows, and the moon and its pursuing god whispered its secrets. If only he could hear them clearly …

Sharon appeared with a plate of cheese and two glasses of wine. “Hello, Greg. Lovely night, isn’t it?”

Greg nodded in that familiar, rehearsed, faraway manner. It was meant to be wise and thoughtful, but came across as ponderous and slow-witted. As if his brain were a rusty collection of gears that had to simultaneously process the question and crank his neck.

“I think the McKinneys were looking for you,” she said. “Something about another donation to the temple, I believe.”

With a hasty adieu, Greg scurried off in search of more of the material wealth he spent most of his life acquiring and condemning simultaneously.

“Thank you,” said Calvin. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I do what I can.”

They tapped their glasses together and waited for the alignment. When it neared, the catering staff moved away the table, and the guests—everyone but Calvin on his throne and the staff hiding away behind locked doors—stood nude in the alcove. They formed a half circle, fell to their knees, and prostrated themselves before Calvin, their lord and master.

Greg, toned and tanned, his skin smoothed by lasers and obsessive waxing, a paradox of the natural world and humanity’s obsession with grooming away his links to it, began to preach. Calvin didn’t listen. He knew the gist of it. The new world was coming. Civilization would fall, replaced by something purer, more worthy. The strong would rule. The weak would perish. Glory, glory, something about beautiful chaos, blah, blah, blah, blah.

The crowd writhed and moved with the rhythm of Greg’s words. There was always that moment near the end of the ceremony when Calvin considered just getting up and walking away. They’d just track him down again. They always did. Or someone like them.

A ray of silver moonlight shone down on the throne. Calvin felt the crackle of extranatural powers pass through him as if he were a prism. It filtered into the crowd, triggering the change.

Greg was the first. His body hunched over as patches of brown and black hair sprouted. A second pair of arms grew from his shoulders. The legs bent and twisted. And the head became a giant pair of jaws, filled with pristine white fangs. The beast clawed the marble, raised its head, and howled.

It turned and stalked toward Calvin as the other guests finished their transformations. Nostrils flaring, the creature studied Calvin with beady yellow eyes. Frowning, Calvin looked right back into its eyes until the monster cowered before him.

“Piss off, Greg.”

The whimpering beast retreated. It joined the pack. Snapping, snarling, the wild creatures ran into the darkened forest. They wouldn’t be back until morning, when the exhausted, naked humans would slink back to the manor with blood on their lips.

Somewhere in the darkness an inhuman monster bayed at the moon.

Calvin went to the small guesthouse. A beast waited for him, curled up on the couch. It raised its head at him and wagged its tail.

“Hi, Sharon.”

He scratched her behind the ears, and she clawed the couch to shreds in her pleasure. She lowered her head.

He smiled. “It’s all right. It’s not my couch.”

He sat beside her. She set her head on his lap. He turned on the television. The Wolfman was playing.

Sighing, he changed the channel and waited for the dawn.

“Third rule is don’t pet the dog,” said Mr. West.

A sad-eyed puppy sat in front of one of the three doors in the hallway. It was white with brown and black spots and big floppy ears, and it whined as they walked past.

“Does it bite?” Diana asked.

“No.”

“Whose is it?”

“It belongs to Number Two,” said West, “but he lost control of it about a year ago. Now he’s lucky if it lets him out on the weekends to pick up groceries.”

He wheeled and stared at her with tightly narrowed eyes. So much so she wasn’t sure they were even open.

“Mark my words, Number Five. Bad things happen to those who don’t follow the rules.”

His long mustache twitched and he scratched his shaggy head, then turned back, walking up the six steps to Apartment Number Five. He fumbled with an overloaded key ring. As far as Diana could tell there were only seven apartments in this small building, but he must’ve had at least three dozen keys on that ring.

“This’ll be yours,” he said.

She wasn’t so sure. The rent on this place was remarkably cheap, but if a creepy landlord came with the package, she’d have to think it over.

She didn’t have to think it over for long.

The small apartment was fully furnished. It came with a brand-new sofa, a television, an old-fashioned jukebox like she’d always wanted. The jukebox even had all her favorite songs on it.

“Does this work?” she asked.

West shrugged and mumbled.

The kitchenette was bare except for some silverware in a drawer, but she didn’t cook anyway. There were a few Mr. Fizz sodas in the fridge, though.

“I didn’t know they still made this brand,” she said. “They’re my favorite.”

“Help yourself.”

“Really? Are you sure it’s okay? What about the former tenant?”

“He’s gone.”

“But won’t he be coming back for his stuff?”

“I doubt it.”

She hesitated but decided that one soda wouldn’t hurt anything. It tasted just as good as she remembered. Better.

He showed her the bedroom. Superman posters decorated the walls, along with art prints and a huge black-and-white photo of the Arc de Triomphe and another of the Eiffel Tower. It was bizarre. She knew she had eclectic tastes, and she had never expected anyone else to share them.

“There’s no way anyone would leave this stuff behind,” she said.

“It’s not his stuff,” he said. “It’s yours. If you want it.”

The rent on this place was half what she’d expected, and the décor meant she could just grab her three suitcases from the car and be unpacked within the hour. It was too good to be true.

“What’s the catch?” she asked.

He smiled. “Ah, there’s a smart girl.”

She stiffened. Her first thought was that this guy was a fiend who lured innocent young women into a life of orgies and pornography, but it would take more than a jukebox and a sixpack of soda to get Diana to strip on a webcam. Maybe if a good cable package came with the deal …

“Rule number two,” he said. “Never open this closet.”

He pointed to a door tucked away beside the bathroom.

“Why?” she asked.

“A good question. People who ask too many questions don’t usually last. Number Seven asked a lot of questions. Used to.”

He fumbled with the key ring and managed, after some rattling and grumbling, to pull off the key to the apartment and offer it to her.

“It’s all yours if you want it.”

She didn’t reach for the key just yet. A sixth sense warned her that she was striking a Faustian bargain. Odd, since she wasn’t sure what a Faustian bargain was. But it was something not to be taken lightly. She knew that.

“If you don’t want it,” he said, “somebody else will.”

“What’s the first rule?” she asked. “You told me the third and second rules, but not the first.”

He paused, chewed his lip.

“The first rule is turn the lights off when you leave a room. Just because I pay the utilities that doesn’t mean I’m made of money.”

Diana would’ve sold her soul for paid utilities, so she snatched the key. West was surprised enough to open his eyes to a softer squint.

“Where’s the lease?” she asked.

“There’s no lease. You stay as long as you’re able, Number Five. Leave whenever you’re willing.”

She followed him out the door. Her three suitcases were already sitting in the hallway.

“Hmm,” he said. “Apartment must like you. That’s a good sign.”

He waddled away without saying another word. The moment he was out of sight, even the jangle of his keys disappeared. Silence filled the hallway. No, that wasn’t quite right. Music came from somewhere. So light it almost couldn’t be heard. Like a chorus rehearsing. She couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, though.

The puppy in front of Apartment Two glanced forlornly in her direction and whimpered.

She glanced around her shiny new apartment. So what if the landlord was a bit of a nut? This place was made for her, and with the run of bad luck she’d had in the last few weeks, this was a good omen. Things were turning around.

She fed the jukebox a nickel. The mechanical arm grabbed the gleaming vinyl disk and set it on the turntable. Frankie Avalon sang about the virtues of beach life, and she smiled.

Diana wasted no time getting unpacked. She needed to claim this apartment. She’d been living out of suitcases too long, bumming off of friends like a vagabond. She shoved her clothes into the dresser so eagerly that she didn’t fold most of them. But once she closed the drawer she felt she’d made her mark. She lounged around for an hour, sitting on the sofa, drinking soda, watching TV, just relaxing. Chubby Checker, Aretha Franklin, and the Big Bopper kept her company. And when she was tired, she fell asleep on the nice comfortable bed and dreamed the strangest dreams.

She was herself, but she wasn’t herself. She flew across other worlds, strange realms without form or substance, lost cities and ghosts of forgotten civilizations passing beneath her. Time rendered everyone and everything into dust. From the tiniest speck to the greatest of the ancients. In the center of it all the slumbering god lay still, wrapped in the dream that foolish mortals and inhuman deities alike called reality.

The god opened one of his countless eyes. An eye bigger than the sun. And though she was just a mote, the yellow-and-black orb focused on her. The weight of a vast, incomprehensible universe threatened to crush Diana. She tried screaming. Her throat filled with bile and her brain melted as every cell in her body convulsed in absolute horror before exploding.

She awoke covered in sweat. Her heart pounded. A chill in the air turned her breath frosty. And just for a moment she thought the walls were moving, and something else was swimming under the covers.

She turned on the lights. Everything snapped back to normal. Her terror vanished as quickly as it had come. The air warmed. She marveled at how alien and real the dream had been. Although it was all fading now, transforming into shadowy memory the way dreams did.

Diana got up, grabbed a glass of water, and headed back to bed.

“Bad dream?” someone asked.

She jumped and whirled around. Self-defense courses sprang to mind, and she was ready to shout and gouge and do what needed to be done.

Nobody was there.

“Settle down, girl,” she told herself. “You’re imagining things.”

“No, you’re not,” said the voice.

She jumped again, but this time had the presence of mind to listen for the source.

It was coming from the closet.

“Hello?” she asked quietly. “Is there someone in there?”

There was no reply.

“Hello?”

No answer.

She went to the bathroom, splashed some cold water on her face, and dried herself with a towel. She was sticky with sweat, and a shower sounded appealing. But she’d seen enough slasher movies to know what happened next.

Part of her said it was time to leave. Don’t pack anything. Don’t change out of your pajamas. Just walk out of the apartment and never look back. But that was stupid. She wasn’t about to be spooked out of her new home by a crazy dream.

Another part of her suggested that this was still just a dream. She’d wake up in another moment and laugh at herself. But it was all . . .