Excerpts From Nonexistent Books

“Excuse me, sir!” The skeleton approached Mortis, brandishing a glossy brochure in its bony fingers. “Do you have a minute to talk about our lord and savior Graculus, Lord of Bones, and the benefits of converting to Skeletonism?”

Mortis’s bleary eyes rolled wetly in his zombified skull. These days it was getting tougher and tougher to avoid harrassment by various undead fundamentalists trying to get him to convert.

“No, I was raised a zombie and I will die a zombie,” he said. “Again.”

Cutting to the other side of the exhibit hall, a plastic case with a DVD rattling inside was thrust in his face. “Would you like to take a free stress test? Cleanse your body of potentially harmful magicites? It’s free!”

Mortis looked at the pitchman, a leathery apparition just short of a mummy in appearance, with sorcery for eyes and an affect that crackled with arcane energy. “Let me guess,” he said. “You want to tell me about the life of Ulgathk the Ever-Living, the Elder Lich, so I can buy the first Ascent to Lichdom course.”

“Lichology is a relevant and authentic faith,” the undead huckster said. “What good is worldly currency when you can ascend to immortal godhood and power in the afterlife by following our programs?”

“Uh-huh. How many of your members have actually ascended to lichdom, then?”

“That information is proprietary, copyrighted, secret, and an article of faith,” the lich snapped.

“Come on, just a ballpark guesstimate,” Mortis said. “I’ll take your DVD if you tell me.”

“This conversation is over,” the Lichology pitchman said. “Spread your nasty magicites elsewhere.”

Tacking back toward the middle, Mortis kept up his search for Necrosia. She was supposed to be manning the Fast Zombie lifestyle booth someplace, but it was just too crowded to see much. Too many new converts this year, and lots of beyond-the-grave shysters looking to take advantage.

A translucent form shimmered before Mortis, its message written in unliving ectoplasm: LOW-INTEREST FIXED-TERM SUBPRIME HAUNTINGS!

“Would you like to hear about leaving the world of the flesh behind? Work off one haunting and this lifestyle could be yours!” the ghost warbled in a reedy voice.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Mortis said. He cut directly through the specter, ignoring its protests, before continuing into the crowd.

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“Is it art block?” Cimino said. He looked around the art studio, which was positively festooned with studies. “You don’t seem to be having any problems making art.”

“Look at it all again,” said Dempsey. “See if you can pick out the problem.”

Cimino glanced at sketches, linearts, chiaroscuro shadings, and more tacked up around the studio. “Uh, no idea,” he said.

“There’s no color!” Dempsey roared, swatting at a sheaf of his latest artworks. “All monochrome!”

“And…why is there no color?”

“I can’t decide on it. I can’t blend it. I second-guess myself and then throw the art in the trash. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to color altogether.”

“So…?”

“It’s not artblock. It’s colorblock.”

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“I did it in my youth,” said Clemons. “Working for the Forest Service, it seemed only natural, birdwatching.”

“Yes, your lists and photographs from the 1940s are really important in the birding history of Steuben County,” said Dubois. “I actually entered them into our birding database myself, made you an account and everything.”

“Well, that’s mighty kind of you, I suppose,” Clemons said. “I can’t say as I’d be able to do much with a computer, never was much good at it, but if anything I did was useful to you, it is nice to know.”

“I want to talk to you about some later work,” Dubois said. “Some old letters with the county museum from Mr. Greenbriar seem to indicate that you have observations, and perhaps even photographs, from the 1950s that would be very interesting to us.”

Clemons didn’t budge from his seat. “Well, I’m afraid that’s a little bit too long ago for me to remember clearly,” he said in a soft voice. “I don’t do it anymore, you see, other than feeding a few yard birds. Arthritis, cataracts, all the usual suspects. I’m sure you understand.”

Dubois leaned forward in her seat, the wicker audibly groaning under the old cushions. “Mr. Clemons,” she said. “If what was in your letter to Mr. Greenbriar was accurate, you might have been the last person to see an ivory-billed woodpecker alive in Steuben County, ten years after the last confirmed sighting in 1944.”

“Joe Greenbriar always was a bit of a braggart,” Clemons muttered. “Don’t believe a word he says, even when he’s dead and buried twenty years.”

“There was another letter, too, one from a Polly–“

Clemons pounded his fist on his chair in a surprisingly hostile, sharp, gesture. “Don’t believe it,” he said. “I didn’t take an observation that wasn’t in my own backyard after 1950, and there sure as hell weren’t any ivories back there.”

Holding up her hands, fingers outstretched Dubois tried to back off. “I didn’t mean any offense, Mr. Clemons. I’m just trying to–“

Clemons buzzed for his nurse, who entered from the kitchen a moment later. “It was very nice to meet you, Ms. Dubois, but I’ve got nothing more to say. I’m glad my old data was useful, but it’s going to have to speak for itself. Maria, please show my guest out if you don’t mind.”

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“Uh, honey? Why did we just get a check in the mail from BlueLight Insurance?”

“Oh, I switched to them and saved 15%, just like they said in their ads.”

“Wouldn’t that still mean we were sending them checks? Or auto-bank-withdrawals?”

“Nope! I was already paying $0 with Insuranch, so 15% off of that means they have to send me money.”

“We just switched to Insuranch! Was that some kind of introductory offer?”

“They promised me 15% off of what we were paying with Pharos. Who offered me 15% off what I was paying with RaceCar. Who offered me 15% off what I was paying with Affinitin. And so on! All it takes is a little math, and some careful reading of fine print, and it’s a loophole that can be exploited.”

“Honey, you’re not going to tell me they’re that stupid. They’d have closed that loophole the second someone else tried it.”

“I’m the first. Turns out cutting percentages and fractions from the national math curriculum was a bad idea.”

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The smith led the warrior into his home and set out a stool of him. “Come, sit. I will begin at once.”

Hesitating, the Norseman looked at his host. “It would be easy enough for you to slit my throat while I am vulnerable, and bring our wager to a premature conclusion,” he said.

“Yes, it would,” the blacksmith laughed. “Lucky for you I am an honorable man, no? In any event, I doubt your men would consent to sitting politely, one at a time, for their own slittings.”

“Fair enough. Show me why the name Braidar is sung by warrior-poets with well-tamed locks, then.”

Going to work, the smith found his customer’s hair to be already well-washed and well-kept, as was the custom of the Norse. There was no need for the lengthy washing that normally accompanied his work, so he was able to get straight to braiding.

The process was complex, and soon the smith had a strand of the stranger’s hair in between each of his paired fingers and yet another held in his mouth as he worked. Yet there was not the faintest tug on the Viking’s scalp, nor did the man feel any pain as his locks were gradually woven into an impressive triple braid.

Once the process was over, the blacksmith retrieved a piece of metal he kept for the purpose, one that he had polished to a near-mirror shine and handed it to his guest. The Norseman admired the braids and gave a low whistle.

“It seems, for once, that your reputation is well-deserved, Braidar,” he said. “I have had my hair braided many times, by my own hand and others, and I say to you now that this is the finest.”

“It was my pleasure,” said the smith. “Go in peace, my friend.”

“A moment,” the stranger said, his hand flitting as if my instinct to the blades on his belt. “You must tell me how you learned this art. Who taught you? Who was the master to your apprentice? If there is one of greater skill than you, I must seek them out.”

“I would rather not speak of it,” the smith said with a wistful smile.

“I’m afraid I must insist.” The warrior’s thumb was hooked easily into his sword belt, but the implication was quite clear. “I cannot consider our wager settled otherwise.”

The smith stood, unmoved, with his homemade mirror still in hand.

“Worry not, friend,” the Norseman added. “I have no desire to steal your secrets, nor those of your master. But my curiosity must be sated.”

“Very well,” said the smith. “I will show you. But I must ask that you respect it; I think you will agree that the source of a skill such as this has earned at least that.”

“Of course,” said the warrior. “Lead on.”

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“I am looking for the one they call Braidar.” The warrior, with gear and a tattoo clearly identifying him as a Norseman come south a-viking, took up nearly the whole door to the small smithy.

The smith looked up, squinting. He was a short man, former muscle sagged into fat around his arms and midsection, hands and arms caked with the scars of a metalworker’s life well-wrought. “For what do you seek him?” the man asked.

In answer, the man tossed his head, which was rich with long curls that were well-kempt, well-washed, a feat even more notable given his hearth and home were both a longboat away. “I have to tame this for battle,” he said, “and I do not wish to shave it, for Gurður has already shaven his head and I do not want the men to confuse us.”

“Surely you will be wearing helmets,” said the smith.

“Helmets may be lost,” replied the stranger. “And I would be lying if I said I was not at least a little curious about this man of braids. I have seen his handiwork only second-hand and wish to experience it. People in town say you are the man to ask for all the comings and goings around here.”

“I know this man that is sometimes called Braidar,” the smith said.

“Good,” said the warrior. He put a coin on the smith’s table. “That’s yours if you take me to him.”

“Keep your money,” the smith said. “Braidar does not accept payment for his work.”

“But you do, surely,” replied the Norseman. “A handsome sum for a tout, all you need to is steer me true.”

“Put the money away,” the smith repeated. “I am Braidar, and I would work on your locks for free.”

“You?” Scoffing, the stranger looked the smith up and down, lingering over the man’s bald head. Only the barest wisps remained to show that the older man had ever had hair at all, and even those were close-cropped to avoid sparks and embers.

“Sit, and I will show you a small sample. If it pleases you, I will do the whole; if not, go in peace.”

The warrior’s eyes darted to the smith’s work, a small knife taking shape.

“You think I would so dishonorably kill a man?” the smith said. “While his brothers-in-arms wait on the river, prepared to take this town on his whim? Surely you can see this is a simple camp knife, and the only weapon you’ll find anyone in this hamlet bearing.”

Mulling the idea around in his mouth like a piece of well-braised pork, the warrior nodded. “I agree to your terms, smith, but let us spice the wager, for life is short and glory eternal. If I am satisfied, my men will leave this hamlet and go a-viking elsewhere. If I am not, we will have this place the way we had Kirlea, and the smoke will be seen for leagues around. Deal?”

Looking at the sheathed sword and matching dagger on the man’s belt, the smith nodded. “Sit down then, and we’ll let the wager roll on like honorable men.”

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“Hey,” the employee–Jeff, according to his name tag–snapped his fingers. “If you can hear me, tell me your name.”

“Mortis.”

“Seriously?” Jeff looked at his fellow employee. “Sarah, you ever hear of people raised as zombies taking on new and more heavy metal names?”

“Makes sense, I guess,” she said, loudly popping a blink bubble of gum and sucking it back in. “Who wants to be a zombie called Steve?”

“Look, it’s not a new zombie name,” Mortis said. “I went by it when I was alive, okay?”

“Is that why you got chewed on by a pack of fasties?” Jeff said. “Death wish of something?”

“Zombie-curious?” Sarah said, snapping a fresh bubble.

“What? No! I had kind of a goth phase in high school, and it stuck,” Mortis said. “I go by Mort most of the time.”

“Oh, so you changed like Mortimer to Mortis?” Jeff said. “That’s kind of cool, I guess.”

“No, I decided that William James Miller IV wasn’t doing it for me, and neither was ‘’Billy,’” Mortis said. “Now can you please help me up?”

“I guess that does kinda rule out Junior, being the fourth,” Sarah said.

“Or Trey, or Trip, cuz those mean the third, right?” said Jeff. “What about Chip? You could go by Chip.”

“How about I go by Mortis? My grandpa is Chip, and he’s already outlived me. Now a little help?”

“Okay, okay,” Jeff said. He hauled Mortis into a sitting position. “Thanks to your Z-Surance, we’ve been able to give you the works. Stitched up the bite marks, replaced your blood with preservatives…”

“Given you the wax coating,” Sarah piped in, sticking her tongue out for a fresh bubble pop.

“Yes, the full Lenin as we like to call it,” said Jeff. “With regular maintenance and application of our Anti-Rot Coating (sold separately) your zombie fixed body can last indefinitely.”

“Unless you want to convert,” Sarah added. “Z-Surance doesn’t cover it if you wanna be a skeleton or something.”

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If you can believe it, he already went by Mortis when he became a zombie.

Why? William James Miller IV was a mouthful, to start with. It wasn’t like William James Millers I-III had been any great shakes, passing their boring name on generation after generation as if it was some kind of precious jewel. Plus, there wasn’t much left in the nickname department. William James Miller I had been “Big Bill,” his son had been “Chip,” and then “Trey.” “Quad” didn’t lend itself well, nor did “Lil Jim.”

So after thirteen years as “Billy” he started going by Mortis, or Mort for short, after a character in one of his favorite video games. Trey and Mrs. Miller had assumed it was a phase, but eventually came around to it so long as he stuck to “Mort.” The name, thankfully, outlasted his rather basic goth phase, but it did help with brand recognition when he tried to set himself up as a freelancer in the city after college.

It also somewhat less thankfully predicted his early death at the hands of a horde of fast zombies in an alleyway.

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Compared to conventional artillery, wizard artillery had both major benefits and major drawbacks.

On the one hand, it was much more powerful and versatile, capable of everything from summoning swarms of biting and stinging insects to feast on enemy rations to full-strength lightning bolts that struck with pinpoint accuracy. As long as the wizard artillery crew’s stamina held out, ammunition was not a concern. And it goes without saying that, on occasions when they were forced to defend themselves at close range, wizard artillery crews were more than capable of doing so.

However, the study of magic was expensive and intensely time-consuming. Even in places like Valois, which had an established system of identifying and training gifted magi from a young age, it could take ten to twenty years for a student to be ready for combat. Training accidents tended to be costly, especially given the need for large focusing crystals to give spells the range and power to be useful as artillery. The crystals themselves were delicate but heavy, requiring horse transport, and they were known to explode with arcane energy as well.

For every triumph like that at Murtagh, where massed wizard artillery devastated a force ten times its size, there was a defeat like the one at Edxix, where heavy cavalry charged and broke a wizard artillery battery before turning its focusing crystals on their former users. One veteran was find of saying: “A wizard is worth 100 cavalrymen, but it only takes one cavalryman to kill a wizard. And cavalry is a lot cheaper.”

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“Mr. Washington, no offense, but that’s a terrible mystery,” said Heath. “Give me a better one.”

“I grant you it’s not the kind of New York City mystery you’ll see on the internet,” Josiah said, “but this is a small town and mystery beggars can’t be mystery choosers.”

“You saying there aren’t any?” Heath said.

“Well, you know Richard Street?” Josiah said.

“You mean Snob Hill?” said Heath.

“No, Snob Hill is Richard St., Jefferson St., and Crestview Cove,” Josiah said. “Part of it, maybe, but not the whole thing.”

“What’s the mystery then?” Heath said.

“You ever been up there? Every single house on Richard St., bar none, has a chicken out front. Some sheet metal, some wood, but none of them food. All art.”

“So…?” Heath said.

“So that’s the mystery!” Josiah said. “I call it…”

The Legendary Cock Street of Tecumseh County

“Oh god, Mr. Washington!” Heath cried. “You can’t call it that!”

“Well, that’s what it is, isn’t it? You got a better name for a lineup of boy chickens all on one street?”

“You can call them roosters, maybe?” said Heath.

“Hmm, I guess I could call it, instead…”

The Legendary Roosters of Dick St

“No! That’s even worse! Just…just stop calling it anything!” Heath shuddered. “Why would you even shorten Richard like that? Nobody does that anymore!”

“Well, I’m an old man, so in my day they did,” replied Josiah. “You telling me you don’t want to hear more about the…”

The Legendary Cocks on Dick Street

“You’re just doing that to make me go away,” Heath said. “You know how gross it is for somebody old to say those words.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Josiah sniffed. “You don’t even want to speculate what dark powers the rich folks up there are keeping at bay with their row of fake cocks?”

“NO.” Heath said. “That is the worst mystery ever.”

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