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  PRAISE FOR FIREWALK

  “A haunting thriller in which ancient evil and modern tech intertwine in streets of a dying city—and where the darkness hides things much older and more frightening than the darkness itself.”

  —Richard Kadrey, New York Times bestselling author of Sandman Slim

  “[A] gripping supernatural thriller . . . Terrific pacing and detailed police work mixed with supernatural elements will serve well horror and urban fantasy fans alike.”

  —Library Journal, starred review

  “Smart, tough, and scary as hell. Roberson delivers authentic-feeling police action while spinning us down into a pit (or mineshaft) of horrors.”

  —Mike Mignola, creator of Hellboy

  “A novel that’s part True Detective and part Lovecraft. . . . The plot is engaging, and Roberson really shines in building the relationships and dialogue. . . . The end will have horror fans ready for the sequel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “As entertaining as can be, filled with humor and a satisfying depth of plot. Peering around the corners in Recondito is wicked good fun.”

  —Shelf Awareness

  “Lefevre, Tevake and their supporting cast, not to mention the fictional location Recondito, are compellingly drawn . . . . memorably creepy and tense.”—RT Book Reviews Top Pick (4.5 Stars)

  “Firewalk turns the police procedural on its ear. Recondito is a simmering melting pot of diverse characters and long-buried evil.”

  —Michael J. Martinez, author of The Daedalus Incident and MJ-12: Inception

  “Fans of the Agent Pendergast series will find a lot to love here, but Roberson takes things a few steps further: by introducing an inclusive cast of characters, and by bringing together Haitian Voodoo, ancient Mayan mythology, cosmology, and even a South Pacific cargo cult. If you’re looking for a cop story with a heavy dose of the supernatural, Firewalk is the book for you.”—Matthew Sturges, author of Midwinter and The Office of Shadow

  “Firewalk is X-Files for grownups: weird doings in Lovecraftian caverns, Mayan mythology coming to life, and more. A spine-tingling treat from a consummate pro.”

  —Dennis O’Flaherty, author of The Calorium Wars

  “Chris Roberson is always surprising you because you thought you knew where he was going and what he was going to do, but his plots are always a bit deeper than you thought, the knife a bit sharper. In Firewalk, he twists that knife like a drill.”

  —Paul Tobin, author of Prepare To Die!

  “A scorching thriller that expertly blends horror, science fiction, and urban fantasy, Firewalk is an excellent launch to what promises to be a spellbinding series.”

  —Richard Cox, author of The Boys of Summer

  ALSO BY CHRIS ROBERSON

  NOVELS

  BONAVENTURE-CARMODY

  Here, There & Everywhere

  Paragaea: A Planetary

  Romance

  Set the Seas of Fire

  End of the Century

  Book of Secrets

  CELESTIAL EMPIRE

  The Dragon’s Nine Sons

  Three Unbroken

  Iron Jaw and Hummingbird

  Further: Beyond the Threshold

  COMICS

  Cinderella: From Fabletown

  With Love

  Cinderella: Fables Are Forever

  with Shawn McManus

  iZombie

  with Michael Allred

  Memorial

  with Rich Ellis

  The Mysterious Strangers

  with Scott Kowalchuk

  Sovereign

  with Paul Maybury

  EDISON REX

  with Dennis Culver

  Hellboy and the BPRD

  with Mike Mignola and

  various

  Copyright © 2018 by Chris Roberson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Night Shade Books, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Night Shade Books™ is an imprint of Start Publishing LLC.

  Visit our website at www.nightshadebooks.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Roberson, Chris, author.

  Title: Firewalkers : a Recondito novel / Chris Roberson.

  Description: New York : Night Shade Books, [2018]

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017052763 | ISBN 9781597809122 (softcover : acid-free

  paper)

  Subjects: LCSH: Government investigators--Fiction. |

  Police--California--Fiction. | Paranormal fiction. | GSAFD: Fantasy

  fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3618.O31527 F58 2018 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017052763

  eISBN: 978-1-59780-594-0

  Cover design by Claudia Noble

  Printed in the United States of America

  PROLOGUE

  The young woman was Mexican, and from her dress I took her to be a housekeeper, likely returning from a day’s work cleaning one of the miniature mansions that lined the avenues of Northside. She was sprawled on the pavement,one shoe off, arms raised to shield her face. Two men stood over her, Caucasians in dungarees, workshirts, and heavy boots. The older of the two had the faded blue of old tattoos shadowing his forearms, suggesting a previous career in the merchant marines, while the younger had the seedy look of a garden-variety hoodlum. With hands clenched in fists and teeth bared, it was unclear whether they wanted to beat the poor girl or take advantage of her—likely both, and in that order.

  The hoodlum reached down and grabbed the woman’s arm roughly, and as he attempted to yank her to her feet she looked up and her gaze fell on me. Or rather, her gaze fell on the mask, which in the shadows she might have taken to be a disembodied silver skull floating in the darkness. Already terrified by her attackers, the woman’s eyes widened on seeing me, and her shouts for help fell into a hushed, awestruck silence.

  The prevention of crime, even acts of violence, is not the Wraith’s primary mission, nor did the situation seem at first glance to have any bearing on my quest for vengeance, but still I couldn’t stand idly by and see an innocent imperiled. But even before springing into action my Sight caught a glimpse of the tendril which rose from the shoulders of the tattooed man, disappearing in an unseen direction. No mere sailor down on his luck, the tattooed man was possessed, being “ridden” by an intelligence from beyond space and time. And protecting the people of Recondito from such incursions is the mission of the Wraith—and if the Ridden was in league with those whom I suspected, vengeance might be served, as well.

  “Unhand her,” I said, stepping out of the shadows and into view. I Sent as I spoke, the reverberation of thought and sound having a disorienting effect on the listener that I often used to my advantage. “Or answer to me.”

  The two men turned, and while the hoodlum snarled at my interruption, there glinted in the eyes of the Ridden a dark glimmer of recognition.

  The possessed, or Ridden, can be deterred by running water and by fire, both of which tend to disorient them, but neither is capable of stopping them altogether. Even killing the Ridden’s body is not a permanent solution, since the Otherworldly parasite will continue to move and operate the body even in death. The only way to put down one of the Ridden is to introduce pure silver into the body, by bullet or by blade, which serves to sever the connection between the parasite and host.

  That’s where my twin Colts come in.

  The hoodlum released his hold on the woman’s arm, letting her slump back onto the pavement, as the Ridd
en turned to face me, his eyes darting to the silver-plated .45s in my fists. I wondered whether the hoodlum knew that his companion was more than he seemed to the naked eye.

  Typically the Ridden I encounter in Recondito are lackeys of the Guildhall, working as muscle for a political machine whose methods and reach would have eclipsed Tammany Hall in its heyday; the demon parasites from beyond are offered the chance to experience the sensual joys of reality in exchange for their services, while the hosts are most often thugs-for-hire who have disappointed their employers once too often. That one of the two attackers was Ridden suggested strongly that these two were Guildhall bruisers enjoying a night away from roughing up the machine’s political enemies.

  “Now step away,” I ordered, aiming a pistol at each of them.

  After I recovered Cager’s body from the jungle, I took his Colt M1911 and my own and plated them with silver from the daykeeper’s secret mine, and cast silver bullets to match. I usually carry a pistol in either hand, but make it a habit never to fire more than one at a time. Despite what the pulp magazines would have readers believe, no one can hit the broadside of a barn firing two guns at once. The first time I tried it, honing my skills in the forest above Xibalba, the recoil drove the pistol in my left hand crashing into the one in my right, with my thumb caught in-between, the skin scraped off like cheese through a grater. And though the gloves I wear as the Wraith would save me from another such injury, I’ve found that the second Colt is much more useful as a ward against attack—the silver serving to keep any Ridden from venturing too close—and then ready with a full magazine to fire if the seven rounds in the other pistol run out before the job is done.

  The silver of the Colt in my right hand was enough to make the Ridden think twice about rushing me, while the bullets in the Colt in my left were sufficient to give the hoodlum pause—I wouldn’t fire on a man who wasn’t possessed unless it was absolutely necessary, but it was clear that he didn’t know that.

  “Por favor . . .” the woman said in pleading tones, scuttling back across the pavement from me, seeming as frightened of the Wraith’s silver mask as she’d been of her two attackers’ fists only moments before. “Ayuda me . . .” I knew it wasn’t me she was asking for help. But then, who? The shadows?

  I intended to end the suffering of the Ridden’s host-body, a single silver bullet driving the parasite back to its home beyond the sky, and to chase the hoodlum into the night with enough fear instilled in him that he wouldn’t soon menace another girl walking alone by night.

  “Now,” I said and Sent, gesturing toward the hoodlum with the Colt in my left hand, “one of you I shall send back to your Guildhall masters with a message . . .”

  The hoodlum began to turn away, shifting his weight as he prepared to take to his heels and flee.

  I smiled behind my mask, raising the pistol in my right hand and training it between the eyes of the Ridden. “ . . . and the other shall be that message . . .”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Izzie sat bolt upright, gasping for breath, her heart pounding in her chest. She looked down at her hands and had to stare at them for long seconds to assure herself that they were whole and unmarked, and hadn’t been eaten away to nothing. She could still feel a sensation of emptiness, of the darkness pressing in . . .

  She swung her feet to the floor and sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Everything that had happened in the last twenty-four hours came rushing back to her all at once. They had spent the night in the abandoned lighthouse, after finding the bodies in the subbasement of a warehouse, with rubber tubes snaking from shunts buried in their spines; bodies that were neither fully alive nor entirely dead. She remembered the unearthly smell and the feeling of disorientation in that dimly lit room. And the horror and revulsion that she’d experienced when the neither-dead-nor-alive bodies climbed with jerky, inhuman motions to their feet and began to shamble toward her.

  The night before, Izzy hadn’t had the chance to question the reality of what was happening. But now, in the stark, cold light of day, she had to ask herself—had all of that really happened? Were they really facing hordes of people whose minds had been destroyed while their bodies were being taken over by intelligences from another world? From another dimension? The mere fact that she knew how crazy that sounded didn’t discount the possibility that it was crazy. Not when the simpler answer would be that she was the crazy one. Not when it was easier to accept that she had dissociated from reality and fabricated the whole thing, rather than believe that everything that she and Patrick Tevake had uncovered over the last few days was really true.

  “Come on, girl,” she said out loud to herself, “get it together.”

  “Izzie?” came a voice from the open doorway across the room.

  From the other room she could hear sizzling and the clatter of pots and pans. She lowered her hands and lifted her head, sniffing the air. It smelled tantalizingly of bacon, and her stomach rumbled in response. If this was a delusion, it smelled delicious.

  “Was that you talking just now?” Patrick stuck his head around the corner. He was wearing a grey t-shirt with Recondito Police Athletic League printed on the front, and a dishtowel draped over one shoulder. “Oh good, you’re awake.”

  “I guess I am.” Izzie shrugged. “Mostly.”

  Patrick smiled, looking relieved. “I was a little worried. You were thrashing around pretty bad just a minute ago.”

  “Yeah?” Izzie reached up and rubbed the inside corners of her eyes with her finger tips. Judging by the angle of the light shining through the window, she knew that she couldn’t have slept for more than an hour or so, and if anything felt more tired than when she’d lain down.

  “Bad dream?”

  She nodded.

  “Not surprised. Rough night.” He pulled the towel off his shoulder and used it to dry his hands. “Well, breakfast will be ready by the time Joyce and Daphne get done with their showers, so just hang tight.”

  “Copy that,” she answered as Patrick went back through into the kitchen. She sighed, and ran a hand through her braids, which were still damp from the quick shower she’d taken before lying down. They were getting so fuzzy that she was half-tempted to cut the whole mess off, rather than go on messing with them. But she had other things to worry about. “Rough night, he says. . . .”

  Her feet were cold against the hardwood floor, and so she pulled on her socks and stomped into her boots before getting up and going in search of her phone.

  Calling what they’d all just been through a “rough night” was like saying that World War II was a “minor disagreement.” That the four of them had lived to see the sun rise again was just a little short of a miracle. Not that the nights ahead promised to be much better.

  But they had survived. Of course, Officer Carlson hadn’t been so lucky.

  Izzie found her phone in the pocket of her jacket, hanging on a hook near the front door along with her FBI credentials and holstered firearm. But before she turned the phone on to check her messages, she had second thoughts. Whatever was waiting for her, whatever texts or emails or missed calls, could wait until after she had some coffee and food in her, in that order. Then, as her stomach growled audibly, she realized that she hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, so maybe food before coffee.

  She slipped the phone into the pocket of her jeans, and turned to glance around the room. She wasn’t quite sure what she had expected Patrick’s place to look like, but this? This wasn’t it.

  There was an electric bass guitar in one corner on a stand, beside a small portable amplifier, a boombox, and a turntable sitting on top a shelving unit filled with vinyl LPs. Stacks of old comics and magazines were piled atop a bookcase crammed with paperback and hardcover books. On the mantle above the fireplace were dozens of Pez dispensers arranged in careful rows, and on either side hung movie posters framed behind glass, mostly action films from the eighties and nineties. Opposite the fireplace, in a place of pr
ominence, hung what appeared to be a hand-woven tapestry with a tessellated geometric design. Below the tapestry, on a narrow table of lacquered wood,was a small collection of framed photos, including one showing an old Polynesian man in denim overalls, standing next to a small boy wearing a Power Rangers t-shirt and sporting a gap-toothed grin. Other than the couch there was a low table and a couple of chairs, but no TV or computer to be seen, and while the furniture seemed a little threadbare and old, it was in good repair.

  They had been trying to get here the night before, until the road was blocked and they were forced to find another refuge. Making it to the Ivory Point lighthouse had been a lucky break in more ways than one, but still Izzie wished that they had made it to Patrick’s place the night before. This would have been a much more comfortable spot to ride out a terrifying night than the cold, dusty living quarters attached to the lighthouse.

  The shambling horde that had stood vigil on the boardwalk across from the lighthouse had fled with the sunrise, thankfully before the tide rolled out and the muddy land bridge once more connected the white rocks of Ivory Point with the shore.

  It had been Patrick who suggested that they come home with him to get cleaned up and get something to eat before tackling everything that lay ahead of them. Daphne had driven them over in her bureau car, which had survived the night without so much as a scratch, and Patrick had given directions from the backseat. From the passenger side window Izzie could see the spiraling whorls of the engraved markings that Patrick had shown her when he had described how his great-uncle had carved swirls into the houses in the neighborhood

  Patrick’s house was a two-story Victorian row house, with a living room, bedroom, bathroom, and kitchen on the first floor, and on the second floor another bedroom, sitting room, and a second bath. But when Izzie had gone to use the upstairs shower the second floor turned out to be mostly filled with junk—old furniture, moving boxes, stacks of yellowing papers, battered musical instruments, and broken toys. The shower in the upstairs bath was functional, but the bathroom itself didn’t look like it had been used in ages.