The Shadow Men Read online

  Praise for MIND THE GAP

  “A pitch-perfect blend of fantasy and realism. Golden and Lebbon craft a riveting tale of adventure that is both gritty and magical.”

  —KELLEY ARMSTRONG, New York Times bestselling author of Waking the Witch

  “Super-fast pacing and creepy touches [give this] adventure plenty of character.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A dark urban fantasy that posits a world of multiple Londons, some real and some ghostly, an ancient legacy of magic, and a secret war between those who seek power to control it and those who seek to free it … Filled with action yet much more than a simple adventure, this tale of the clash between the worlds of magic and science is a standout.… Highly recommended.”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “Reminiscent of Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere and the classic Dickens’ Oliver Twist, this book gives the dark fantasy genre a gothic twist with Jazz’s adventure.”

  —The Parkersburg News & Sentinel

  “Magical realism at its finest … a light-speed read with mystery, magic, ghosts and a fascinating subterranean world. Great stuff.”

  —SFRevu

  “Golden and Lebbon do a wonderful job with this book, pulling you in with a strong opening and a likable protagonist in Jazz, and then maintaining the story with an array of mysteries and puzzles, and a cast of engaging characters.”

  —Fantasy & Science Fiction

  “Golden and Lebbon’s skills are unquestionable, and the two working together have managed to create a vibrant world just on the outside of ours.”

  —Dread-Central.com

  “Part fantasy, part mystery, and part suspense story. The authors have done a great job balancing the three elements and braiding them together into one exciting read.”

  —Blogcritics

  “A contemporary mystery thriller with elements of Oliver Twist, a caper story, and a dash of the supernatural—namely ghosts, Victorian magic, and steam-punk … Spectacular.”

  —Fantasy Book Critic

  “A modern, supernatural take on Oliver Twist … Golden and Lebbon paint an evocative portrait of London, present and past.”

  —Fangoria

  “Mind the Gap starts off with a bang, throwing you right into the story, and once it takes off running, it doesn’t let up.… It’s moody, highly atmospheric, and pulls no punches in involving the senses as it creates the hidden world of a forgotten, decaying, buried London.… A series worth watching.”

  —SF Site

  Praise for THE MAP OF MOMENTS

  “Urban realism meets dark fantasy in this spine-tingling second collaboration between authors Golden and Lebbon … as they merge the repercussions of Hurricane Katrina with New Orleans’ terrifying ghostly past.… Golden and Lebbon have far outstripped their past efforts with this wonderfully creepy thriller of a ghost story.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Golden and Lebbon vividly evoke the rich, enduring character of New Orleans, as well as spinning a compelling fantasy yarn.”

  —Booklist

  “Draws from the aftermath of a tragic moment in recent history, telling a dark, gripping story set in a shattered but unbeaten New Orleans … Part ghost story, part thriller, it doesn’t pull any punches along the way, putting the hero through a physical, mental and spiritual ordeal even as it paints an honest, stark picture of a city just starting to recover from a near-fatal blow.… A hell of a harrowing tale [and] a great read, illuminating a time and place in American history that should not be ignored or forgotten.”

  —SF Site

  “The Map of Moments is set in post-Katrina New Orleans, and it’s as much a love letter to the city and its people as it is a lamentation for what has been, perhaps irrevocably, lost.… Not an easy, comforting read, but it is an alluring, engrossing one, and a wiser, truer book than something simpler could have been.”

  —The Green Man Review

  “Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon have crafted a love letter to New Orleans in The Map of Moments.… Fans of unconventional urban fantasy will enjoy following this map into some very interesting places indeed.”

  —SFRevu

  “The Map of Moments is a truly haunting look at the dark history and magic to the underside of New Orleans and the ghosts they hide.”

  —The Mad Hatter

  “Golden and Lebbon do a masterful job of presenting the chase and the discovery of the darkness lurking in New Orleans’s history. I ended up reading much of the book at night when the house was quiet, and I think that really lent itself to the overall experience. So if you can get somewhere quiet, with darkness all around, except for your reading lamp, The Map of Moments is a wonderfully creepy experience down streets littered with dead and dark things.”

  —Blogcritics

  By Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon

  The Hidden Cities

  The Shadow Men

  The Chamber of Ten

  The Map of Moments

  Mind the Gap

  By Christopher Golden

  The Lost Ones: Book Three of the Veil

  The Borderkind: Book Two of the Veil

  The Myth Hunters: Book One of the Veil

  Wildwood Road

  The Boys Are Back in Town

  The Ferryman

  Straight on ’Til Morning

  Strangewood

  The Shadow Saga

  Of Saints and Shadows

  Angel Souls and Devil

  Hearts

  Of Masques and Martyrs

  The Gathering Dark

  With Mike Mignola

  Baltimore, or, The Steadfast

  Tin Soldier and the Vampire

  By Tim Lebbon

  Novels

  Echo City

  The Island

  Fallen

  30 Days of Night

  Dawn

  The Everlasting

  Dusk

  Hellboy: Unnatural Selection

  Mesmer

  The Nature of Balance

  Hush (with Gavin Williams)

  Face

  Until She Sleeps

  Desolation

  Berserk

  Bar None

  Novellas

  A Whisper of Southern Lights

  White

  Naming of Parts

  Changing of Faces

  Exorcising Angels (with Simon Clark)

  Dead Man’s Hand

  Piece of Hate

  The Reach of Children

  The Thief of Broken Toys

  Collections

  Last Exit for the Lost

  Faith in the Flesh

  As the Sun Goes Down

  White and Other Tales of Ruin

  Fears Unnamed

  After the War

  The Shadow Men is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A Spectra Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Golden and Tim Lebbon

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-52632-8

  Cover design: Jae Song

  Cover art: burning book © Tony Hutchings/Getty Images; buildings © Jim West/Alamy

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  For John McIlveen and his girls

  —C.G.

  For Scott, Kelly
, and the girls

  —T.L.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1 - Us of Lesser Gods

  Chapter 2 - Man with No Country

  Chapter 3 - You Won’t Make a Fool Out of Me

  Chapter 4 - Rare Ould Times

  Chapter 5 - Cruel Mistress

  Chapter 6 - With a Wonder and a Wild Desire

  Chapter 7 - Within a Mile of Home

  Chapter 8 - The Worst Day Since Yesterday

  Chapter 9 - Whistles the Wind

  Chapter 10 - Don’t Let Me Die Still Wondering

  Chapter 11 - Float

  Chapter 12 - The Wrong Company

  Chapter 13 - From the Back of a Broken Dream

  Chapter 14 - The Light of a Fading Star

  Chapter 15 - If I Ever Leave This World Alive

  Chapter 16 - Every Dog Has Its Day

  Epilogue: What’s Left of the Flag

  Reality is merely an illusion,

  albeit a very persistent one.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  Us of Lesser Gods

  JIM BANKS had never seen this view of the Boston skyline, because it did not exist. Hundreds of low-rise buildings stood silhouetted against the starry sky, some of them softly lit by sweeping chains of lamps lining the haphazardly arranged streets, and more than a dozen tall church spires spiked at the night. He opened his eyes and the dreamscape remained, painted onto his bedroom ceiling by a memory that was already fogging the view. The sense of dislocation remained.

  He could switch on his bedside lamp—Jenny hated when he did that, but she never complained—and sketch the basics of that view. But he knew that even if he managed to re-create the shapes and silhouettes, the many church spires and unevenly pitched roofs, the feeling would fade away. Wakefulness was already stealing those disturbing dream visions, swallowing them down into his subconscious. There was only one way that he could retain the flavor and tone, the strange light and shape of that fleeting vision of a Boston he had never known: he would have to paint.

  Jim sat up and slid his feet into his slippers. Goosebumps formed on his arms. Damn, it’s cold. Winter’s on its way. Jenny mumbled something and turned over, sighing gently. Jim stood and stared at her vague shadow for a few seconds, making sure he hadn’t woken her and enjoying this private moment. He relished watching his wife sleep. It was a precious time, and as an artist, he could not help wondering what secret things she dreamed. He always looked for a reaction when she viewed one of his new skyline paintings—images that unsettled him so—but her attitude toward them was ambivalent at best.

  He walked to the bathroom, closing the door and leaving the light off. Light would wash away more of his dream. Every second that passed diluted it, and he was keen to get up to his attic studio and start painting as soon as possible. But first he needed to use the toilet, and if he didn’t slip on his bathrobe, he’d freeze to death up there.

  Up there on those low roofs, he thought, trapped in a roof valley when the first snows come, listening to the hourly chimes from so many church bells—because they all ring on the hour, though there’s no way I can know that. Watching the pigeons flit from roof to roof, listening to the sounds from the street below, the people passing by and the cars, and the lilt to their voices that I can’t quite place because …

  “Because I’ve never really heard it,” he muttered, and the memory of his dream faded a little more.

  He hurried across the landing, glancing in at Holly as he passed her bedroom. She was snoring softly beneath an avalanche of cuddly toys, surrounded by the trappings of a little girl’s life—pink walls that he’d decorated with Disney characters, books about fairies and imaginary lands, posters of puppies and horses and a landscape from Oz. He smiled, heart aching with love for his daughter. Then he went up the narrow staircase to his studio, closing the door behind him. Jim always painted to music, and he knew how annoyed Jenny would be if he woke them up.

  It was three a.m. He’d get no more sleep tonight.

  He switched on the lights, and the studio was reflected back down at him from the wide roof windows. He loved this space. During the day the east- and west-facing windows let in the best of the light, and the south-facing balcony at the gable end was often where he took his lunch and coffee breaks. Sometimes Jenny came up to eat with him, on those rare days when she wasn’t teaching, and they’d chat quietly as they watched the world go by below. There were at least half a dozen people he waved to regularly—he didn’t know their names, but routine gave them the opportunity to acknowledge each other. He didn’t want to know their names. Unusually for an artistic type, routine was important to Jim, and to discover their names and perhaps become friends would be to move on to something new.

  But now all the light was contained—an even white illumination from the expensive system he’d had installed a few years before. His midnight painting sprees were not that common, but he often found them the most rewarding.

  He turned on the music system and ran his finger along the three full shelves of CDs. Chance usually dictated what he listened to while he worked, and sometimes a subconscious decision based on what might influence a current painting. His forefinger slipped across a case. He saw his daughter’s name—No, it says Flogging Molly—and he slipped the CD into the player. As the first strains of mandolin and fiddle slipped from the speakers, he stood before his working plinth. The current canvas was an advertising design for a new chain of pubs in Boston, part of their forthcoming Christmas campaign. He took it down carefully, set it to one side, and mounted a blank canvas. The dreaded blank canvas. He was confident in his abilities but also acknowledged that every new project began with fear.

  Jim closed his eyes, trying not to think too much, music passing through him, breathing deeply and trying to hang on to the last vestiges of sleep. Later he’d have coffee, perhaps even sitting out on the balcony if he wrapped up warmly, but that would be when he was properly awake. Now he had to begin. He breathed slowly, deeply, letting that mysterious skyline swallow him, and when he opened his eyes again the canvas was no longer blank.

  He picked up a brush and began to transform his dream into reality.

  “What time did you get up?” Jenny asked. Jim had heard her moving around half an hour ago, and when her feet trod gently up toward his studio he was already sitting in one of two comfortable chairs, ankles crossed and relaxing as he stared at what he had done.

  “Hey, babe,” he said. “About three.”

  Jenny smiled and shook her head. Her gorgeous auburn hair hung free, obscuring one eye and swinging across her face in a way he found unbelievably alluring. She wore her long bathrobe and fluffy pig-faced slippers and carried a tray bearing two steaming coffee mugs and a large plate of pancakes and crispy bacon. Her eyes were still swollen from sleep and her hair a mess, and Jim loved her dearly. Eight years of marriage and no sign of an itch yet.

  “Slave to your muse, as ever.” She set the tray on the small table between chairs and slumped into the one beside him, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

  “Yeah, but I’ll ride that bitch till she obeys my every command.”

  Jenny raised an eyebrow and one corner of her mouth, playfully stern. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

  “You look good enough to eat,” he said, glancing down pointedly at her long legs.

  “Bacon and pancakes,” she said, yawning.

  “I was thinking you might rather have sausage.”

  “Jesus, it’s obvious you had a little too much wine last night.”

  Jim smiled and shrugged, picking up a coffee mug and inhaling the warm aroma. He always seemed to be horny the morning after a night of drink. Sipping coffee, he looked back to the canvas he’d been working on for almost four hours, and any other thoughts faded away.

  I have no
idea where this comes from, he thought, but it was not the dreamy origins of these scenes that worried him. There were at least a dozen such canvases in his storage room at the other end of the studio—of this strange Boston, and another that had also never existed—and three more hanging in Boston’s Rose Gallery, part of a permanent display from local artists. The thing that disturbed him was that he didn’t know why they disturbed him. If it was only him that they affected that way, perhaps he could have attributed it to some feeling from those dreams that lingered in his painted representations—a subconscious fear that was given life in his strokes, blocking, and shading. But Holly didn’t like these skylines, either.

  To Jenny, they were simply strange. “This one’s a bit different,” she said.

  “Well … they all are.” He glanced sidelong at his wife, watched her regarding his night’s work over the rim of her coffee mug. She seemed to be hiding behind the steam, as if that would protect her from something.

  “No,” she said, and then fell silent again. She was examining this painting more closely than usual, her slight frown remaining in place even as she put the mug down and picked up a pancake. She took a bite and chewed, never taking her eyes from the painting.

  It’s not finished, he wanted to say. It’s just blocked out, really. There’s shading to do and the sky’s wrong. It’s dark enough, but not heavy enough; there’s no depth. But he held back, because he always found himself striving to defend his work. He had a strange relationship with his art: he was utterly confident in his abilities and talent, yet never content with a finished piece.

  “I know what it is,” she said through a mouthful of pancake. “It’s more detailed. Closer.”

  “Closer.” For a moment he wasn’t sure what she meant. It was still an unknown skyline—although it was Boston, he’d insist to anyone who doubted him, always Boston—this painting was more real, more there than any he had ever done. “Yeah …,” he said, then the studio door opened.