Fathom
Authors: Cherie Priest
Fathom
Tor Books by Cherie Priest
T
HE
E
DEN
M
OORE
B
OOKS
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
Wings to the Kingdom
Not Flesh Nor Feathers
Fathom
Cherie Priest
A Tom Doherty Associates Book
New York
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us.macmillanusa.com/piracy
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
FATHOM
Copyright © 2008 by Cherie Priest
All rights reserved.
Edited by Liz Gorinsky
Book design by Kathryn Parise
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Priest, Cherie.
Fathom / Cherie Priest.—1st ed.
p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Asscociates book.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-7653-1840-4
ISBN-10: 0-7653-1840-7
1. Monsters—Fiction. 2. Angels—Fiction. I. Title
PS3616.R537 F38 2008
813'.6—dc22
2008034251
First Edition: December 2008
Printed in the United States of America
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the Sunshine State, and my relatives who originated there.
(Yes, that’s pretty much all of them.)
Acknowledgments
T
hanks go first to the usual suspects: My fabulous husband, Aric, who lets me stay home and write these things while he trundles off to his office job each day; my amazing editor, Liz Gorinsky, who, bless her heart forever, was subjected to not one, not two, but
three
separate Draft One versions of this project; my superfly publicist, Dot Lin, who’s always quick on the draw with the promo materials; my impossibly patient agent, Jennifer Jackson, who gets shotgunned all my ridiculous ideas and yet never uses live ammo when she shoots back; and my ever ready webmaster, Greg Wild-Smith.
Next, I’d like to cast grateful, friendly props to a few members of the Seattle-area writing crew—namely, Kat Richardson, Richelle
Mead, Caitlin Kittredge, and Mark Henry—for the lunches, the parties, and the companionable revelry that only fellow zombie aficionados can provide. They’ve been exceedingly kind to the new girl in town, and I love them all to pieces for it. And speaking of the locals, thanks likewise go to Duane Wilkins at the University District bookstore, because he’s a signing-organizing madman and a true friend of authors everywhere.
I’d also like to send a shout-out to Chief Kenneth A. Price, Jr., over at the West Manatee Fire Rescue, for taking the time to answer pestering e-mails from a faraway author with some really odd questions. I did not honestly expect an answer to something as off the wall as, “Can you tell me about the fire department on this very small island about ninety years ago?” but he came through in style. Mind you, I only
selectively
followed his historical notes, so if anyone reads this and thinks I’ve gone off the deep end with my facts—please don’t bother poor Chief Price about it. He knows his stuff. Anything I’ve botched herein is entirely my responsibility.
And as a final note—because such things are important to some people—the song that Edward sings can be roughly, approximately hummed to the tune of “King Volcano” by Bauhaus.
Fathom
Lake Wales, Florida
I
t’s as if you’ve asked me to build an ark. Only this . . . this is even stranger. It’s not that I don’t believe you, and obviously it’s not the money.”
Edward shielded his eyes against the gleaming, glaring afternoon sun. Below the hill where he stood, the scorched gray-green tops of live oaks and winged elms stretched as far as he could see in every direction. Here and there, the view was pocked with low, swampy places and trailing streams of tepid water thick with algae.
“It’s just this
place
. And I should tell you,” he continued, “this is the highest point on the peninsula. Can you believe that? This little mound is as high as the landscape ever climbs away from the ocean.”
He rubbed at the grass with the shiny black toe of his shoe, pushing past the topsoil and into the gritty red dirt just beneath it. “But you say this isn’t clay? It looks like clay. Except . . .” He jabbed at a clod and it disintegrated like sand. “Except it’s awfully dry. And that color, it’s much redder than clay.”
