Soulstice
Text Copyright © 2009 by Star Farm Productions, LLC
Smoke images by Yamada Taro/Riser/Getty Images, and Don Farrall/ Photographer’s Choice/Getty Images.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
Little, Brown and Company
Hachette Book Group
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Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.
First eBook Edition: September 2009
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental
and not intended by the author.
Based upon an original idea by Mark Allen Smith.
ISBN: 978-0-316-07141-3
Contents
The Devouring
(Book 1)
TO RIVER, AND TO JON.
PROLOGUE
I kept my eyes closed, smelling the buttered popcorn and cotton candy, hearing the ding-dings of the Midway games, feeling
the warm sun on my skin. I breathed in and opened my eyes, smiling in readiness for the fun day ahead.
But with my eyes open I saw that the carnival was empty. The smells, the sounds were all there, but no people to enjoy it.
I was standing on the platform of the Ferris wheel, and the cars rounded their wide, crayon-box arc through the sky, but there
wasn’t an operator tending to the ride.
The blue car was descending onto the platform, and I saw that on the seat was a rose, and tied to the rose was a card, and
written on the card was my name. I dashed forward, light with glee, and grabbed up both the rose and the card. The flower
was pungent, but when I opened the envelope I cut my finger on the paper, and it bled onto the ground. My finger stung, and
then, to my horror, leeches crawled up through the sand and sucked up the blood. They made slurping sounds and left a trail
of black sludge behind them. I felt something pinch my shoulder and cringed; one of them clung to me, its mouth suctioned
to my skin, sucking my blood out of my veins. Disgusted, I swatted it away and stomped on it, but it left black crisscrosses
on my arm. I examined them, but they weren’t painful, so I turned back to the card.
“Meet me at the Love Boat,” it read, and my heart soared. I clapped my hands in anticipation and hurried across the fairgrounds.
The Love Boat was a two-person skiff that floated down an underground river, though really the “river” was just a man-made
canal built inside one of the carnival houses. But it was dark, and it was quiet, and it was perfect for kissing. And he wanted
to meet me there.
The boat was waiting at the quay. It was empty, except for another note sitting on the seat.
“Set sail, I’ll soon be with you,” it said, so I did. I pushed off and settled in, and the boat drifted into the darkness
of a steel cave.
Pink spotlights dappled off the water ahead, and the place was filled with the scent of roses. I looked over the side of the
boat and saw the water filled with rose petals—he’d left them for me! I dipped my hand into the water, scooped them up, and
pressed them against my nose…
And screamed. They were not rose petals at all, but dismembered ears, colored red with blood. My screams echoed through the
cavern, but I could not go back, only forward through a listening sea.
The river rounded a bend in front of me, disappearing into the black. I called out his name, but there was no answer. The
boat drifted forward, and the air grew blisteringly cold. I could see my breath, and the river began to freeze over. Fear
sprouted inside me, but there was nothing I could do but float and wait for whatever was coming. I heard the noise of running
water ahead, and suddenly my boat tipped, and I was shrieking and falling, falling, down an icy waterfall.
The boat crashed when it hit the waves below, but I just sank beneath them, as if I had stones tied to my ankles. Down and
down I floated, the frigid water curdling my skin and freezing my organs.
Finally I reached the bottom, and there was my love, tangled in algae, his skin whiter than snow, his lips bluer than sky,
his eyes opened wide and blacker than space. His dark curls wafted to and fro about his once-perfect face. He stared, unseeing,
ahead, and then a crab crawled out between his lips. I tried to swim up to the surface, but he grabbed my foot and would not
let go, his grip so tight it bore into my bone, and I was stuck there until the fish came to gnaw at my skin and devour my
eyes.
Reggie sat up in bed, gasping for breath.
“Just the dream, just the dream,” she muttered to herself. She sat still, trying to calm her breathing and push the restlessness
from her body. The details of the dream sometimes varied, but the end was always the same.
She rubbed her eyes, tired and frustrated. She didn’t know how to make it go away. Reaching over, she turned on her bedside
lamp and took a sip of water. Her glance fell on her history notebook on the night table. Impulsively, she ripped a sheet
of paper out of it, clicked open a pen, and scribbled out what she had just dreamt.
A noise in her doorway made her look up.
“Who’s there?”
“It’s just me,” said her brother, Henry, and he stepped into the room. “I had a nightmare.”
“They must be going around,” Reggie replied. “Come on, hop in.”
Henry dove onto her bed and snuggled with her, and soon he was fast asleep again. But Reggie lay awake long after, wondering
if the nightmares would ever stop.
1
Six months
, Reggie Halloway thought Friday morning as the hot water from the shower poured down her chilled flesh. Six months since
Quinn Waters, town golden boy and the object of her foolish infatuation, had revealed himself as a Vour. Six months since
he tried to destroy her and later drowned in Cutter’s Lake while Reggie’s psyche battled for Henry’s soul inside the fearscape.
Six months since she’d encountered a Vour at all.
The monsters were the essence of fear, and they took over people’s bodies on Sorry Night, the night of the winter solstice.
They sent human souls to personal hells called fearscapes and lived out the lives their victims should have had. Reggie had
first read about the Vours in an old journal, stories of ancient and evil creatures who saw human beings either as hosts to
their essences or playthings to torment. She had thought them the delusions of a madwoman, Macie Canfield, but then one had
gotten to Reggie’s brother. She had learned how to defeat it and had brought her brother back.
At first she had suspected every person on the street of being a Vour, scoured every feature and action for the telltale signs.
Vours blended in seamlessly, with few giveaways. They hated the cold and couldn’t cry, and would sometimes manifest as smoke
when they were injured or leaving a body. Or when they telepathically sent horrific visions to other humans, which they often
did just for fun. But she had seen nothing, not since January.
