The Death of All Things Read online

  The Death

  of All Things

  Other Anthologies Edited by

  Patricia Bray & Joshua Palmatier

  After Hours: Tales from the Ur-Bar

  The Modern Fae’s Guide to Surviving Humanity

  Clockwork Universe: Steampunk vs Aliens

  Temporally Out of Order

  Alien Artifacts

  Were-

  All Hail Our Robot Conquerors!

  S.C. Butler & Joshua Palmatier

  Submerged

  The Death

  of All Things

  Edited by

  Laura Anne Gilman

  &

  Kat Richardson

  Zombies Need Brains LLC

  www.zombiesneedbrains.com

  Copyright © 2017 Laura Anne Gilman, Kat Richardson, and Zombies Need Brains LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Interior Design (ebook): April Steenburgh

  Interior Design (print): C. Lennox Graphics, LLC

  Cover Design by C. Lennox Graphics, LLC

  Cover Art “The Death of All Things” by Justin Adams

  ZNB Book Collectors #10

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

  All resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions of this book, and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted material.

  Kickstarter Edition Printing, August 2017

  First Printing, September 2017

  Print ISBN-10: 1940709164

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1940709161

  Ebook ISBN-10: 1940709172

  Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1940709178

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Copyrights

  Introduction copyright © 2017 by Laura Anne Gilman Kat Richardson

  “Raveling” copyright © 2017 by K. M. Laney

  “Death and Mrs. Morrison” copyright © 2017 by Andrea Mullen

  “Death and the Fashionista” copyright © 2017 by Faith Hunter

  “Awake, Awake” copyright © 2017 by Kendra Leigh Speedling

  “The End” copyright © 2017 by Jason M. Hough

  “The Dance” copyright © 2017 by Julie Pitzel

  “The Legend of John Barrett” copyright © 2017 by Shaun Avery

  “The Wolves of Lady Death” copyright © 2017 by Christie Golden

  “Wedding Vows” copyright © 2017 by Leah Cutter

  “Cicada Song, in a Country Since Long Gone” copyright © 2017 by Aliette de Bodard

  “Dying on Stage” copyright © 2017 by Andrew Dunlop

  “A Constant Companion” copyright © 2017 by Juliet E. McKenna

  “Thrice Remembered” copyright © 2017 by A. Merc Rustad

  “Charnel House” copyright © 2017 by Ville Meriläinen

  “How Death Came By His Soul” copyright © 2017 by Amanda Kespohl

  “The Tab” copyright © 2017 by Mack Moyer

  “Death and My Mentions” copyright © 2017 by Fran Wilde

  “A Shift in Mood” copyright © 2017 by Kathryn McBride

  “Finding the Dancer” copyright © 2017 by Andrija Popovic

  “The Fallow Grave of Dream” copyright © 2017 by Jim C. Hines

  “What Happens in Vegas” copyright © 2017 by Stephen Blackmoore

  “Delayed Exchange Deferred” copyright © 2017 by Kiya Nicoll

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction by Laura Anne Gilman Kat Richardson

  “Raveling” by K. M. Laney

  “Death and Mrs. Morrison” by Andrea Mullen

  “Death and the Fashionista” by Faith Hunter

  “Awake, Awake” by Kendra Leigh Speedling

  “The End” by Jason M. Hough

  “The Dance” by Julie Pitzel

  “The Legend of John Barrett” by Shaun Avery

  “The Wolves of Lady Death” by Christie Golden

  “Wedding Vows” by Leah Cutter

  “Cicada Song, in a Country Since Long Gone” by Aliette de Bodard

  “Dying on Stage” by Andrew Dunlop

  “A Constant Companion” by Juliet E. McKenna

  “Thrice Remembered” by A. Merc Rustad

  “Charnel House” by Ville Meriläinen

  “How Death Came By His Soul” by Amanda Kespohl

  “The Tab” by Mack Moyer

  “Death and My Mentions” by Fran Wilde

  “A Shift in Mood” by Kathryn McBride

  “Finding the Dancer” by Andrija Popovic

  “The Fallow Grave of Dream” by Jim C. Hines

  “What Happens in Vegas” by Stephen Blackmoore

  “Delayed Exchange Deferred” by Kiya Nicoll

  About the Authors

  About the Editors

  Acknowledgments

  INTRODUCTION

  Laura Anne Gilman & Kat Richardson

  Death is, as all the jokes go, universal. So we knew we’d get a lot of submissions, once the anthology was announced. What we weren’t expecting was how good they would be.

  We should have expected that Death, when you engage with it, pulls everything out and puts it on the table. And so did these stories.

  Whatever the genre—and we saw them all—each story brought some fresh aspect to the portrait of Death, the Universal. Here you will find heroes and villains, as well as those who aren’t quite either, and those who are a bit of both; there are tales of vengeance, trickery, and loss, but also stories of joy, duty, triumph—even love—as well as the divine, and the ridiculous. From so many great offerings, it was difficult to choose only a few, but we have selected the pieces we feel best illustrate a range of ideas and feeling, as well as a range of artists. So, from the minds and hands of bestsellers, seasoned storytellers, and fresh new writers, we’re pleased to bring you twenty-two original views of the Death of All Things.

  RAVELING

  K. M. Laney

  Alex eased the door closed behind him, shutting out the noise from the younger kids. His face brightened in a smile. Freedom!

  He looked around at the gym lobby. A tennis match played on the big TV. The sound was off. Nobody was watching it. All the magazines on the coffee table were about sports or health or news. No comics or books to read. He looked through the windows to the pool room. Mom was there, along with all the other pregnant ladies in her water aerobics class. Boring. Even if he’d brought a suit he was only allowed to swim during his Tadpole class. Freedom, but nothing to do.

  An older woman sitting quiet by the windows caught his eye. She wore one of those exercise outfits like Gramma did. A purple one. And a purple ribbon in her curly white hair. He only knew Gramma from pictures, but she always matched, too. He and Mom had gone through all the albums the other day. His favorites were the ones where Mom was a kid, like he was.

  A purple gym bag leaned against the woman’s left leg. Alex glimpsed fluffy gray stuff through the open zipper. She held a wad of the same stuff in her hand. Pulling at it and twisting it through her fingers, she fed a narrow strand to a top spinning in the air by her other ankle. Maybe it was a game?

  Curious, Alex took a step toward her, then stopped. Mom said he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. He glanced over at the front desk. The check-in girl sat on her stool, reading. Everyone in the pool could see him through the windows. He wasn’t all by himself. Alex screwed up his courage and approached her. “Hi,” he said.

  The old woman looked up at him. “Hello there,” she said. Her hands never stopped, the gray fluff flowing through her fingers like a stream of fog. “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, how are you?” he answered. That’s how Mom always answered when people asked her. “What are you doing?” he asked before she could answer his first question.

  The old woman chuckled. “I’m very well, young man, thank you for asking,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. My name is Nora. What’s yours?”

  “I’m Alex,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.” He stuck out his hand, remembering his manners.

  Nora let the top touch the floor and it spiraled to a stop, trailing gray string. She took his hand and shook it. “Pleased to meet you as well, Alex. You have very nice manners.”

  Alex brightened. “Thanks!” he said. The other kids thought he was weird.

  Nora picked up her top by the tall stick and gave it a quick twist. It began spinning rapidly. She teased fluff from the bundle and let the top wind it up. “I’m spinning. I bet you’ve never seen anyone spin yarn before,” she said, watching him and not the yarn.

  “Spinning?” Alex asked.

  The old woman nodded. “Spinning. Making yarn.”

  “Is that like the spinning wheel in Sleeping Beauty?” Alex asked. “I saw a spinning wheel at the Heritage Museum once.” He eyed Nora’s top. “It was bigger.”

  She chuckled. “People made yarn on drop spindles like this for ages before they invented spinning wheels. Have a seat, Alex.” She patted the seat beside her as the spindle ran down and gave it another twist while Alex settled. “Are you supposed to be out
here?” she asked.

  Alex scuffed his feet on the short blue carpet. “I’m supposed to be in there with the other kids,” he said, pointing his chin toward the closed door labeled “Fun Space” in bright crayon colors. “But they’re all little. All they want to do is run around and scream and stuff. There’s no one for me to play with.”

  “I see,” said Nora, a gentle smile in her brown eyes. “It’s hard, being between worlds, isn’t it?”

  Alex looked at her. Nora understood. He nodded. “So how come you’re here? You’re not exercising like the other grown-ups. Are you waiting for someone?”

  “I am,” she said. She gave the slowing spindle another twist. “He’s a little late. No matter, though. I like being near all the young people. Everyone is so energetic and full of life.”

  Alex giggled. Maybe Nora didn’t fit in either. She was probably supposed to be with all the old people. He bent in to look more closely at the fluff winding as yarn on the spindle. “Why don’t you just buy yarn at the store?”

  “Oh, I can’t use ordinary yarn,” Nora said. “Made from sheep’s wool or nasty plastic acrylic? Spun by the mile on machines, lined up with hundreds of identical skeins and sold for pennies by people who don’t care? Never touched by warm, feeling hands? What kind of yarn is that? Good for socks and scarves, maybe,” Nora caressed the soft fibers as the spindle imparted twist and wound them around its shaft, “not for what I’m making.”

  “Sorry,” Alex apologized.

  “Don’t be sorry,” Nora said. “It’s a good question. I didn’t mean to sound so snippy. I’m quite particular about my yarn.”

  Now that he was close, Alex realized the fluff wasn’t gray at all. It was all colors mixed together. He had modeling clay like that came in a lot of colors in the beginning, but the more he played with it the more it got mixed up. Now it was all gray. Nora’s fluff reminded him of that ball of gray clay that was really all the colors mixed up together. “So what are you going to make with it?” he asked.

  “With my yarn?” Nora asked.

  “Yes!” Alex pressed.

  Nora smiled and leaned toward him. “A soul,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Alex sat upright. He must have heard wrong. “A soul?” he asked.

  “That’s right,” Nora said, straightening and twisting the spindle again. She pulled more of the not-gray fluff from the bundle and let it twine between her fingers.

  Alex crossed his arms. “You’re making fun,” he pouted.

  “Not at all,” Nora said. She let the spindle come to a rest on the floor and pulled a handful of fuzz from the purple exercise bag. She pulled and stretched the fibers a bit, making a loose bundle in her hand. When she started the spindle up again the fluff twined into smooth, neat thread.

  “You can’t make a soul,” Alex said.

  Nora’s fingers moved with precision, feeding the fibers into the spindle. “Everyone needs a soul, and where do they come from if they’re not made?”

  Alex puzzled over her question for a bit. They talked about souls a lot in Sunday school, but not about where they came from. God, he guessed, but he never thought about where God got them. Or how He might make them, either. It suddenly seemed important to know. “God makes them?” he suggested, which really wasn’t an answer. He hoped Nora would tell him more.

  “Perhaps,” Nora said. “Soulstuff is complicated indeed.” Her clever, swift fingers kept twisting the spindle, twisting the gray fibers. The fluff in her hand drew down, quickly converted into soft usable yarn. Alex watched, fascinated, while the odd, all-colors thread built up in neat coils on the spindle. At last satisfied with the amount, she wound off the end. She bent down and retrieved a pair of sticks from her bag. They were shiny and smooth, a pale color not quite white.

  “Are those chopsticks?” Alex asked. They looked almost like the chopsticks from the nearby Chinese restaurant. Alex liked their food.

  “Knitting needles,” Nora said. She slipped the skein off the spindle, formed a loose knot in the end of the yarn, then slipped one of the needles through and pulled the knot tight.

  “Are they bamboo, like chopsticks?” Alex asked.

  Nora smiled and tapped the side of her nose. “I can’t say. Trade secret, you know.”

  He leaned in closer, marveling at the fine lines almost invisible on one of the needles’ smooth surface. “Can I touch one?” he asked. His hand was already reaching toward the needle.

  “You might fall asleep,” Nora said. Alex yanked his hand back and Nora laughed, a fresh sound like a waterfall. “Like in Sleeping Beauty? I was making fun that time, Alex. You can touch them.”

  Alex’s eager fingers reached out again. The needle was warm, not cool like he expected. Warm and smooth but with a little drag when he ran his fingers the wrong way. No splinters. He imagined he almost felt a heartbeat, a kind of pitpattery flutter in them. It might have been scary except for Nora’s gentle smile. “So you’re going to make a soul now?”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Nora agreed with a nod. She threw a loop over the needle and began knitting, the loops quickly building up on the shaft.

  “Who’s it for?” Alex asked.

  “This one?” Nora asked.

  “Yes,” Alex said.

  “For your sister,” Nora said.

  “Sister?” Alex asked.

  “She’s coming soon, isn’t she?” Nora asked. Her quick fingers started another row and the piece traveled down the other needle.

  “Well, yeah …” Alex admitted. Mom was a lot more excited about the baby than he was. He kind of liked the idea of being big brother, though.

  “So she needs a soul, doesn’t she?” Nora asked.

  Alex pondered for a moment. “I guess,” he answered.

  Nora laughed again. “I guess!” she said. Her fingers never paused. “I guess. Spoken like a true child.” She giggled. “I guess. She does need a soul. So this one is hers.”

  “Oh.” Alex smiled despite himself. “How will she get it?” he asked, watching the loops build up on Nora’s needles.

  “I’ll make sure she gets it, don’t worry,” Nora said. “That’s part of making a soul.”

  “Did you make my soul?” he asked.

  “Of course,” Nora replied.

  He peered at the emerging gray swatch, “Did it look like this one?”

  “Not quite,” Nora said, still working. “Every soul is different. They may have the same stitches, but the pattern is never the same.”

  “How do you know what to make?”

  “I just do,” she said. For the first time since she began knitting, she stopped. She set the piece down in her lap, her age-spotted fingers frozen before completing the next stitch. “I never really thought about it before, Alex. I always let my fingers decide. My fingers and the yarn and the needles.”

  “It isn’t very even,” Alex said, peering at the mass of gray in her lap. If Nora’s spinning made perfect yarn, her knitting was terrible. It had long loops and short ones and tight spots and loose spots. He had a knitted hat and it was the same all over. “Is it supposed to be like that?”