Gina Damico - Rogue

prmoments,

Copyright 2013 by Gina Damico

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhbooks.com

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file.

eISBN 978-0-544-15153-6
v1.0913

For Gamma and Papa

prmoments,

This may sound weird, but I must first and foremost give thanks to the following things: bread, boredom, and crossword puzzles. This is because the idea for Croak first popped into my head while I was working at a bread store, bored out of my mind, and doing a crossword puzzle. This is the definitive, winning formula for book ideas, folks. Write it down.

And what a strange, wonderful, carbo-loaded journey its been since then! Its hard to believe this series is over, and even harder to say goodbye to the characters that have been renting a room in my noggin for all these years. I know, I knowsomeone prep the straitjacketbut in my mind theyre all Velveteen Rabbits: when you love them, they become real. Ill miss them.

Whats that? Im supposed to be thanking people who arent works of fiction?

Fine. As always, huge thanks to my agent, Tina Wexler, the dollop of ice creiss>am to my deep-fried Oreo, who has truly made me a better writer, and who, if she ever left her job as an agentwhich she must NEVER EVER DOI think could make a real career out of being one of those cops who talks troubled people down from very tall precipices.

Thank you to my editor, Julie Tibbott, for believing in these little stories of mine, and for paying me awesome compliments like I admire your willingness to kill off your characters, which is really just a polite way of saying, I think you might actually be a serial killer, and Im fine with it.

These books would be nothing but doorstops without the tireless efforts of everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, including my publicist Jenny Groveswho, when I tell her I want to plan borderline insane things like a two-week road trip book tour, somehow approves of such madnessand Carol Chu, Betsy Groban, Julia Richardson, and Maxine Bartow.

Thanks also to Stephanie Thwaites and Catherine Saunders at Curtis Brown UK, who think that my stories have enough potential to cause international incidents, and Liz Farrell and Katie OConnor at ICM, and Audible, for allowing me to assault my readers ears as well as their eyes.

Thank you to Kelley Travers, photographer extraordinaire, whom I have unforgivably forgotten to thank until now, which is why she gets her very own paragraph.

To the Apocalypsies and all the other authors Ive had the fortune to meet in the past year or so: you are some amazing people. Maybe a little too amazing, actually. Knock it off.

Teachers and librarians: You are the glue that holds this world together. You hear me? YOU ARE GLUE. Whenever I get to meet one of you, Im bowled over by your enthusiasm and love for spreading the magic of reading to students. You make my cold, shriveled heart grow three sizes every time, and I so appreciate and respect what you do.

To all the bloggers and booksellers that have spread the Croaky love: Thank you so much for embracing these books, in all their offbeat glory. You, in all your offbeat glory, rock.

Thank you to my family and friends, many of whom probably never would have picked up a YA series about grim reapers on their own, but who genuinely seem to enjoy it now that its been foisted upon them. Im very grateful for your love and support, and I promise next time to not write something so dark and morbid. (Note: I will not keep this promise.)

To Alphonse Damico, Mary Damico, and Laurie Mezza- lingua: You are missed. I hope youre knocking elbows with some very cool people in the afterlife.

To all the creatures living in my house: Will, thanks for staying married to me even though the vows did not read in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, through first drafts and revisions, to the brink of insanity and back; Fezzik, youre distracting, and youve now eaten roughly 85 percent of my possessions but youre still a very cute dog; Lenny and Carl, sorry we got a dog; and to the squirrel that took up residence in our walls and basement during the writing of this book, WTF GET OUT.

No thanks to leaf blowers, and the neighbors who use them constantly. Its called a rake, people.

Finally, thank you times a billion to you, the readers and fans. I cant tell you how much it means to me to hear back from all sorts of peopleguys and gals, teens and not-so-teens, humans and cyborgsand learn that these stories and characters have resonated with so many of you. Its nice to know that if these places I go to inside my head were real, thered be a whole bunch of friends there to hang out and drink Yoricks with me. I love you all.

Which is why I feel so bad about spring-loading these pages with blow darts. Duck and enjoy!

prmoments,

Grotton wondered, for a brief moment, if there were a special circle of hell reserved for someone like himor if Dante would have to cobble together an entirely new one.

Please, the farmer at his feet moaned. Please.

Other than delivering a small kick to shut the man up, Grotton ignored him and went back to his task. He had to keep his wits about him, or this would never work.

The heavy smoke had darkened the thatched roof of the farmers hut, but some small bits of light had begun to edge back in. Grotton picked up his scythea heavy stone made from lead, forged by his own two hands. The best blacksmith in the village, theyd called him, back before the rumors started.

He smiled at the irony, how the only people who were able to confirm that the rumors were true never lived long enough to tell anyone.

Case in point: the cowering, dirty wretch on the ground, worlds away from the puffed-up, righteous man hed been up until a few moments before, as if someone had pricked him and let all the air out. Every few moments his gaze would dart to the two still lumps beside him, but hed quickly squeeze his eyes shut and let out another whimper.

I was only protecting our village, he moaned. With a demon in our midst

Im not a demon. Grotton knew better than to engage in conversation with the brute, but the words came regardless. I hurt no one.

The farmer looked up at him, a swath of greasy hair falling over his eyes. A demon, he insisted. Stalking through the night, taking the souls of

Of people who are already dead.

Dead and cold and filling with mold, his students liked to say. Thered certainly been no shortage of test subjects for themthe Great Plague had made sure of that. Theyd called themselves reapers, which Grotton had found amusing at firstand, as their experiments continued with increased success, oddly appropriate. He was glad his students had not been identified; perhaps theyd be able to rejoin him after he fled the village.

After hed taken care of this one loose end.

You hurt no one? the farmer growled. Perhaps he knew what awaited him; but then again, even Grotton did not know. They were breaking fresh ground today, the two of themthe scientist and his lab rat. How can you say that?

You mistake my words, said Grotton. I hurt no oneuntil today.

To illustrate this, he administered another kick, this time to one of the little lumps lying next to the man. That did itwhatever small amounts of bravado the man had conjured now melted away. He dissolved into sobs, putting his thick hands over his eyes to block the view of the blood seeping out of his childrens skulls in thin rivulets, draining to the sunken center of the floor.