Harry Connolly - Circle of Enemies: A Twenty Palaces Novel

Child of Fire

Has a lot of things I love in a book: a truly dark and sinister world, delicious tension and suspense, violence so gritty youll get something in your eye just reading it, and a gorgeously flawed protagonist. Take this one to the checkout counter. Seriously.

J IM B UTCHER , author of The Dresden Files

Unique magical concepts, a tough and pragmatic protagonist and a high casualty rate for innocent bystanders will enthrall readers who like explosive action and magic that comes at a serious cost.

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

Cinematic and vivid, with a provocative glimpse into a larger world. Wheres the next one?

T ERRY R OSSIO , screenwriter,
Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy

Game of Cages

The fast pacing and over-the-top action never let go. This has become one of my must read series.

Locus

Connolly fulfills and sustains the promise of his 2009 rural noir debut, Child of Fire, with this thoughtful Lovecraftian sequel. Connolly doesnt shy away from tackling big philosophical issues.

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

The Twenty Palaces Series
by Harry Connolly

CHILD OF FIRE
GAME OF CAGES
CIRCLE OF ENEMIES

Circle of Enemies is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Del Rey Mass Market Original

Copyright 2011 by Harry Connolly

All rights reserved.

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

D EL R EY is a registered trademark and the Del Rey colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-52925-1

www.delreybooks.com

Cover illustration: Christian McGrath

v3.1

For my son, who isnt old enough to read it yet

It was August in Seattle, when the city enjoyed actual sunshine and temperatures in the eighties. Id spent the day working, which made for a nice change. Id just finished a forty-hour temp landscaping job; dirt and dried sweat made my face and arms itch. I hated the feeling, but even worse was that I didnt have anything lined up for next week.

As I walked up the alley toward home, I passed a pair of older women standing beside a scraggly vegetable garden. One kept saying she was sweltering, sweltering, but her friend didnt seem sympathetic. Neither was I. I was used to summers in the desert.

When they noticed me, they fell silent. The unsympathetic one took her friends hand and led her toward the back door, keeping a wary eye on me. That didnt bother me, either.

I stumped up the stairs to my apartment above my aunts garage. It was too late to call the temp agency tonight. Id have to try them early Monday morning. Not that I had much hope. It was hard for an ex-con to find work, especially an ex-con with my name.

Im Raymond Lilly, and Ive lost track of the number of people Ive killed.

My ancient garage-sale answering machine was blinking. I played the messages. Two were from reporters, one from a journalist-blogger, and one from a writer. They offered me the chance to tell my side of what happened in Washaway last Christmas. Except for the writers, I recognized all the voicestheyd called often over the last few weeks, sometimes several times a day.

I absentmindedly rubbed the tattoos on the back of my hands. They looked like artless jailhouse squiggles, but in reality they were magic spells, and without them Id be behind bars. None of the survivors in Washaway could pick me out of a lineup, and none of the fingerprint or DNA evidence Id left behind pointed to me anymore. I was on the twisted path.

I erased the messages. There was no point in calling them back. None of them understood the meaning of the words fuck off.

The sounds of their voices had triggered a low, buzzing anger that made me feel slightly out of control. I showered, then dropped my work clothes into the bottom of the tub, scrubbed them clean, and hung them from the curtain rod. I felt much better after that.

I wiped steam from the bathroom window and looked out. My aunt had not hung a paper angel in her kitchen window. That meant I could order in a sandwich for dinner. I put on my sleeping clothes: a T-shirt and a pair of cutoff sweatpants. I could eat alone, in silence, without someone asking how I was sleeping, how I was eating, and wouldnt things be better if I went to talk to someone?

I wouldnt have to say Thank you, but I cant a half dozen times. My aunt was right; Id probably sleep better if I could talk about the nightmaresand what Id done to bring them onbut Id be bedding down in a padded room.

I opened the bathroom door to dispel the steam, even though an unlocked door felt like a gun at my back. Then I turnesd to the mirror and looked carefully. Damn. I was wasting away.

A voice behind me said: You look like shit.

I yelped and spun around. In an instant, my heart was pounding in my chest as my hand fumbled across the sink for something to use as a weapon.

Caramella was standing in the bathroom doorway, and I was so startled to see her that everything went still for a moment. My adrenaline eased, and I could hear my harsh breath in the silence. It had been more than five years, and shed changed quite a bit. Her skin, which had once been so dark, seemed lighter, as though she spent all her time indoors, and while she still straightened her hair, now she had it up in a bun. She wore orange pants with an elastic waistband and a white halter. Shed gained some weight and she seemed taller somehow.

But she didnt belong here in Seattle. She belonged down in L.A., hanging at the Bigfoot Room with Arne, Robbie, and the rest.

I almost asked her what she was doing here, but I didnt want her to think she wasnt welcome. In truth, I didnt know how I felt about her. Welcome to my bathroom, I said.

Thanks. I hate it.

I nodded but didnt respond right away. Her hands were empty, although she might have stuffed a gun into the back of her waistband. Not that I could imagine why shed want to kill me, but that was how my mind worked now.

Im guessing youre not here for old times sake.

We dont have any old times, Ray. She turned and walked into the other room.

I followed her, noting that she didnt have a weapon under her waistband. Then why are you here? I kept my tone as neutral as I could, although I had less self-control than I used to.

Im paying a debt, she said, as though it was the most bitter thing in the world. I have to deliver a message to you. In person. She stopped beside the efficiency stove.

Okay. Here I am.

She looked away. Her lip curled and she blinked several times. Christ, she was about to cry. You killed me, Ray.

I gaped at her, astonished. She turned and slapped me on the shoulder. Then she did it again. That still wasnt enough, so she slapped my face and head four or five times. I didnt try to stop her.

Finally, she stopped on her own. Hitting me wasnt bringing her any satisfaction. You killed me, she said again. And you killed Arne, and Lenard, and Ty, and all the others, too. Were all going to die because we knew you.

Melly, what are you talking about?

Sorry, she said with a wet sniffle. I looked for tears on her face, but her cheeks were dry. Thats the message. Thats all you get.