Dead Harvest

that.'

  'You flatter yourself, Collector. My interest in you is strictly professional.'

  'Is it? So it's a coincidence, then, that I'm dispatched to collect a girl it turns out is responsible for the murder of my own flesh and blood?'

  'You think it's not?' she asked.

  'Damn right I think it's not. In all my time as a Collector, I've never been sent on a job I would have taken any joy in, and why would I be? After all, this gig is punishment for a life misspent. But if this job had been legit, it would've been a gift. Except it wasn't legit, was it? And the fact that I had a personal stake in it made for a nice little ace in the hole – if I got out of line, all So'enel had to do was play the family card, and I'd do my job like a good little soldier, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.'

  'So So'enel set you up as well – is that any surprise, given what he did to the girl?'

  'I suppose not. But what is a surprise is that he would have chosen me to do the job, not knowing me personally, and therefore having no idea how I'd react. No, I think he had help picking me – picking her. And I think that help was you.'

  'I assure you, Collector, you're mistaken.'

  'Am I? Then tell me – where were you when I went off the reservation? You said yourself – when we met in the park – you ought to report me for what I'd done. Why didn't you? You ask me, you didn't say anything because you were sure I'd eventually collect the girl, and you didn't want to be tied too closely to the job when I did. After all, if they suspected it was you who was responsible for the war that would have certainly ensued, you'd have both sides gunning for you.'

  'Assuming for a moment you're right,' Lilith said, 'what could I possibly stand to gain by inciting a heavenly war?'

  'Revenge, for a start. I mean, the story says you were cast out of the Garden of Eden for refusing to be subservient to Adam. My guess is, if anybody's got a reason to start a war against God, it's you.'

  'Those are bedtime stories, Collector, nothing more. You of all people should know that.'

  'I do know that, but I also know that most of them contain a kernel of truth as well. Tell me, how long did it take you to tempt So'enel to your cause? Years? Centuries? Millennia? And how long, now that he's failed, before you try again?'

  'You can't expect me to answer that.'

  I smiled and shook my head. 'I suppose not.'

  'Nor can you prove a single word of what you just said.'

  'No, I guess I can't.'

  'So where does that leave us, then?'

  I thought a moment. 'Right back where we started, I suppose.'

  'Yes,' she said carefully, 'I suppose it does.'

  She strolled over to me, rising on tiptoes and kissing me softly on the cheek.

  'You should take some time here with your friend,' she said. 'This work of ours can wait. After all you've seen, you deserve some rest – and believe me, you're going to need it. I have a feeling there's a storm brewing.'

  I said nothing: I just stood there watching as she strolled toward the open door. As she reached the threshold, she called to me, not looking back.

  'See you 'round, Collector.' Her voice hung in the air for what seemed like forever, long after she'd disappeared from sight.

  Yeah, I thought. I bet you will.

About the Author

Chris F. Holm was born in Syracuse, New York, the grandson of a cop with a penchant for crime fiction. He wrote his first story at the age of six. It got him sent to the principal's office. Since then, his work has fared better, appearing in such publications as Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine, Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, Needle Magazine, Beat to a Pulp, and Thuglit.

  He's been a Derringer Award finalist and a Spinetingler Award winner, and he's also written a novel or two. He lives on the coast of Maine with his lovely wife and a noisy, noisy cat.

Acknowledgments

There was a time when I – then but a lonely writer clacking away at a keyboard in a dark corner of my basement apartment – looked upon acknowledgments with skepticism. Writing is, by its nature, a solitary task. So who were these people to whom authors claimed they were so indebted?

  Now, of course, I know better. Because it turns out those people are the difference between a dusty, unread manuscript cranked out by some lonely writer in a dark corner of a basement apartment, and the book you're now holding in your hands.

  To that end, I'd like to first thank my agent, Jennifer Jackson, for her tireless work on my behalf. My path to publication has been circuitous, but Jennifer's enthusiasm and faith have been unflagging.

  Thanks also to Marc Gascoigne, Lee Harris, and the rest of the Angry Robot team, for giving Sam and company such a loving (er, angry and robotic) home. Marc is also responsible for my stellar cover design, which was rendered beautifully by Martin at Amazing 15. Gents, I am forever in your debt.

  My deepest gratitude to Charles Ardai, Frank Bill, Stephen Blackmoore, Judy Bobalik, Hilary Davidson, Leighton Gage, Jon and Ruth Jordan, Sophie Littlefield, Stuart Neville, and Mike Shevdon for their kindness and generosity of spirit. I can't tell you all how much it means to me.

  I'm fortunate be part of an online writing community whose members' friendship and support I value more than I've room here to express. I would, however, like to single out a few of them for championing my work these many years (with my apologies to anyone I've missed, as this list is certainly inadequate to so Herculean a task): Patti Abbott, Patrick Shawn Bagley, Nigel Bird, Paul D. Brazill, R. Thomas Brown and the fine folks at Crime Fiction Lover, Joelle Charbonneau, David Cranmer and his cohorts at Beat to a Pulp, Laura K. Curtis, Neliza Drew, David