Beats of seven, p.1
Beats of Seven, page 1
A COLLECTION BY
PETER ORULLIAN
Praise for
THE SOUND OF
BROKEN ABSOLUTES
from the epic fantasy series
THE VAULT OF HEAVEN
“The Sound of Broken Absolutes is one of the most beautiful stories I’ve ever read . . . stunningly gorgeous, painfully intimate, and magnificently epic. This is a story of war, music, loss, and restoration, and it will touch the hearts of its readers.”
~ The Ranting Dragon
“The Sound of Broken Absolutes offers a theme of rebuilding our broken selves. It resonates perfectly. Orullian pours love and dread into his rich novella about art, loss and reconstruction. His tale disturbs and ultimately uplifts with the authenticity only possible from a writer who looked life’s hardship in the eye and shook its bony hand.”
~ PasteMagazine.com
Praise for
THE UNREMEMBERED
and
TRIAL OF INTENTIONS
BOOKS ONE & TWO
of
THE VAULT OF HEAVEN
“Engaging characters and powerful storytelling in the tradition of Robert Jordan, Terry Goodkind, and Dennis L. McKiernan make this a top-notch fantasy by a new author to watch.”
~ Library Journal (Starred review)
“A sprawling, complex tale of magic and destiny that won’t disappoint its readers. This auspicious beginning for author Peter Orullian will have you looking forward to more.”
~ Terry Brooks
“The Vault of Heaven is an ambitious story in the mold of Robert Jordan and Terry Goodkind. Peter Orullian is a name to watch in the field of epic fantasy.”
~ Kevin J. Anderson
“This is one huge, powerful, compelling, hard-hitting story . . . The Vault of Heaven is a major fantasy adventure.”
~ Piers Anthony
“A fine debut!” ~ Brandon Sanderson
“Great fantasy tales plunge us into vivid new worlds, in the company of fascinating characters. The Vault of Heaven is great fantasy. It grips you and shows you true friendship, strange places, and heroes growing to confront world-shaking evil. Magnificent! I want more!”
~ Ed Greenwood
“The Vault of Heaven by Peter Orullian is a vast canvas filled with thought-provoking ideas on the questions of good and evil that engage us all.”
~ Anne Perry
“Intricately crafted with its own distinct melody, The Unremembered is a groundbreaking work of epic fantasy.”
~ Bookwormblues.net
“Sometimes you just need a big, fat fantasy, and Peter Orullian’s remastered edition of The Unremembered delivers everything you’re looking for: a fascinating world, tense action, charismatic characters, and a magic system the like of which you’ve never imagined.”
~ Aidan Moher
A Dribble of Ink
Hugo Award Winner
“The Unremembered captures the unique essence and mystery of music, and weaves it into every line of a compelling and exciting world, while telling a character-driven story that resonates through the ages . . . a work of art on par with the masters of the genre, Jordan, Rothfuss, Tolkien, and more.”
~ Elitistbookreviews.com
2013 & 2014 Hugo-nominated
for best review site
“Engaging characters, complex magic, and expertly written—a whole new kind of epic fantasy!”
~ Suvudu.com
“Trial of Intentions is a story of music and magic, of daring and sacrifice, in an intricate and believable world, where characters face difficult and heartbreaking choices. Orullian is doing things I haven’t seen in other books, including an original system of magic. This tale will resonate with readers long after the cover is closed.”
~ Robin Hobb
“Peter Orullian’s Trial of Intentions is a book enormous in scope and in intricacy, with a welter of political, cultural, and magical intrigues, behind which lies the role of song in preserving a myriad of cultures, all of which disagree with each other to some extent, even as it becomes apparent to the reader that, without some degree of cooperation, all will suffer, if not perish. A challenging story about challenged cultures, and one well-told.”
~ L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
“Peter Orullian is a master of dark chocolate fantasy; bitter, harsh and sweet at once. Trial of Intentions grabs us firmly by the breastplate and challenges us to face a world of moral contradictions, stunning characters and harsh choices. An unflinching fantasy.”
~ Tracy Hickman
“Trial of Intentions is a grand novel, with strong worldbuilding and a sweeping cast of distinctive characters. Orullian is a promising writer, and I look forward to seeing where he takes us in the future.”
~ Brandon Sanderson
Also by Peter Orullian
The Unremembered
Trial of Intentions
The Vault of Heaven, Story Volume One
The Sound of Broken Absolutes
At the Manger
The Astonishing
Contents
Start Reading
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Special Previews!
About the Author
Table of Contents
Beats of Seven: A Collection
Copyright © 2019 by Peter Orullian
Cover Art by Burr Johnson
Cover Design by Shawn King
Beats of Seven: A Collection is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved
Publication History
“Lilith,” first published in Hags, Sirens and Other Bad Girls of Fantasy, 2006, copyright Peter Orullian 2006
“In Thought,” first published in Front Lines, 2008, copyright Peter Orullian 2008
“RPG Reunion,” first published in Crime Spells, 2009, copyright Peter Orullian 2009
“Guilt by Association,” first published in Intelligent Design, 2009, copyright Peter Orullian 2009
“Don’t Remember Me,” copyright Peter Orullian 2019
“Canticle of Abraham and Issac,” first published in Swordplay, 2009, copyright Peter Orullian 2009
“God Uses a Dishrag,” first published in Cosmic Cocktails, 2006, copyright Peter Orullian 2006
“Last Ride of Johnny Fry,” copyright Peter Orullian 2019
“Roxane,” first published in The Trouble with Heroes, 2009, copyright Peter Orullian 2009
“Beats of Seven,” first published in Intergalactic Medicine Show, 2006, copyright Peter Orullian 2006
Published by
Descant Publishing
To Stephen King
For reasons
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
HE’LL NEVER READ this, but I’m going to acknowledge him anyway: Stephen King, this collection has everything to do with you, dear sir. The magic I found in your book Night Shift—at a rather tender age, I might add—pushed me to start writing some of my own short fiction. So, you’re the man responsible. Thank you.
Many of the stories in Night Shift continue to take space in my mind. Stories like “The Last Rung on the Ladder,” and “The Lawnmower Man.” They’re haunts in my brain that I’m happy to accommodate. They remain talismans for this road I walk.
I picked up Night Shift in an airport curio shop on Oahu. A friend said I might dig it. I’d never read King. But somewhere over the Pacific Ocean, in route back to the mainland, my life changed. Forever. I saw what fiction could be. I felt what stories could do. Much as I’d prized my canonized readings in high school . . . this was different. This was like getting into the cracked-leather passenger seat of a Camaro with a Chevy 350. It felt familiar—broken-in—but had a hum, an engine idle that fairly rocked as I sat awaiting the ride. And oh my lord, when the pedal went down.
I could thank a fat lot of other folks as I usually do.
But not this time.
I fell in love with short fiction because of Stephen King. I owe him.
INTRODUCTION
I FONDLY RECALL MY years of reading nothing but collections and anthologies. For me, those books were mostly of the horror type. Initially, anyway. It began with Night Shift by Stephen King, and I never looked back.
These days, if I cared to count, I’d find that I read more novels than I do short fiction books. But I still get that familiar old thrill when I see a cover riddled with author names. And if I’m honest, I still buy just as many collections and anthologies as I ever did. They sit patiently in a to-be-read stack that will outlive me.
Why, you might ask? What’s the attraction to collections and anthologies? The answer is: I love short stories. I don’t love them because they’re short and can be read in a few minutes. Though I love that part. And I don’t love them because if I wind up not caring for a particular tale, the smorgasbord of the book will almost certainly still offer me something I’ll dig. Though I love that part, too.
No, I love short stories because they’re focused moments in time. They hit you hard and fast. They’re train windows from which you glimpse some larger world as it rushes by. They deliver they’re freight—like all good trains do—and leave you with a sweet lingering feeling of more. More world beyond the window. More mystery behind those gut-punch endings. More stories in the universe you’ve just briefly, casually ridden through. Their brevity (less, you might say) is more. That’s why I love them.
I have a host of short fiction writers that I absolutely ad ore. Writers who’ve taken the form to great heights. I won’t name them all, but a few include: Harlan Ellison, Ted Chiang, Dan Simmons, and yes, Stephen King. Oh, and Charles Beaumont. These folks helped me fall in love with the short form. They’ve also made me work harder to try and use it well.
I started that journey in a Chevy Citation.
During my college years, I was a parking lot attendant on a lot with no booth. So, I sat in my car, all through the summer heat. The Citation didn’t have air conditioning, but at least it provided some shade. Still, it was hot, and musty—I lived in the high desert, after all. Add to all this that business was slow. The days got hellishly long. But that left me time to write. I can still feel the runnels of sweat trickling down my back and finding their way into my ass crack as I began to scribble out stories.
First one I completed was entitled, “The Dark Child.” I was flat proud. Never sold it. But that completion led to other stories that did sell. And now—these years later—it’s led to a collection of my own. The book you’re holding is a few handfuls of stories I got paid to write (plus some previously unpublished tales, for good measure).
So come along. Jump on this train and get a window seat. I think the things you’ll see are worth the fare—moments in time that will by turns shock, unsettle, gladden, but mostly (with any luck) leave you with that sweet lingering feeling of more.
LILITH
EVE WASN’T FIRST.
I was.
Eve . . . mother of creation, my ass. I’m the one that gives the sons of men their first erection and the burning in their loins.
Lilith let the old thoughts simmer as she paused on the cool cement walk in the starlight shadow of a tall elm. Cricket-song filled the darkness with soft susurration. The dew had begun to gather in the recently mown grass, lifting a green smell tinged with the musk of loam. And beyond the grass rose up a two-story prefab home with beige vinyl siding, trimmed in white. In the upper window burned a light against the darkness. That room pulled her nearer, a feeling: One of her children was there, in this strange house, in that room, in danger.
Casting her gaze up the suburban street, she smiled bitterly. All these homes were so neatly tended, but they were all the same (as far as she was concerned). Mortals hemmed up in tidy quadrants trying to make meaning of their days—barbecuing in the evening, trimming their hedges on weekends. What was it about the sons and daughters of Eve that they all put their hands to horticulture, as if they might recreate Eden for themselves?
She shook her head and narrowed a scrutinizing gaze back on the lighted window. The pane of glass served as yet another reminder of the very long walk that had brought her here from her beginning.
If Eve had only listened.
She recalled going to visit the rib to try and talk some sense into her. She’d found Eve standing in a slow fall of sun not far from a small brook. Cottonseed drifted lazily in the light, stirring in Lilith’s passage as she strode past several lilac bushes.
“He doesn’t love you, Eve,” Lilith had said. “He complained to Father because I chose to leave and he needed someone else to couple with.”
“Sounds like jealousy,” replied Eve.
Lilith shot out an exasperated breath, shook her head, then laughed. “You know why I left? Because he wouldn’t let me be on top.”
“What? On top of—”
“Sex, dear, sex. Your man, Adam, insisted that I always be in the recumbent position. To hell with that. I’m made of dust, just the same as he is. I’m not inferior to him.”
It was Eve’s turn to shake her head. “You were fashioned of filth and sediment.”
Lilith folded her arms and paced to the edge of the small brook. Looking down, she said quite casually, “Yes, but you should know that Adam has sired several children for me already.”
“That’s a lie!” Eve’s face had flushed.
“Now who’s jealous?” Lilith had replied, showing a lop-sided grin.
In the shadow of the elm thrown by starlight, Lilith held the same crooked grin she remembered from so long ago. Of course, Eve had stood by her man, had mothered many healthy mortal children. But Lilith hadn’t exactly been celibate, either. The difference being that because she’d departed Eden before things got ugly, she’d avoided mortality. Which meant that the children she had by mortal men came into the world twisted and damned—demons they were called by some.
To her, they were her kids. Maybe with inclinations that often proved unhealthy to the children of Eve, but that didn’t trouble Lilith much.
And now, she had the motherly sense that one of her kids needed her. Here in suburbia. In a second story room where a light burned and threw a soft green hue against the window glass.
So she started toward the front door, thinking of some words that had been ascribed to her over the years: negotium perambulans in tenebris . . . that which moves in the darkness.
~ * ~
THE HOME STOOD silent, the faint scent of lasagna just above the smells of leather sofas and Pledge furniture polish. Lilith imagined she could actually taste mundane on the air.
She truly had never felt apologetic for her part in harrowing the lives of men (by which she meant men and women). They just so deserved it. Stupid creatures. Stupid as their first mother and father. Lasagna. Furniture polish.
At the top of the stairs she turned left down a wide hall. She could already see the light beneath the last door on the left. If anything happened to one of her children, this family would earn more heartache than they ever dreamed.
At the bedroom door she paused, listening, sensing. No one rustled on the other side. Save the light, it seemed as empty and dead as the rest of the home.
Then she slowly pushed the door open, ready to shriek inside and cause men to cower.
Instead, she took two steps and saw an infant girl sleeping in a thick cherry wood crib on the right. The room smelled like a newborn, too: shampoo, scented diapers, and the smell of a child’s skin. The walls had been painted in light green and trimmed with pink and purple pastels. The soft hum of a baby monitor came from a transmitter on the changing table.
To the left a man slept reclined in a rocker, his head lolling back at an uncomfortable angle. A dribble of drool seeped from one corner of his mouth.
He smelled . . . grown up.
Lilith drew near the man, bringing her mouth up to his, her lips trembling a finger’s breadth away. He smelled of Ivory soap and dryer sheets. His face showed a day’s growth of beard. But, ah, was he handsome.
And that age old feeling stirred between her legs. Lilith began to breathe deeply over the man’s nose, taking in his breath when he exhaled. How sweet. Moist, slow suspiration. She drank it in like wine. Better was it, than any kiss. Then she parted her lips and let out her own slow exhalation, giving him the warm air of her lungs as he breathed in. This unconscious, intimate exchange exhilarated her.
Succubus, mortal men often called her in their myths. She rather liked the name. It rang with a hint of sensuality, which suited her fine. Better than hag or witch or sorceress. Though she liked the power implied by the last.
After a few moments, the man relaxed deeper into his chair with the swapping of breath. He wouldn’t wake now until she’d finished.
Lilith mounted him, straddling his crotch and putting her lips to his ear. The soft, tenuous curves of the cartilage brought a needful groan from her throat and she pressed herself against him.
The man tensed in response, his biology predictable.
And she began to move, abandoning herself to the moment. In truth, it was the only time she completely forgot the beginning of it all.
Bliss . . .
A few minutes later, she was done, and she had coaxed from him his seed, the same way she had from countless men before him, and would from countless more. There would be another child, another demon, another one to harrow up the lives of men.
