Contents

  Cover

  Also by Richard Kadrey and available from Titan Books

  Title Page

  Leave us a Review

  Copyright

  Dedication

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  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  “Gritty, propulsive, and deliciously pulpy … Written with such caustic wittiness and filled with an undeniably sinister atmosphere, this remarkable noir-horror-hybrid is a nasty delight.”

  Eric LaRocca

  “Nobody writes urban supernatural noir like Richard Kadrey! … Mean streets, dark magic, grotesque murder – yes, please!”

  Christopher Golden

  “Fast, fun, and freaky! A delightfully fresh take on horror-noir with a beating heart of solid pulp and characters you’ll follow to the gates of hell. I love this series!”

  Delilah S. Dawson

  “With clever banter and cinematic style, this latest installation … is a fun, satisfying, and refreshing noir romp!”

  Kelsea Yu

  “An expertly woven story of gruesome murders, eldritch magic, and dark streets flowing with blood … with prose reminiscent of Lansdale at his finest, and characters King would be proud of.”

  Tim Lebbon

  “The Flesh King … gives us more of the twisty, turny, supernatural noir that we loved in The Pale House Devil. Bring on book 3!”

  Shaun Hamill

  Also by Richard Kadrey and available from Titan Books

  THE PALE HOUSE DEVIL

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  The Flesh King

  Print edition ISBN: 9781835412435

  E-book edition ISBN: 9781835412442

  Published by Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

  www.titanbooks.com

  First edition: October 2025

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

  © Richard Kadrey 2025

  Richard Kadrey asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

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  Dedicated to David Lynch, a great artist and a constant source of inspiration

  1

  It was winter and the weather in New York had turned cold.

  Tilda took a strong stance, brought up the Glock and aimed dead center at the target, firing off the six remaining rounds. When the clip was empty, she walked the length of the soundproofed basement to check her results. A smile spread across her face as she took the target down from the sandbags piled against the back wall. Five of the six shots were bullseyes in a tight grouping. The sixth shot hit the target right between the eyes. It pleased her that Ford and Neuland trusted her enough with the gun to let her shoot alone these days. After taking off her ear and eye protection, she hurried upstairs to show them how well she’d done.

  The three of them lived in a decommissioned police station near Tompkins Square Park in Alphabet City. The place was a solid three-story concrete tomb set hard into the ground with its barred windows intact. Imposing. Impregnable. They called it the Bunker.

  Upstairs, Tilda found Neuland in his lab, which was tucked into the back of the first floor where the cells used to be. He seldom talked about his experiments, so Tilda never asked about them, though she was fascinated by the array of chemicals and potions he had, the stacks of chemistry books and age-stained grimoires.

  She walked around his worktable and silently held up the target. Neuland was carefully pouring gray, ground-up raven bones into a flask half filled with a thick yellow liquid, so it took him a moment to notice her. When he did, he removed his goggles and gloves, took the target and held it out at arm’s length.

  “This is beautiful work. And you’ve only been shooting a couple of weeks. You’re a natural.”

  She held up her hands and shot finger guns at him. “A natural born killer?”

  Neuland chuckled and handed her back the target. “We’ll see. Make sure to show that to Ford. He’s having a rough day.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “He’s calling our old contacts, trying to drum up business, but it’s not going well.”

  “Oh no. I’m sorry.”

  Neuland leaned on the worktable and said, “He doesn’t like us living off your inheritance. Neither do I.”

  Tilda put a hand on his arm. “But it’s okay. I volunteered, remember? I can’t fight. I can barely shoot. Hell, I can’t even find my way around on the subway. Helping out with money is the one thing I can do right now. And you’ve both done so much for me.”

  Neuland pursed his lips. “Thank you. But that target proves you can shoot, so don’t sell yourself short. And you’ll learn the city soon enough. Ford and I just need to get back on our feet so that this feels like an equal partnership for everyone.”

  Rolling up the target, Tilda said, “You know, before I met you two no one ever encouraged me to learn things. I mean, not anything that wasn’t about my grandfather’s business. Nothing for me.”

  “You’ll learn plenty now. Anything and everything you want.”

  She glanced at his worktable. “Potion stuff too?”

  Neuland looked down, thinking. “Maybe. But what I’m working on is dangerous for people like you.”

  “You mean because I’m alive?”

  “Exactly. Revenants like me have a few advantages, and that includes handling certain dangerous chemicals.”

  “You’re locked in here so serious ever since we got back from California. Will you tell me what you’re working on?”

  “I thought it would be obvious.”

  “Not to me.”

  He picked up the flask and held it to the light. “I’m so tired of being dead. I’m trying to find out if I can do something about it.”

  Tilda smiled at him. “That’s wonderful. Will the mixture help?”

  Neuland shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried this approach before. We’ll just have to see.”

  “Let me know if I can help?”

  “Of course.”

  She nodded once and said, “I should let you get back to work.”

  “Don’t forget to show Ford the target.”

  “I won’t.”

  Tilda leaned up and kissed Neuland on his cold cheek. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You don’t have to keep thanking me. You’re one of us now. Part of the team. We do everything we can for each other.”

  “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I’ll really let you get back to work now. Good luck with everything.”

  Putting on his goggles, Neuland said, “Thanks.”

  * * *

  The enormous living room had been the squad center in the old days. Now it was full of comfortable mismatched sofas, easy chairs with reading lights, art from local galleries, and a long conference table where they ate their meals. Tilda loved it. Who would have thought you could turn a police station into something so eccentric and warm?

  Ford sat at one end of the conference table looking grim. He held his phone in one hand and pecked at a laptop with the other. When Tilda approached him he eventually looked up and tried to smile, but it came out crooked and wrong.

  “Neuland said you were having a hard time, so I wanted to check on you.”

  “Thanks, T. That’s really sweet. I’m just kind of pissed at the world. I’m going through this address book, calling old clients and contacts trying to drum up some business. But no one wants to play.” He sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “Maybe coming back to New York was a mistake. Maybe we should have stayed out west and started over.”

  “No,” said Tilda, dropping into one of the conference room chairs. “This is your home. It will work out. You’ve only been back a couple of weeks. Give it time.”

  “Maybe,” said Ford. “But if things keep up like this, I’m going to have to learn how to ride a scooter so I can start delivering pizzas for five bucks an hour.”

  Tilda slapped his wrist lightly. “Stop it. You and Neuland are the best at what you do and people know it. They’ll come back.”

  Ford didn’t say anything for a while, then nodded to the rolled-up paper in her hand. “What have you got there?”

  “A target. Want to see?”

  Smiling for real this time he said, “Of course.”

  As he unrolled it, Neuland came in.

  “Damn,” said Ford. “That’s a nice grouping. What were you using?”

  “The Glock G19 you gave me.”

  “Nice, nice work.”

  Neuland walked over to the table and said, “Maybe it’s time for you to try something with a little more kick.”

  “Yeah,” said Ford. “Maybe a Sig?”

  Neuland went to a shoulder holster draped over the back of a chair and brought it back to Tilda. “Tell me what you think.”

  She snapped the flap that released the gun and held it out at arm’s length. It was a lot bulkier and heavier than the Glock. Holding it with both hands, she sighted down the room.

  “I like it. A lot,” Tilda said.

  Ford said, “It’s a Sig Sauer P220 .45 caliber.”

  “It’s really heavy.”

  “True, but the weight helps keep it from snapping back and smacking you in the face. Very embarrassing.”

  Tilda sighted around the room with it. The gun’s bulk made it hard to hold steady at first, but it became easier.

  Neuland said, “Some people consider a .45 to be overkill. But in some situations, it’s exactly what you want.”

  “It’s what we call a put-down-stay-down gun,” said Ford. “You hit someone in the chest with a slug from that and—dead or alive—they’re not getting up.”

  “That’s so… cool,” Tilda said.

  “Want to try it on the range next?” said Neuland.

  She grinned and nodded. “Hell yes.”

  Neuland smiled at her. “We’ll try it out tomorrow.”

  Ford leaned back in his chair and said, “I’m glad we’re all in here together, because I want to run something by you.”

  Neuland sat down and Ford started up again.

  “I’m leaving messages all over town and no one’s getting back to us. So, I’m thinking we pick out some creep—a real piece of shit—and take him out. No charge. A sort of freebie to reintroduce ourselves to high society.”

  Neuland scratched his ear. “Who were you thinking of?”

  “Benny the Bull?”

  “That bastard.”

  Tilda said, “Who’s Benny the Bull?”

  Shaking his head, Neuland said. “He does the same work that we do, but he specializes in soft targets.”

  “Civilians,” continued Ford. “Suburban moms and dads who step out of line. Stupid teenyboppers selling hash in the wrong neighborhood. Easy marks who can’t fight back.”

  Tilda sat back on her chair. “That’s awful.”

  “It is,” replied Neuland. “Everybody hates Benny. But he’s close with his cousin in the Bronson outfit.”

  Ford raised his eyebrows. “Still?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “The pricks. How about that weird little guy everybody calls Igor?”

  “The one who talks like Bela Lugosi?”

  “That’s him. I don’t trust him around women or kids. Plus, he’s a rat who’ll sell you out for bus fare and everybody knows it.”

  Neuland nodded. “Including the police, and they love him for it. God knows he deserves putting down, but it’s probably more trouble than it’s worth.”

  Ford took a sip of the beer that was sitting on a coaster. “Man. It’s like you can’t assassinate anyone these days.”

  Tilda raised her hand shyly and both men looked at her.

  “You really don’t have to do that,” said Neuland.

  She said, “Okay. But maybe we should do the opposite, and help someone instead of killing someone.”

  Ford and Neuland glanced at each other, then back at Tilda.

  “That’s novel,” said Ford.

  “No one would expect it, that’s for sure,” Neuland said.

  Ford sighed. “But who? We mostly know bastards.”

  “Really?” said Tilda. “That’s kind of sad.”

  “I guess it kind of is,” Ford replied.

  Neuland said, “Maybe we need to get out more.”

  “Definitely,” said Tilda. “We should go to a show.”

  “What kind of show?”

  “Broadway! I’ve never seen a Broadway show.”

  “What do you want to see?” said Ford.

  “Fly Me to the Moon. It’s a musical of old Frank Sinatra songs. My grandfather was a monster, but the one non-disgusting thing he liked was Frank Sinatra, so I grew up listening to him.”

  Ford picked up his phone. “I’ll get us tickets.”

  Tilda frowned. “But it’s sold out for months.”

  “I’ll get them.”

  Grabbing his hand, Tilda said, “Please don’t assassinate anyone.”

  “I was thinking more of a scalper.”

  “We don’t kill everyone, you know,” said Neuland.

  “Yeah,” said Ford. “We have strict rules about who we do and don’t make dead.”

  Tilda put her hands on the table. “I’m sorry. I’m still getting used to this life.”

  “That’s okay. There’s a learning curve for everyone.”

  “Thank god,” said Tilda and she relaxed a little.

  “But you know what I could murder? A rib eye steak. What do you say, T?”

  “I’d love that.”

  They both turned to Neuland.

  “How about you? Want to come along?”

  “Yes. Please join us,” said Tilda.

  Neuland shook his head. “Not tonight. I have some work I want to finish in the lab.”

  “Don’t stay in there all night again,” said Ford. “You’re going to make yourself crazy.”

  “I won’t. There are just some things I want to check.”

  “Good luck with it.” Ford looked at Tilda. “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she said excitedly. “I can’t believe we’re going to Broadway.”

  “We’re already halfway there. But don’t forget. When you get your coat, bring your gun too.”

  Tilda stood but stayed by the table. “Do you think I’ll need it?”

  “Probably not. But you’re in our world now and you never know. Can you deal with that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I knew you could. Let’s hit the bricks.”

  As Tilda went to get her coat and gun she said, “Goodnight, Neuland. We’ll come and check on you when we get back.”

  “Thank you.”

  When they were halfway to the door, Ford turned to her. “Maybe we should get Chinese instead.”

  “No,” Tilda said firmly. “I was promised a steak and that’s what I want. Thick and bloody.”

  Ford smiled broadly. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things.”

  2

  There was no night for him. The city was always bright in his ancient eyes.

  He sat in that evening’s vehicle: an NYPD squad car. The dead cop lay naked on the floor of the backseat and he wore the officer’s uniform, easily two sizes too large for his slim frame. Still, all that mattered was the look. The badge. The hat. The belt around his waist heavy with the tools of the police trade. And lastly, the gun. Not that he’d ever used one. All that was necessary was a slight movement of his hand in the direction of the holster and people melted before him. The sight never failed to make him smile. But tonight wasn’t the night for games. His body ached with hunger. In truth, he could have sustained himself on the policeman’s flesh, but he longed for something softer. Something perfumed. Something perfect.

  He spotted the rental car stopped at Seventieth Street off the Henry Hudson Parkway near the river. Certain that the driver was a lost tourist, he activated the lightbar on top of the police car and rolled up behind the rental. Sitting for a moment, he let the red and white strobing lights play across the back window. It was another game. As a policeman, the longer he waited to approach the other car, the more frightened the driver would become. Their fear wasn’t necessary, but simply a pleasant addition to what would happen next. After a couple of minutes, he stepped from his vehicle and—even from yards away—he could savor the driver’s floral scent. It made his hunger grow.

 

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