Backpacking Through Bedlam, page 1
Praise for the InCryptid Novels
“The only thing more fun than an October Daye book is an InCryptid book. Swift narrative, charm, great world-building . . . all the McGuire trademarks.”
—Charlaine Harris, #1 New York Times-bestselling author
“Seanan McGuire’s Discount Armageddon is an urban fantasy triple threat—smart and sexy and funny. The Aeslin mice alone are worth the price of the book, so consider a cast of truly original characters, a plot where weird never overwhelms logic, and some serious kickass world-building as a bonus.”
—Tanya Huff, bestselling author of The Wild Ways
“McGuire’s InCryptid series is one of the most reliably imaginative and well-told sci-fi series to be found, and she brings all her considerable talents to bear on [Tricks for Free]. . . . McGuire’s heroine is a brave, resourceful and sarcastic delight, and her intrepid comrades are just the kind of supportive and snarky sidekicks she needs.”
—RT Book Reviews (top pick)
“While [Spelunking Through Hell] veers noticeably from the urban fantasy of earlier volumes, taking place primarily in strange realms with almost no humans in sight, it still bears all the hallmarks of the InCryptid series: a clever protagonist, snarky banter, unusual creatures, and an entertaining blend of action, romance, and horror (the secret behind Alice’s enduring youth and vitality is especially unsettling). At heart a love story, this entry delivers both a satisfying payoff for fans of the series and an intriguing expansion of its universe.”
—Publishers Weekly
“McGuire’s characters are equal parts sass and sarcasm, set in an ever-expanding interdimensional world where Alice is on a journey highlighted by emotional chaos and roller-coaster pacing. Fans will be delighted by [Spelunking Through Hell].”
—Library Journal
“Discount Armageddon is a quick-witted, sharp-edged look at what makes a monster monstrous, and at how closely our urban fantasy protagonists walk—or dance—that line. The pacing never lets up, and when the end comes, you’re left wanting more. I can’t wait for the next book!”
—C. E. Murphy, author of Raven Calls
DAW Books presents the finest in urban fantasy from Seanan McGuire
InCryptid Novels
DISCOUNT ARMAGEDDON
MIDNIGHT BLUE-LIGHT SPECIAL
HALF-OFF RAGNAROK
POCKET APOCALYPSE
CHAOS CHOREOGRAPHY
MAGIC FOR NOTHING
TRICKS FOR FREE
THAT AIN’T WITCHCRAFT
IMAGINARY NUMBERS
CALCULATED RISKS
SPELUNKING THROUGH HELL
BACKPACKING THROUGH BEDLAM
SPARROW HILL ROAD
THE GIRL IN THE GREEN SILK GOWN
ANGEL OF THE OVERPASS
October Daye Novels
ROSEMARY AND RUE
A LOCAL HABITATION
AN ARTIFICIAL NIGHT
LATE ECLIPSES
ONE SALT SEA
ASHES OF HONOR
CHIMES AT MIDNIGHT
THE WINTER LONG
A RED ROSE CHAIN
ONCE BROKEN FAITH
THE BRIGHTEST FELL
NIGHT AND SILENCE
THE UNKINDEST TIDE
A KILLING FROST
WHEN SORROWS COME
BE THE SERPENT
SLEEP NO MORE*
THE INNOCENT SLEEP*
*Coming soon from DAW Books
Copyright © 2023 by Seanan McGuire.
All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrapublishinghouse.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover illustration by Lee Moyer.
Cover design by Jeanette Tran and Adam Auerbach.
Edited by Sheila E. Gilbert.
DAW Book Collectors No. 1938.
DAW Books
An imprint of Astra Publishing House
dawbooks.com
DAW Books and its logo are registered trademarks of Astra Publishing House
Printed in the United States of America
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: McGuire, Seanan, author.
Title: Backpacking through Bedlam / Seanan McGuire.
Description: First edition. | New York : DAW Books, 2023. | Series:
Incryptid ; 12
Identifiers: LCCN 2022054304 (print) | LCCN 2022054305 (ebook) |
ISBN 9780756418571 (Trade Paperback) | ISBN 9780756418588 (Ebook)
Classification: LCC PS3607.R36395 B33 2023 (print) | LCC PS3607.R36395
(ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054304
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022054305
Contents
Praise for the InCryptid Novels
Also by Seanan McGuire
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Bonus Novella: Where His Waffles Went
Price Family Field Guide
Playlist
Acknowledgments
For Jennifer, who has never been anything but a rock to brace myself against, and for Grace. Thank you for helping me reopen a door that should never have been closed.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The InCryptid series is set in a world where parallel evolution and dimensional rifts have resulted in humans sharing the planet with multiple species of cryptid capable of passing for human, among many other differences and divergences. The COVID-19 pandemic has not happened in this version of reality, a decision I struggled with but ultimately decided best suited both the narrative and the series as a whole.
I am hoping people will understand the reasons for this departure from reality. But for right now, the integrity of this fictional world is better served by not including the pandemic.
Reunion, noun:
1. The state of being united again.
Reconciliation, noun:
1. An act of reconciling, as when former enemies agree to an amiable truce.
2. The process of making consistent or compatible.
3. See also “impossible.”
Prologue
“Being born to the Covenant means there was never a moment when I chose this life. It was chosen for me, before my parents were born, and it was chosen for my children, if ever I had them. Alice was the first person I met who actually believed we all got to have a choice. She certainly did.”
—Thomas Price
Just outside the Galway Woods, Buckley Township, Michigan
Sixty years ago
ALICE PRICE-HEALY, DAUGHTER OF Jonathan and Frances Healy, married to Thomas Price of the Covenant Prices for exactly one year, backed up until she was pressed against the side of the rotten old barn at the edge of the swamp, cursing herself for a fool the whole time. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence, either the cursing or the foolishness, but the location was a bit out of the ordinary. Alice normally did the majority of her hunting and aimless wandering inside the Galway Woods, the forest of her childhood, where both her mother and grandmother had died.
(The fact that Enid had managed to make it all the way home before succumbing to the venom of the Bidi-taurabo-haza didn’t change the fact that she’d received the fatal bite while still inside the boundaries of the Galway. The forest had always done its best to protect the Healy women. Its best had never, not once, been enough.)
But today, oh. Today, Alice had been out doing the annual jackalope count—almost as many mature bucks in the colony this year there had been as last year, and that was a good thing, since the population was declining in most of the country—and she’d gotten off track on the way back, woolgathering about what she was going to do for dinner. It was her anniversary, after all. She ought to do something special. If she’d married anyone else, they’d be doing what Grandma and Grandpa had always done, putting on their Sunday clothes and heading into town for a meal at one of the nicer restaurants, the ones where they wouldn’t even let a lady in if she wasn’t wearing a decent skirt.
Sure, Buckley was small enough that they only had two places that nice, and she’d have been happier at the Red Angel or Bronson’s anyway, but that didn’t matter. Hell, if she’d married anyone else, they could have driven to Ann Arbor if they’d wanted to! Or they could have done like Mama and Daddy used to do, back when she’d been little and Mama had been alive to do anything with Daddy. Mama had never seen the point of fancy restaurants and putting on airs, called it a waste of time, money, and everything else a body had to waste. Fran had celebrated her wedding annive rsaries in the shadow of the Galway Wood, sitting on a picnic blanket with her lovestruck husband and, after a few years, her continually active daughter, eating cold chicken sandwiches and laughing. That was probably what Alice remembered best about her mother. Her laughter, bright as a bell, and ringing all the time.
Well, her laughter, and what a damned good shot she’d been. Alice fumbled to reload her revolver, careful to keep her shoulders pressed against the barn. She could have used a damned good shot. Or a damned poor one. Anybody to help her get out of this stupid-ass predicament she’d gone and gotten herself into, letting herself wander without paying attention to where she was going until she had wandered straight into the swamp.
At least if she died out here, Thomas would know right away. Wouldn’t that be a hell of an anniversary gift? “Sorry, sweetie, you’re a widower now, but your deal with the crossroads is null and void and you can go wherever you want”? Maybe if she asked really nicely, Mary would help her stick around long enough to go by the house and deliver the news in person. Well, as much as the ghost of your dead wife suddenly appearing in the living room could be considered “in person.” Really, it probably wasn’t a good idea. She was pretty sure it could be taken as being intentionally cruel. “You weren’t there to save me, so I died, and now you get to go outside, aren’t you lucky.”
And there she went, woolgathering again. Maybe it was time she admitted that being married to a man who couldn’t even step far enough out the front door to join her on the porch was wearing on her. Oh, she loved him. She had never loved anyone else half as much as she loved Thomas Price, and that was probably for the best, because some days she felt like she loved him so much it might kill her. Some days it felt like it was verging toward the dangerous kind of love, the kind her Daddy’d had for her Ma, the kind that had eaten him alive from the inside out after Fran had died.
She figured love was a lot like the swamp bromeliads. Good and healthy in the right ecosystem, but invasive and destructive if it got planted out of place. As long as she remembered the way love had swallowed her father, she thought she could keep her own love pruned back enough to stay healthy. At least, she hoped so. As long as Thomas didn’t go dying on her or something ridiculous like that, she’d be fine. Probably.
As long as she didn’t go and do something stupid like dying here, with her back up against a rotting old barn and no one else human for miles. She was outside of Cynthia’s normal hunting range; the Huldra tended to take her prey a decent distance from the Angel, for the sake of keeping other predators from following her back to the bar, but even she didn’t go this far looking for a snack. Desperately, Alice loaded bullets into the gun and tried to review the territories of every local cryptid she knew, from Sunny the boo hag to Earl the Loveland frogman. None of them intersected with this slice of the swamp. Backup wasn’t coming.
Oh, someone would find her body . . . eventually.
That was assuming the swamp hags left any pieces of her to be found. They might not. Swamp hags ate a lot like hogs: they tore a carcass apart and swallowed every scrap. They were obligate carnivores, and if she’d been paying a lick of attention to her surroundings, she wouldn’t have let herself drift into their territory.
Swamp hags were amphibians, like Loveland frogmen, but unlike Earl, they weren’t intelligent beings or proper people. About as smart as the average frog, that was a swamp hag, but with the temperament of a wild boar and the slashing claws of a cougar. Size of a person, to boot, or bigger than a person if the person in question was someone like Alice, who had always been petite. She’d seen at least five of the slippery fucks before she ducked behind the barn.
At least their presence explained why the barn—and the associated dilapidated farmhouse—had been abandoned, despite being structurally sound enough to still be standing after years of neglect. Even in a place like Buckley, people mostly didn’t like to live where man-sized amphibious monsters were likely to slide in through a window and eat the kids in the middle of the night. Alice slotted the last bullet into the chamber, snapping it shut, and rested the barrel of the gun lengthwise against her forehead in a brief semblance of prayer.
“Mama, if you could help me out with this, I’d surely appreciate it,” she murmured.
Swamp hags hunted in colonies, if she remembered right—and years of working solo meant she always remembered right when it came to predators large enough to do her serious injury. For them to be as large as the ones she’d seen, this had to be an adult breeding colony, meaning she could be looking at, oh, twenty or thirty fully grown, hungry hags, as well as any of the little ones big enough to have arms and legs and claws and teeth, but not big enough to hunt on their own just yet.
There had always been a few swamp hags lurking around the edges of the swamp adjacent to the Galway, but never anything like this. She should have noticed them getting to this sort of population density, should have read it in the prey animals and the way the bloodworms had been getting scarcer and scarcer. But she’d been distracted with learning how to be a wife and navigating the surprisingly complex political network of the town, and she hadn’t been paying proper attention.
She hadn’t been paying proper attention, and now she was going to pay for it.
At least swamp hags were ambush predators rather than active hunters. They knew she couldn’t get back to solid ground without running across the patches of marsh between her and safety. All they had to do was make themselves near to invisible in the muck and the mire, and as soon as she moved, they’d have her. That meant she could delay the inevitable by simply staying still. The only urgency was the time. The sun would be setting in an hour or so, and once it got dark, their hunting tactics would change. Once it got dark, they’d come for her, the same way they had probably come for the people who lived here, once upon a slaughterhouse.
Alice sighed, lowering the gun. There was something she could try, but it wasn’t likely to work. It had been working less and less lately. Still, she closed her eyes for a moment, cursing herself for a fool for doing that when she was surrounded by unseen predators, and said, “Mary, I need you.”
There was no sound or smell or sign that anything had changed, but still, Alice felt like the air had shifted, like something was different now than it had been a moment before. She opened her eyes, glancing to the side, and there was her babysitter, the long-dead, eternally teenaged Mary Dunlavy, wearing the most recent iteration of her standard “I am a normal teenage girl, look how normal I am” outfit: knee-capper denim jeans and a black-and-yellow checkered top that Alice thought made her look a little bit like a taxicab from a movie. Her long white hair was held back by a yellow headband, and she had a quizzical expression on her face.
“Much as I appreciate the chance to catch up, Alice, I sort of figured you’d be at home, since it’s your first wedding anniversary, not standing in the middle of the swamp surrounded by amphibious apex predators.” Her tone matched her expression, more distant puzzlement than any sort of actual alarm.
Alice thought there must be something about being dead that made it harder for people to get really upset. She’d seen Mary do it a few times, and it was always alarming and strange. Most of the time, Mary answered every crisis with the same degree of faintly bewildered equanimity, like the world was just an unending series of small, interesting surprises that had no actual bearing on her continuing existence.
“I was supposed to be home by now,” said Alice. “I went out to do the jackalope survey, and I got to thinking about dinner while I was walking back to the house, and I guess I got a little bit off track is all.”
“You got so off track you wound up in the swamp?” Mary didn’t sound like she believed her. That was fine. Alice wasn’t certain she believed herself, either, and she’d been there. “Alice, you know this forest better than you know the back of your own hand. There’s no way you got so distracted that you wound up here without meaning to. What’s wrong?”
“You know, I’d really like to have a heart-to-heart with you about everything that’s bothering me, but maybe not when we’re about an hour away from me being torn to pieces by big weird amphibians who look like ladies for no good reason other than sometimes evolution’s a real asshole, okay?” Alice shot her an exasperated look. “Any chance you can help me out of this?”
