EDITED BY JONATHAN MABERRY

Copyright © 2016 by Jonathan Maberry

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

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www.journalstone.com

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN:   978-1-942712-73-2 (sc)

ISBN:  978-1-942712-74-9 (ebook)

ISBN:   978-1-942712-75-6 (hc)

Library of Congress Control Number:  2016935546

Printed in the United States of America

JournalStone rev. date: May 20, 2016

Cover Art and Design:  Ryan Brown

Interior Artwork:  John Coulthart

Interior Design:  Paul Fry

Edited by:  Jonathan Maberry

As Always, for Sara Jo

Introduction

The darkness sings to us.

If you listen closely you’ll hear it. A whisper, an echo, a faint snatch of music from somewhere off to one side. We catch a few words, a few notes. We see something out of the corner of our eye. But if we close our eyes we can glimpse the magic. Shapes defined by light or shadows, things that dance in the luminous air, dramas played out in the swirling motes of dust.

Music is magical. If you don’t understand that you haven’t been listening closely enough. A singer or musician can hold us entranced. The best ones know that they spin magic and they embrace the role of sorcerer-storyteller. They conjure images that tell a much deeper story than are present in the few lines of lyrics. We infer the secrets implied by the song, and in a way we conspire with the songwriters, bards, singers, songwriters and musicians to tell infinitely complex tales. A good song will tell you a story; a great song will tell each of us a different story.

That’s how Out of Tune was born.

I’m a storyteller and a lover of music. I build elaborate playlists of songs that hold a burning match to the fuse of my imagination, and I can’t count the number of times I’ve listened to a song—an old ballad or a new pop song—and thought, I could write that novel or that short story. Way too many times. Some of my most popular novels were born while musing on the storytelling possibilities of songs. My novel, Ghost Road Blues, owes a lot to some of Tom Waits’ creepier songs, like Black Wings and Murder in the Red Barn. My upcoming novel, Glimpse, was born while I sat on my balcony sipping Oktoberfest beer and listening to Bob Dylan’s The Man in the Long Black Coat. Are they direct adaptations? No. Not even close. In fact people who know about the inspirations have labored to find direct connections. Plotwise, they aren’t there. Nor did I borrow lines or characters. No, what I took was inspiration. Those songs began a process of ‘what if’ that wandered far afield from the specific story within the song and arrived at a strange and very personal place on the landscape of my mind.

That is what writers do. We let those dark, odd breezes blow us like kites into strange skies.

This is the second volume of the Out of Tune anthology series. It’s not required that you read the first book (though you would miss some wonderful stories!). Each story here stands alone, independent of anything except the imagination of my contributors. And on the whole the stories they wrote are independent of the source material. They picked old ballads and songs as inspiration, but none of them sat down to do a straight adaptation. Instead they used some element or feeling within the ballads as a stepping off point. And from there…

Wow.

Magic.

Dark. Sometimes funny, often frightening, bizarrely original. Very strange.

And yet, because they are tied, however tenuously, to these familiar old songs and ballads, there is a familiarity about them. Not always a comfortable familiarity, but then again this isn’t about comfort. These stories are about mind and soul, feeling and reaction, shivers and gasps.

As with the first volume I have been tremendously fortunate to get so many fine writers to play along. Some you will have heard of, others may be new to you. Each of them has given us something magical. And each story is followed by commentary on the history and folklore behind the source ballad.

Now, get comfortable, draw the curtains against the fall of night, turn on some mood music, and turn the page…

-Jonathan Maberry

Respawn, Reboot

By Allison Pang

And do you then swear to uphold the letter of the law? To defend our lands with your dying breath? To taste the sweet wine of victory and the bitter truth in defeat? The elf woman stands before Rebecca with a cool gaze, clad in armor of shining silver and gold. A sword strapped to the elf’s hip lays cradled in an ebony sheath; the woman runs her fingers over the hilt to grasp it firmly.

Yes, my lady Brighid, Rebecca replies fervently, placing her hand across her chest and bowing. All this and more do I declare to you.

The elf’s eyes narrow, pale hair blowing in the breeze. And you grant us such of your own free will? Without malice or manipulation?

Rebecca bows deeper, her armor a comforting presence. I do, my lady. Without question. Inside, her heart patters, rabbit quick, swelling with giddy excitement. At last, at last…

Lady Brighid smiles, stunning and sympathetic. Then ye are welcome and well come, warrior Precious1256. Enter Tir Na Nog, the Land of the Ever Young, and enjoy the banquet we have prepared for thee. She shifts, revealing a crystalline door centered in the stone wall behind her.

Enter. Enter. Enter.

Rebecca grins. All those hours of fetch quests, dailies, impossible raids, guild squabbles, poring over the auction house for elite weapons… Tir Na Nog was a rumor, a ribbon of myth nestled deep within the heart of the King’s Glory MMO game.

You have to be over level 90. It only shows up on the night of the full moon. You have to complete all the raids in the Formorian lands. Collect all the mounts. Have elite status with the neighboring kingdom…

The list went on and on and Rebecca had despaired of ever finding her way here, let alone actually convincing the guardians to let her in.

The rest of the guild is never going to believe this, she says to the elf. I can’t wait to tell them!

Indeed, Lady Brighid murmurs.

Beaming, Rebecca strides through the door, her phoenixfyre helmet in her hands, the crimson plumes streaming merrily.

She takes one step past the threshold, and then another, a great gleaming greenness sweeping past her like the emerald swath of a sparkling sea. Oh! It’s so beautiful!

Something hungry flickers over Lady Brighid’s face as she shuts the door behind Rebecca. Yes, she sighs. It is.

*   *   *

Kate O’Malley wasn’t one to willingly believe in such things as portents, but the wailing echo of a disconsolate woman reverberates through her mind loud enough to pull her from a deeply uncomfortable sleep. She shivers, recognizing the sound.

Bean Sidhe.

Her grandmother had had the Sight, though no one really liked to talk about it. Even several generations removed from Ireland didn’t do much to quell family superstitions. Kate only has a touch of it herself, and most of the time it’s so rare she hardly recognizes what she’s encountered, but untrained or not, some things cannot be denied.

So when the phone erupts beside her bed, Kate already knows it’s nothing good. Part of her doesn’t want to answer, but obligation and a pounding heart forces her hand as she rolls over.

’Ello, she yawns.

Kate? Matt’s voice crackles over the cell phone. She frowns, uneasy. Matt usually texts when he wants something.

What is it? This better not be you guys needing another healer for your stupid guild run tonight. The words fall from her lips to fill the awful silence in abrupt, awkward fashion, as though it might extend the time before he speaks again, even though she knows it’s useless.

It’s Rebecca, he says, terrible and quiet. She’s dead.

*   *   *

The funeral is on a Wednesday and Kate lurks in the back of the church.

Death bothers her. It always has.

Rebecca’s family has arranged for a closed casket, and she can just as easily pay her respects from the last row as from the first. Rumors from within their little community sift past, a speculative murmuration sweeping over her with all the substance of a starling’s wings.

I heard she overdosed…

Hung herself…

Cut her wrists…

Kate dismisses them all. She’s known Becky nearly all her life. Surely if something were bothering her that much, she would have said something? They were BFFs, after all.

Sorrow clutches her chest hard enough to make her gasp as she’s struck with the realization that she’ll never see Becky again. A presence looms beside her shoulder before she can manage anything more than a quiet sob. She glances up to see Matt.

Normally sporting a lop-sided grin, his mouth is pinched tight today, his usual bed-head slicked back. He shifts uncomfortably in his suit. She didn’t deserve this, he says softly.

Kate’s hand slips into his; he squeezes it hard. Do you know what happened?

Her mom said they found her in front of the computer, completely dehydrated. I don’t think she’d eaten anything in days…

Jesus. I know she liked playing King’s Glory, but that seems a little extreme. Maybe she had…I don’t know. A heart issue, or something.

A guilty twinge makes her grip Matt’s hand a little harder. After all, she and Matt had introduced Becky to the online game in the first place. They’d shown her the ropes – how to roll a player character, determine her race, class, specialty. How to level up and quest through the pixelated lands of Formoria.

But Kate’s attention span tended to wander and within several months she was logging in less and less, shedding the trappings of one MMO for another until the cycle began again.

Becky hadn’t done that and was left behind.

The last of the service finishes and the family trickles outside the church to begin the long caravan to the cemetery. Kate trails behind them, letting Matt take the lead to give Becky’s mother a hug. Wanda is a frail thing, enormous eyes staring out of a face grown slack, her black crow clothes hanging loose.

Kate shivers against a sudden chill as she stares out over the cars and steels herself as Wanda grasps hold of her arm with bony fingers. Oh, you came. You came. Her breath is sour, mints masking a bile born of grief and disbelief. I can’t believe she was alone like that…so alone… Her fading blue eyes pierce Kate to the bone. The doctor said it was a stroke, but she was so young…

Before Kate can react, Wanda erupts into a guttural keening, carefully escorted away by a murder of family members. Kate stares helplessly after them.

Empty words. Empty feelings.

Everything is just…empty.

Matt nudges her. Did you want a ride to the cemetery?

She shakes her head. I’ll go later. When there aren’t so many people about. I’d rather grieve in private.

And it was true. She would go to visit Becky’s grave. In a few weeks, perhaps, when things had a chance to settle. Guilt washes over her all the same, imagining Becky’s solitary spirit lingering about the headstone.

You should have been a better friend. Checked in on her more. Called her…

She shakes her head against the accusations and sighs, heading toward her car. Not that she’s seen an actual ghost in years – not since her grandmother was alive, in fact – but she isn’t sure she’s up to confronting her friend yet. Not until she figures out what the deal is with the banshee woman from the other night.

Matt waves at her. I’ll call you in a few days, ‘kay? Maybe we can get the guild together for a raid in Becky’s honor.

Kate smiles. She’d like that. See you soon! She climbs into her Jetta and cries.

*   *   *

/g You guys all ready to go?

Kate types out the command, listening to the chatter over the VoIP and stifles a sigh. Half the damn reason raids took forever was corralling everyone into one place and shutting them up long enough to pay attention.

Most of the conversation is inane, mundane stuff, or enthusiastic gushing over how much Becky would appreciate this little electronic gathering in her honor, careful to dance around the subject of her death.

Kate clicks on the Guild button in the user interface, scanning over the list of toon names, smiling in satisfaction. True to his word, Matt had put out the call and the turnout had been quite large, including old-timers who hadn’t logged on in years.

It was a measure of respect for the girl who’d made the game such an integral part of her life, and who had apparently touched so many. Her smile fades as she reaches the part of the list where Becky’s toon name is. Precious1256. Most people had names that meant something to them – some alternate universe calling card that they used online. Becky had been so new to the whole environment she’d accidently stuck with the randomly generated handle the game had come up with.

Fitting in its own way, maybe.

Kate double-clicks the name, unsurprised when the detail box pops up to indicate the last time Precious1256 had logged on was the night Becky died. Kate sags, disappointed. Stupid maybe, but she could only hope this was all some sort of mistake, that Becky isn’t gone.

Idiot, she mutters to herself, jerking the mouse away to close the box before sending her toon through the main thoroughfare of the local village. She stops at the mailbox to sort through the messages she’s received since the last time she’d logged on.

Several months, in this case, which means there are quite a few. Auctions won or lost, private correspondence from various guildies…and one last message from Becky. The timestamp is from the same night Becky died and Kate swallows hard as she opens it, the hairs on the back of her neck suddenly standing on end.

From: Precious1256

To: Meridork

Hey, know you’re not around much these days, but in case anything happens – I want you to know I’m alright. It was my choice.

What the hell? Her choice?

Kate reads the message again, wanting to bring it to Matt’s attention. After the raid, she murmurs. And then Matt makes the final sound off over her headphones, lining up the players with the proper number of warriors versus healers versus magic throwers. Matt’s sorcerer troll avatar opens a portal and one by one, they all ride through.

*   *   *

Kate’s elvish priestess, Meridork, ducks out of the way as the enormous dragon breathes an electrical fireball at the group. Her health goes down a few tics as she’s winged, her armor taking most of the damage. She’ll be going to the blacksmith for a repair after this battle for sure.

The fight as a whole has been a grind. A quick glance at the health meter for the dragon shows it only at about the half-way point. They’d managed to get it almost two thirds of the way, but after stomping the crap out of their tanks the dragon had managed to reabsorb some health from the enchanted temple behind it.

We have to get it away from that temple, Matt’s voice hisses over the VoIP. He starts laying out a more official strategy, issuing orders to draw the beast to the opposite corner of the cave.

Watch out, Kate shouts, as a gout of flame erupts from the creature’s jaws, taking out half the party. Shit.

Respawning, Matt says. Be there as soon as we can – try to keep out of the way until we get there.

Better do it quick, Kate snaps. Her priestess is good for healing, not for being on the front lines. She skirts what’s left of the group, applying healing buffs and boosting spirits as best she can. The dragon is slowly whittling them down a few at a time, and soon Kate’s mana is nearly drained.

She’s out of potions and the others…

Hurry up, guys! If you don’t get here quick, I’m going to die and then we’ll have to start the whole damn thing over.

Almost there, Matt assures her. We’re in the passage of pressure plates.

Grinding her teeth, Kate ducks again, taking refuge behind a pile of boulders. The dragon’s too wide to fit past the narrow opening and he growls his frustration as he prowls about the cave.

Halcyon whispers: Need some help?

Kate glances down at the conversation thread; the purple text indicates it’s a private communication instead of coming across the guildchat. She doesn’t recognize the name. Halcyon.

/w Sure, but I’m in a raid. No room left to join.

Must be a n00b. Everyone knew once a raid started you couldn’t arbitrarily add or remove players.

Halcyon whispers: kk. B right there.

What? Startled, Kate looks back at the chat, but she doesn’t have time to wonder as a burst of light erupts from the temple doorway, a magnificent warrior in shining armor manifesting before the dragon.

All Kate can do is watch the warrior draw an enormous two-handed sword and rush the dragon without a moment of hesitation. The dragon whirls at this new threat, lunging and biting as its sides puff out wide for another fiery blast.

The warrior ducks and rolls with ease. Instead of the usual strategy of kiting around such an enemy, Halcyon swerves as the dragon attacks, the sword flashing with a furious speed. Kate is about to maneuver onto the battlefield when Halcyon jumps, striking the dragon so hard in the neck its head explodes into a bloody pixel mess.

Kate blinks at her screen. That particular move isn’t part of the regular sets. In fact, in all the times she’s done this raid, the dragon had always had pieces of it cut away – legs, tail, and then decapitated for the ultimate glory by whichever tank decided to attempt it.

But an explosion?

/w Who are you?

Halcyon whispers: Someone who thought you needed a bit of a boost.

Halcyon bows, just as Kate checks the warrior’s stats. They’re off the chart – well beyond any level a regular player could achieve. Was this guy some sort of dev, maybe? Someone with a backdoor hack that could slip some truly masterful shit in between the code and give himself an Elite status?

Kit-Kat? You still alive in there? Matt’s voice sounds so very far away and Kate shakes herself.

Yeah, still here. Dragon’s dead, though.

What? A murmur of disbelieving voices mumbles onto the line. That’s not possible. You couldn’t have done it yourself.

Aw man, I missed out on all that experience…

You should have waited for us…thanks for nothing…

One by one, they either disconnect or remove themselves from the group, leaving only Matt and Kate on the chat channel.

That wasn’t very nice, Matt says finally, and his tone is slightly chastising. Kate can tell he doesn’t believe she did it either.

"It’s not like that. I was hiding and waiting and some random Elite showed up, asked if I needed help and obliterated the thing in about fifteen seconds. I didn’t even have time to let you know what was going on."

That doesn’t make any sense.

I know, but it’s what happened.

I’m not sure I buy it, but whatever. We can talk about it later – I’ve got to go.

He disappears from the guildchat and she hears the phone hang up. Matt, wait… Only her own voice echoes back over the line and she hangs up herself. The dragon still lays there.

She doesn’t even want to loot it, but since she’s here, she might as well snag what she can. Maybe she could trade it to a guildie later to make up for whatever had just happened. Afterward, she walks through the temple portal, transporting back to Havenwind, the main city for the Noblekin – the good faction of the MMO.

Not bothering to try to hit up anyone else, she logs off, staring at her computer monitor with a sad sort of resignation.

*   *   *

Kate pores through the gaming forums. It’s been three days since the incident with the guild and she hasn’t had the heart to log back on and deal with a potential shitstorm of hate messages. Not that they would all do that – most of the guild were good people, but there were some that definitely had a bone to pick with female gamers in particular, and since they all thought she’d somehow borked the raid, she wasn’t exactly super high on the friend list.

She hadn’t imagined the confrontation with this Halcyon person, though – and so she turned to the next best thing: the internet. More specifically the forums dealing with this particular game. Surely she couldn’t have been the only person who’d had a run-in with this guy?

And so here she was, munching on a plate of nachos and skimming the forums for whatever information she could find, searching on both the user’s name, as well as the particular raid in question. When she couldn’t find anything about him, she finally resorted to posting her own query.

Odd NPC behavior.

Three nights ago my raid team ran into an Elite NPC with the name of Halcyon who apparently glitched and joined our raid in helping to defeat the Boss level before disappearing. Anyone have any ideas?

She leaves the post there to sit for a while. Forums are tricky things sometimes. Between the trolls and the n00bs, it could be hard to actually find any usable information without becoming a target.

On to the next subject, she mumbles to herself. Banshees. More specifically why she’d heard one the night Becky died. Everything her grandmother had told her indicated they were a family thing. Not dangerous, exactly – more like a warning that someone either had died or was about to. You couldn’t stop them, but you could attempt to change your fate.

Becky wasn’t her family, even though they’d been close enough. And there had been no word from any of her own family members, so what was going on?

She taps her fingers on her desk, ears pricked. There’s no sound coming from beyond the bedroom window, no moaning sigh rattling through the eaves. Maybe a visit to Becky’s grave tomorrow will elucidate the answer. She fires off an invitation to Matt via text message for emotional backup, but Kate can’t help wishing her grandmother was here to help her figure it out.

*   *   *

The sunlight beats through the clouds, illuminating the cemetery with picturesque shafts of gold. Kate lingers at Becky’s headstone, the granite gleaming in the light like a beacon. Rebecca M. Downing. Beloved daughter and friend.

It’s sad, isn’t it, Matt says, one finger tracing over the headstone. Kate nods, suddenly trying to find her voice. All those years, things you do, people you touch…in the end, all that’s left is a couple of words. And that’s it.

Kate nods again and even though he wraps her up in his arms to hold her against him, she takes no comfort in it. For when the newly dead go to their rest, there are always echoes of their presence left behind. Even if it’s not a ghost, exactly. Shadows, bits of laughter. Something.

There is nothing at Becky’s grave but silence, and that frightens her most of all.

Her grandmother would have undoubtedly muttered something about fetches or changelings, instructing all the children to turn their clothes inside out while she salted the house. Kate has no such surety…and just what is it she’d be protecting against?

I’m sorry, she says to Matt, pulling away. I know you all think I’m crazy, but I really did see that Halcyon person, and –

I don’t care, he says brusquely. It’s over. Stop worrying about the damn game, Kit-Kat. You don’t even play it anymore anyway, so the rest of them can shove it. He presses a kiss upon her forehead. Maybe it’s time to focus a little more on you right now?

She shakes her head, knowing he doesn’t understand. That she wouldn’t be able to make him understand. After a while he leaves her standing in the sunlight, her thoughts continuing to drift like seaweed lost in the current of a rolling tide that she cannot seem to stop.

*   *   *

Kate roams the outermost wilderness of Formoria, galloping over the hills on her broad-chested unicorn steed. Its hooves make a comforting thud as she skirts past monsters and villages, moving from adventure zone to adventure zone. The mini-map in the upper right corner gives her an approximation of where she is, and she’s set it to show only NPCs. Little clusters of blue dots move about the landscape on the mini-map, indicating their presence as they go about their daily business.

She’s often wondered at it, this pixelated ecosystem where even the AI seems to have its own little rituals, the characters fishing or hunting, blacksmithing or singing songs. But then, that was what made the best games, wasn’t it? A complete and total immersion into another world that went on doing its thing, even if you weren’t there.

Just like real life.

After about an hour, she takes to the air, switching mounts to that of an enormous butterfly. They travel at nearly the same pace as the unicorn, but with less obstacles and at this point all she wants is to cover more ground.

Below her, she spots an elite ogre currently being hammered by an impromptu group who don’t look like they need much help. She circles for a moment, debating where to go next.

And then Halcyon is there.

No fanfare or portal this time. Simply the knight with the two-handed sword; in moments the ogre is defeated. Kate lands immediately and runs toward the remains. The other players are simply standing there, but she can see a fair amount of angry chatter in the open conversation channel.

Snicker-snack, Kate murmurs, as the knight turns to go. She types furiously, watching as a pop-up conversation bubble appears above her avatar. Wait! Who are you?

The knight bows and presses a gauntleted hand to the nose guard of his helmet and then fades away, as though the player has simply logged off. But how could that be? NPCs didn’t log off.

She trudges back to the elvish city of Mournedealth, its citizens busy selling their wares and handing out quests to the myriad players buzzing about in a frenzy of activity. She checks her mailbox, her heart stuttering when she sees who it’s from.

Halcyon.

This made even less sense, because when she previously attempted to /w or contact Halcyon directly, the game came back with a char name does not exist error. She bites down on her lip and clicks on the message:

From: Halcyon

To: Meridork

I shouldn’t have helped you the other day, but I’m still learning the rules. Please don’t try to contact me again, Kit-Kat. I’m sorry.

~~ Halcyon, Knight Protector of Tir Na Nog

Kit-Kat? Her stomach twists. Only two people ever called her that. Matt…and Becky. If this is some kind of sick joke… Kate attempts to reply anyway, unsurprised when the message bounces.

And where the fuck is Tir Na Nog? It isn’t that she hasn’t heard of Tir Na Nog before – her grandmother’s stories were full of references to the Land of the Ever Young, but as far as she knew there was nothing about any such location in the game.

But it’s another place to start looking.

She logs off immediately and heads back to the forums. Her questions about Halcyon have not garnered much interest, based on the number of views. Certainly no replies. She does a series of searches on