Dead Harvest

Praise for DEAD HARVEST

"Jim Thompson meets John Milton in this thrilling supernatural riff on the old collections racket. This gripping supernatural adventure gives a whole new meaning to 'possession is nine-tenths of the law'."

EDGAR AND SHAMUS AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR CHARLES ARDAI

"Chris F. Holm clearly had both angels and devils watching over him as he wrote Dead Harvest. Thrilling, riveting and hardboiled as hell, this stunning debut still manages to be incredibly soulful. If I could recommend one book to everyone this year, this would be it."

ANTHONY, ELLIS & MACAVITY AWARD-NOMINATED AUTHOR HILARY DAVIDSON

"Get a nicotine patch cause you'll be smokin' by the end of Dead Harvest. A surreal page-turner where crime meets goth meets fantasy meets horror, strips the elements of everything you knew about storytelling, and creates a new genre called Chris F. Holm."

FRANK BILL, AUTHOR OF CRIMES IN SOUTHERN INDIANA

"With Dead Harvest, Chris F. Holm splices genres in a way few authors can pull off, in the process delivering an action-packed rollercoaster of a novel that will enthrall thriller and fantasy readers alike. A superb debut from a talent to watch."

STUART NEVILLE, LA TIMES BOOK PRIZE AND SPINETINGLER AWARD WINNER

"Sam Spade meets The Matrix. Punchy, fast-paced and finely plotted."

MIKE SHEVDON, AUTHOR OF SIXTYONE NAILS

"Holm's touch is deft and his language surefooted, a rare feat in the realm of dark fantasy. Dead Harvest blends back-story just wrenching enough, victims just pitiable enough, villains just ambiguous enough to keep everything on the thrummingly interesting side of noir, never bogging down in cliché. And the white-knuckle action is an indulgent pleasure – this book practically turns its own pages. The best books combine the smart with the careening, and Holm does that so well."

SOPHIE LITTLEFIELD, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF AFTERTIME

"The fight between heaven and hell takes a turn for the hardboiled in Chris F. Holm's fantastic debut novel, Dead Harvest, where he's created a character as pulpy and tough as anything Chandler or Hammett dreamed up in his doomed Soul Collector. Holm's writing is sharp, powerful, and packs a wallop."

STEPHEN BLACKMOORE, AUTHOR OF CITY OF THE LOST

CHRIS F. HOLM

Dead Harvest

THE COLLECTOR: BOOK I

For Katrina. For always.

There is no greater sorrow

Than to be mindful of the happy time

In misery.

– Dante Alighieri

1.

Light spilled through the window of the pub as I watched them, casting patches of yellow across the darkened street but conveying no warmth. It had been three rounds now, maybe four, and Gardner had yet to pay for a drink; his reading tonight went well, and they were falling over themselves to share a pint with Britain's Greatest Living Author.

  I fished another Dunhill from the pack, lighting it with the dwindling ember of the one that preceded it. The ground around me was littered with cigarette butts – I'd been standing there a while. But the moon was high overhead, and the night was getting on. I wouldn't have to wait much longer.

  Finally, midnight rolled around, and the last straggling patrons were ushered out into the chill spring air, the barkeep locking up behind them. Gardner headed up St Giles, listing slightly. I took a last long drag off my cigarette, and then pitched it into the street, falling in behind him. I kept some distance between us, in case he looked back.

  He didn't.

  A few blocks later, he ducked into an alley to take a leak. I gave him a minute, and then followed. He was leaning one-handed against a wall, pissing behind a dumpster. The toast of Oxford, or so I'd been told. From here, it was hard to see.

  He turned toward me, zipping up his fly. When he spotted me, he started, and damn near tipped over. "Who the bloody hell are you?" he asked. "What are you doing here?"

  I stepped toward him. My hand found his chest and reached inside. He knew then. Who I was. What I was doing there.

  "Sorry," I told him. "It's nothing personal."

  I yanked it free then; that light, that life. Gray-black and swirling, it cast long shadows across the alley, and its song rang bittersweet in my ears. Of course, if anyone had happened by, they'd have seen nothing, heard nothing. No, this show was just for me. For Gardner, too, perhaps, though even then I couldn't be sure.

  Gardner's body crumpled to the ground, whimpering as it hit the pavement. I paid it no mind. It was already dead, or near enough. Sometimes it takes a minute for the meat to get the message.