These are the signature sheets for the limited edition Subterranean Press collection of Old Races stories, BABA YAGA’S DAUGHTER. You have no doubt already pre-ordered it, but if not that link there will offer you the opportunity to do so. :)

BABA YAGA’S DAUGHTER collects three Old Races stories previously released into the wild–”From Russia, with Love”, “Five Card Draw”, and “Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight”, and offers up seven new tales that complete an arc of hidden stories within the Old Races universe: you could go on to read future books in the Old Races universe without having read these stories, but believe me, you don’t want to.

Ancient rivals, best of friends, best of enemies: dragonlord Janx and master vampire Eliseo Daisani are the threads upon which a tapestry of lives and loves are woven across the centuries. From the coldest Russian nights to the heat of Chicago’s greatest fire, nothing brings the immortal adversaries together—or tears them apart—like a woman.

And there is always a woman.

Vanessa Grey has been at Daisani’s side for decades, but the secrets borne by a witch may be her undoing. Baba Yaga’s daughter has plots that are decades in the hatching, but they may only succeed if Margrit Knight, named “the Negotiator” by Daisani and Janx themselves, will work with her. And there are others: the greatest vampire hunter mankind has ever known, and a woman for whom the Old Races are a wonder to walk away from….

The cover art is by Thomas Canty. (THOMAS. CANTY. *dies of squee* *again*) I am *insanely* excited that SubPress is publishing this collection, and I desperately, desperately want it to do well in order to justify their faith in me and in hopes of, y’know, getting to work with them again. So–because I know you don’t want me to sign a thousand signature sheets for nothing–do pre-order if you can, okay? I will love you forever.

not that i don’t anyway

So on to the ORSSP write-up!

Project Proposal: I set out with a goal to to write 6 short stories set in my Old Races universe, to create content for a possible future print publication collection of Old Races stories. I had in mind a financial goal of $3,000 ($500/story), but the especially important aspect to me was obtaining an audience for the stories to make certain I wrote them.

Project Conclusion: Over 180 patrons donated over $4,000 toward the ORSSP, making it not only a success in terms of getting me to write the stories, but also a clear financial success in and of itself.

Proof of Fiction Committed: There are teasers available for five of the six stories. For the sixth, my patrons have generously agreed to let me post the entire story publicly.

“Salt Water Stains the Sand”, a tale of the djinn, is available here.

Teasers for the other stories are available here:
The Death of Him, a story of the selkies
Awakening, a story of the vampires (set after the Negotiator Trilogy)
Falling, a story of the gargoyles
St. George & the Dragons, a story of the dragons
and
Legacy, a story of the humans

Really, it went so well I’m more than half tempted to do it again this year, except I already have a great deal on my plate in 2012. :)

And there is always a woman.

Vanessa Grey has been at Daisani’s side for decades, but the secrets borne by a witch may be her undoing. Baba Yaga’s daughter has plots that are decades in the hatching, but they may only succeed if Margrit Knight, named “the Negotiator” by Daisani and Janx themselves, will work with her. And there are others: the greatest vampire hunter mankind has ever known, and a woman for whom the Old Races are a wonder to walk away from.

Revisit C.E. Murphy’s world of the Old Races with eight stories that delve into the past and future of the two most beloved characters from her urban fantasy trilogy The Negotiator!

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ZOMG ZOMG ZOMG *SQUEE*! THOMAS CANTY COVER! SO PRETTY! SO EXCITED!!! ZOMG EEEEEEEE!

BABA YAGA’S DAUGHTER should be be available for pre-order later this month (or early in February) so I’ll be doing this all over again then, but SQUEE! I’m really, really excited about this book. It’s going to be SO beautiful, and I’m very pleased with the stories in it, so holy beans, I hope you guys will like it too. EEEEEEEEE!

V. large full cover behind the cut! Worth clicking through! I PROMISE!

SQUEEEEE!

Twenty-one short stories. This from someone who does not consider herself to be a short story writer*. 11 of them were for crowdfunded projects (ie, you had to buy in to get them, and still can, until Saturday evening, for the Old Races Short Story Project!). Two were for anthologies and two for next year’s BABA YAGA’S DAUGHTER collection of Old Races stories. The other six were Gryphon Beach stories, which I have faint hopes of selling to a children’s publisher at some point, so will not be making available for general consumption.

I am not going to be writing 21 short stories in 2012. o.O

I *do* anticipate doing some more Gryphon Beach Storytelling Hours, probably as a crowdfunded effort instead of just a free-for-all this time. And I have 4 more stories to write for the “No Dominion” Kickstarter campaign, and one short story under contract. So I may do a dozen or so shorts next year, but I believe I’ll restrain myself from doing a second ORSSP (though the temptation is MIGHTY), and try hard to just stick with the books I need to write. And the graphic novel script. :)

Yes, yes, I’m saying it here in public, where I will no doubt get mocked mercilessly if I go back on my word (which we all must admit seems very, very likely): a dozen short stories, a graphic novel script, and the contracted-for books/novellas.

Unless something irresistable comes along. :)

*Actually no longer true, and not just because of this year. It became clear to me a year or two ago that in fact I do write short stories. But for the longest time, no, I really didn’t see myself as someone who did. (And I thought I should, so I sat down and started practicing. See where that led?!?! :))

I’m doing an Old Races short story project throughout 2011. This project will deliver 6 Old Races short stories to its patrons. This, “The Death of Him”, is the fifth, and is a story of the selkies. I’m posting it a few days early (it’s due in October) because there’s already so much going on at the beginning of October. :)

You can find teasers for the other stories here: Awakening, a story of the vampires set after the Negotiator Trilogy; Falling, a story about Biali in 1890s New York; St. George & the Dragons, a story about Janx; Salt Water Stains the Sand, a story of the djinn.

“The Death of Him”

She was human, and she would be the death of him.

That, of course, was true as a rule. Humans poisoned the seas, overfished the waters, bore children til the land couldn’t feed them, and bred more still after that. Their numbers increased visibly by the year, while even the most populous of the Old Races bred slowly. Humans would be the death of them all, sooner or later.

But Róisín would be the death of him sooner, for she lay beside Eoin under the high late summer sun, and took his hand and put it on her belly and whispered, “Da,” beneath his ear.

Blood rushed Eoin’s head and made his hand cold against her stomach, but the fool’s grin spreading across his face belied the shocking lurch of his heart. “You’re sure,” he breathed back, and was rewarded with a nod.

“Since Beltaine,” she murmured, before her own grin split her features. “Since May Day, sure as night. My blood should be on me now and it’s not come twice. Will we be handfasted at midsummer, Eoin? Will ye be your babby’s da?”

He said, “I will,” without hesitation, then rolled on his back to stare at the starless sky. “I will if you’ll have me, Róisín, but there are things I should have told you.”

She pushed up on her elbow, grin faded to a smile, eyebrow raised in warning. “You’ll not tell me you’ve a wife and children already.”

“No. That would be…easier. Come down to the water with me, Róisín. Come down to the water so we can talk.” Eoin stood, heart pounding, and offered her his hands.

She took them, eyebrows still vocal: lifted in question now, but her smile stayed in place. “Last time you brought me to the water, it wasn’t to talk.”

It wasn’t, of course, and it hadn’t been, because graceful as his people were on land, it was nothing to their ease in the water. He might have seduced most women on land, but Róisín had caught his eye with her dark brown eyes and deep red hair, and he’d wanted, of all things, to be sure of her. So he’d taken her to the sea, to the element he’d been born in, and she, who could not swim, had trusted his arms until she could entrust his heart.

She came again willingly enough, down to the quiet bay where small boats were tied to large trees, and laughed when he stripped away his white wool shirt and dropped his brown wool pants. “I thought it was talking you had in mind.”

“It is,” he said, “and it isn’t. Róisín, sit, and be calm if you can. This is a thing I should have told you–shown you–before, but I…”

Expressive eyebrows rose again and he sighed, taking a bristling fur from beneath the roots of one of the ancient trees. “But I fell in love,” he said, mostly to the fur, and made himself look back at the girl sitting curiously on the sand. “Róisín, will you believe this, that I love you, despite all the strangenesses that may come to pass?”

She tilted her head, pretty and thoughtful. There was no curl to her hair, but unbound from its braid it fell in waves past her elbows, and she twisted a strand around a finger as she replied. “Sure and let me think. It’s most of a year you’ve come courting. Since Midsummer last, and you bearing gifts each time you’ve come. And you’re from so far down the coast as Galway town. No man comes such distanace without reason, Eoin. I’d hope it’s love, for me da’s got no money or land for you to wed.” Humor slipped away. “You’re worrying me, Eoin.”

“If worried is all you remain, we’ll be well.” Fur gathered in his arms, he went to the water’s edge. Róisín stood again as he took his distance from her, and this time he didn’t ask her to sit, only said, “Your people have seen us often enough to have stories of us, Róisín. You’ll know what I am in the moment of change.”

The Old Races Short Story Project patronage window is now closed.

I’m doing an Old Races short story project throughout 2011. This project will deliver 6 Old Races short stories to its patrons. This, “Awakening”, is the fourth story, and is the first of the project stories set after the Negotiator Trilogy. There are, consequently, spoilers ahead, so beware!

You can find teasers for the other stories here: Falling, a story about Biali in 1890s New York; St. George & the Dragons, a story about Janx; and Salt Water Stains the Sand, a story of the djinn. And now a teaser for “Awakening”!

“Awakening”

The pain of awakening was exquisite. The weight of wet earth lifting away; the ash and oak driven through an unbeating heart now pulled free. The burning iron unwound from wrist and ankle no more than bone, and the hunger, oh: the raging hunger, awakening as did the desiccated flesh.

Strong slim arms to carry a weightless body: female. The saviour was female. Wind rushed across filthy skin, though the air itself sounded still and so the wind spoke of speed. Great speed. Inhuman speed. The saviour was vampire. One of their own. One who had escaped the betrayal.

Rage boiled up, fast and sweet as blood. So long. It had been so long since the betrayal, and only now did rescue come? But no: fury failed as fast as it had risen. Revenge could come later. Later, when strength had returned to dried-up muscle and blackened skin was once more flush with color. Flush with blood.

There were so many humans. The scent of their blood carried even on the speeding wind. Blood pounding hard in fat bodies, lush for draining. The need to taste that wealth sent a spasm through a useless body, cracking fragile bones with its strength. A spasm, no more, from a frame that had once sped across continents in hours, had once ripped body from bone not through great strength but through terrible speed. A spasm: pathetic response from dead flesh.

This was not life, oh no, but it was more than had been granted for years uncounted, and that would be enough.

#

The bodies were disgusting. More than a dozen of them, all twisted and broken and blackened from their time beneath the earth. They’d weighed almost nothing, but their stench made up for their lightness. Rotten soil, rotten flesh, rotten wood, rusted iron, scummy water. They stank, and Ursula thought that if she’d considered that possibility beforehand, she might not have retrieved the vampires at all.

But then, she didn’t often think of consequences beforehand, which, as it turned out, was probably the most vampiric of her inherited traits. Well, that and the speed, but being quick never got her in trouble, whereas acting without thinking often did.

Poor impulse control. She could all but hear her sister mocking her with the words, light and teasing and fond. Kate was her own father’s daughter, ridden with the dragonly lust for treasures. Ursula was Kate’s treasure; Ursula and their human, if not exactly mortal, mother Sarah. There were few things in the world as safe as being a dragon’s hoard.

She had left Kate behind, though. Left her behind with the red dragon who was Kate’s father, and had come to Europe alone with a mind to rescue the vampires her own father had betrayed. “Daisani,” she said under her breath, half-mocking. “Master of the vampires.” Only half mocking, though, because in the end he had mastered them, had set them away from the world, and if anyone could claim mastery over killing machines harder to herd than cats, then it was probably the one who had hidden them.

The one who had betrayed them.

The Old Races Short Story Project patronage window is now closed.

I’m doing an Old Races short story project throughout 2011. This project will deliver 6 Old Races short stories to its patrons. This, “Falling”, is the third story, and is a story of Biali in 1890s New York. This story has been delivered to the patrons who have thus far subscribed, and I am now pleased to offer you a little ol’ teaser for it.

“Falling”

“Get in the ring and lose the fight. Make it look good. Can’t have anybody suspecting.”

No one ever does. Futile words, a waste of breath. Nearly a waste of thought, and gargoyles rarely bothered with wasteful things. But there was no fight Biali couldn’t win. Not against humans. Every fight he lost looked good, and no one–not even the short, putrid-breathed manager he collected scant dollars from after the matches were done–had any idea he threw all of them. All but the few he permitted himself to win, usually against broad-shouldered blondes. None of them had the wheat-pale hair of his old rival, but then, none of them had Alban Korund’s strength, either. Beating the pulp out of look-alikes was cold comfort, but at least it was comfort.

Tonight’s bout was against a stocky Italian, hardly taller than Biali himself. He was missing two teeth and his nose sat askew, bulbous end mashed to one side. He’d never been pretty, but there were women who liked the rough edges fights brought out. Or at least women who could be paid to say they did, and for most fighters that was enough.

Not even the highest-paid doxies in the city looked at Biali without flinching. The left side of his face was scarred, eating his eye and flattening the cheek. It was nothing to the ruin of his gargoyle face, but he never let humans see that. Rarely looked at the marks himself, knowing all too well that they looked as if his very bones had been chiseled away. Or bludgeoned, more like, the weight of one corundum fist changing the shape of his hopes forever.

He wore his scars belligerently. It helped in the ring, frightening some men, making others bold. He didn’t need the help, but there was no reason to try harder than necessary. Not when he fought humans. And he had no real use for mortal women, but their caught breath, their sliding gazes, stung him every time. Gargoyles were less taken with the physical form: stone chipped and wore away with time, and the wreck of his face was only age hurried along.

The Italian was in the ring already, snorting like a horse. Big slabs of marbled muscle on him, the solid stuff that would barely ripple when he took a hit. Biali might look like that someday, if all he ever had to fight again were feeble humans. The manager shoved his shoulders, hurrying him toward the fight, and because he played at being human, Biali moved. A few heavy steps into a ring made up of wooden slats and sweating men, dirt under all their feet. He could dig his toes in and become unmovable, win it that way, but then he would have to stop fighting.

And the fight was the only thing worth living for.

He let the Italian make first contact. A blow to the chin, hard enough to knock a man out. He saw it in the Italian’s eyes, too, that he should have staggered, and gave a thin uncompromising smile. Fear and anger burst to life in the Italian’s gaze, and for whole minutes there was nothing but ducking and jabbing, fists slapping against flesh. A bell rang. The Italian kept coming. Biali let him, took another hit that should have doubled him, and saw fresh anger erupt across the Italian’s face. Then the Italian’s manager was on him, hauling him back. Biali shrugged, returning to his own spot across the human-lined corral. Sweat and shit and animals and beer: they all stank, and no amount of washing got rid of the stench.

Perfume, though, disguised it. Perfume, but no man would wear that. Not here, anyway, not among the ranks of dock workers and street cleaners, not where a hint of effeminacy would get him killed. That was for dandies in the hothouses, for well-dressed young fops living life large as progress rolled on. Their kind would be killed, too–or at least beaten and robbed–down here in alleys and waterside warehouses.

It had to be a woman. A woman, where none would be welcome. A woman escorted by the sort of fool who would bring one here, and from the scent, she was beyond expensive. She smelled rich, like she hadn’t been bought. The perfume was delicate, unlike what whores wore, and through the noise of betters and backers, silk shifted against silk. Humans would never hear it, but any of the Old Races would. A cowbell clanged, harsh flat sound as out of place as the woman’s perfume. The crowd was moving, jostling, shouting, and finally broke apart enough to give him a glimpse of her.

Amber skin, black curling hair, large dark eyes. A free woman of color. Well, they were all free now, but the phrase lingered. Petite and curvy, or petite for a gargoyle, at least. Tall enough for a human woman, but it wasn’t a human woman he was reminded of at all.

The name left his lips in an unvoiced whisper: “Hajnal.”

It wasn’t her. Couldn’t be her. He knew it; Hajnal had died centuries ago. But whenever he saw a woman like this he forgot, just for a moment. Forgot, too, that he’d lost Hajnal long before she’d died. Both remembrances always came back like a mule kick to his heart. He hated them for reminding him of her. Hated them for flinching when they looked at him, as she never had. Hated them for being human, when she had proved mortal too. Hate was easier.

She looked his way. Her brow furrowed, then smoothed, and she lowered her eyelashes. Less than a nod, but nothing coquettish. Just a greeting before the crowd closed and took her away again.

The ground shook, lumbering footsteps. Biali ignored it, still scowling into the crowd. Her scent lingered, but she was gone, not even a hint of what man she’d been with to give him a lead to follow. Behind him, the manager barked, “Fight!” and the thundering earth resolved into sense. He turned away, facing the ring again, and the Italian was there with a fist full of steel. It hit with a shattering boom, and Biali…

…fell.

The Old Races Short Story Project patronage window is now closed.

If you would like to pay shipping and get signed copies of one or the other or both of those two books, please comment on this entry. It will be $7 for one book or $14 for two. Respond and I’ll give you the Paypal information.

I have no copies at all of the first book in the series, just in case you’re wondering. :)

I’m doing an Old Races short story project throughout 2011. This project will deliver 6 Old Races short stories to its patrons, starting with “Salt Water Stains the Sand”, the story of–to quote the reader who asked for it, “the first time Malik lost.” This story has been delivered to the patrons who have thus far subscribed, and I am now pleased to offer you a little ol’ teaser for it.

Salt Water Stains the Sand

My name is Tahira Firaz Galia al-Shareef di Nazmi al-Massri, and today I have killed my brother.

He does not know it yet, but I see it as he limps away over desert sands. He is an exile, lost to his people, and because of that, he is dead. Because of me, he is dead.

It is not how I hoped this story would end.

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“He is wealthy and powerful. Respected among the clans. You could do no better.”

“He is old.” A silly argument: I am old. There are very few young among us anymore, not since the Bedouins came to ride their horses through our sands and take the few resources we once called our own. The humans; my father and brother would not be pleased that I know their tribes by name, or that I care. They are all young, every one of them, even their most venerable sages. The most extraordinary see a hundred changes of the season, and I have long since lost count of how many soft desert springs I have witnessed. So: I am old.

But not as old as Amar, who is so old the desert sun has bleached the blackness from his hair. So old that the sandstorms have driven lines into his skin, so old that his scowl reminds me of young mountains, harsh and sharp with their newly-risen ridges. He is old, and has thirteen wives, and I will not be the next.

“Tahira,” Malik says with a winsome note. “Tahira, you must listen to reason. Amar is powerful. He could destroy us if you refuse him.”

The Old Races Short Story Project patronage window is now closed.

To my surprise, a whole bunch of them were requests for stories that have been written for BABA YAGA’S DAUGHTER & OTHER TALES OF THE OLD RACES–more about Daisani’s secretary Vanessa, the early days of Daisani and Rebecca’s (Margrit’s mother) relationship, and “anything from Janx & Daisani’s past/future”. Another was “more about Sarah Hopkins”, who was the subject of “Year of Miracles”. And some of them were requests for Grace’s story, which I’ll tell eventually, and Chelsea’s story, which I won’t, because she thinks it’s none of your business.

That’s left me with about five reader-requested ideas, at least one of which (“the world before humans arose and the Old Races were still battling it out for who might be in charge”) is way too big for a short story. What I’ve got left are all ideas I’ll very likely pursue for the ORSSP, because I love all of them.

I’ve listed them behind the cut, and am now inviting a second round of suggestions. This could be your chance to get a bespoke Old Races story, so if there’s a story you really, really would like to see told, let me know.

What I’ve got lined up:
- the story of “the first time Malik lost”
- the Biali/Alban/Hajnal love triangle
- more about the selkies in the centuries they were gone
- a story told from the point of view of a priest