Nevermore
Authors: Keith R.A. DeCandido
™
NEVERMORE
Keith R.A. DeCandido
Based on the hit CW series SUPERNATURAL
created by Eric Kripke
To the late great Scott Muni, for informing so much of the music of my childhood . . .
To John, Jack, Ray, Doug, Kathy, Janyce, Arleen, Kevin, and all the other nutjobs on
the paper,
Fordham University’s alternative paper, who gave me my first great publishing experience . . .
To Edgar Allan Poe, who lived a hard life, but whose groundbreaking work will live on forever . . .
And in general to the Bronx, the place where I was born and live, the place where I grew up, the place where I was educated, and still New York’s best kept secret. Boogie down!
I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth.
I heard many things in hell.
—Edgar Allan Poe, “The Tell-Tale Heart” Contents
Epigraph
iii
viii
A chill November breeze blew John Soeder’s hair
into
his…
1
“That’s the problem with the job, Sammy, sometimes you hit…
13
“How can there be so many people on one road?” 25
Clare Hemsworth brushed the bits of grass off the
Wildlife…
40
“Nice work, givin’ her your phone number”.
51
…Mom pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the belly, fire…
66
Sam could hear Pink Floyd’s “The Great Gig in the…
88
Dean decided that the only way this night could
possibly…
99
Over the course of his life, Sam Winchester had
had…
121
It had been several years since Detective Marina
McBain
had…
146
Dean wasn’t used to being the first one up—he
was…
169
Dean’s second trip to the Park in Rear was a…
180
It needs to stop. Why won’t he love me?
193
Dean hated waiting.
204
As soon as he set foot on the campus of…
240
“Start from the beginning,” Dean said angrily.
251
A staple of old-fashioned detective fiction, Sam knew, was to…
269
Dean had to admit that he had no idea how…
283
McBain was waiting for them when the Impala veered
off…
303
313
Other Books by Keith R.A. DeCandido
This novel takes place between the second-season
Supernatural
episodes “Crossroad Blues” and
“Croatoan.”
Fordham University
The Bronx, New York
Sunday 12 November 2006
A chill November breeze blew John Soeder’s hair into his face, Mother Nature’s reminder to get a haircut in the absence of his actual mother being around to nag him about it. She was back in Ohio where it was safe, and also ten degrees colder than it was here in the Bronx. If Emily Soeder could see her son’s shaggy mop of brown hair, she’d make that clicking noise she always made and offer to call to make the haircutting appointment herself.
John loved attending Fordham University for about a thousand reasons, but its considerable distance from his mother numbered high on that list.
2 SUPERNATURAL
He and his roommate, Kevin Bayer, were heading back to their
off-campus apartment after a
long day in the print shop in the basement of the McKinley Center. They were the coeditors of Fordham’s alternative paper and had spent most of the day putting the latest biweekly issue to bed. The files had been e-mailed to the printer, and they would have the issues by Tuesday morning. That was critical, as they had to get it out before
The
Ram,
Fordham’s stodgy offi cial student newspaper, especially because of the exclusive they got from the dean.
They were walking quickly through the campus, heading toward the exit at Belmont Avenue by Fac-ulty Memorial Hall. From there it was only a few blocks to their battered, cluttered, tiny—but bliss-fully cheap—apartment on Cambreleng Avenue.
Once they hit the exit, John brushed his hair out of his face and said, “C’mon, let’s motor. I wanna get home and change for the party.”
“What party?”
“
Amy’s
party, remember?”
Kevin winced. “I got an eight-thirty class tomorrow morning, dude, I can’t.”
Shrugging, John said, “Blow it off.”
“No way. Dr. Mendez’ll have my ass. Seriously, she takes
attendance.
I already missed three classes
’cause’a production weekends, I
can’t
miss another one.”
Never
3
more
They had come to the corner of Belmont Avenue and Fordham Road, and had to wait for the light—
the traffic was sufficiently heavy, even this late on a Sunday, so they couldn’t cross against the light.
Prior to senior year, John had lived in the on-campus dorms, which were part of the lush greenery that characterized Fordham’s campus, an oasis of academe in the midst of the largest city in the world. Well, not the
midst
—the Bronx was the northernmost part of New York City, just above Manhattan and Queens, and the only part of the city attached to the mainland. Before visiting Fordham during his senior year of high school, John had always assumed New York to be Manhattan.
He had no idea of the outer boroughs, and was thrilled to find himself in a neighborhood that by itself was a more exciting city than Cleveland ever could be.
The transition still messed with his head a little, though. Fordham’s campus was all trees and grass and a mix of old and new buildings—some dating back to the university’s founding in the nineteenth century, others late twentieth-century additions—
and wouldn’t have been out of place in a sleepy town somewhere in New England.
But then you stepped through the wrought-iron gates and were hit with a cacophony of cars and buses zipping down Fordham Road—or crawling if it was rush hour—pedestrians, gas stations, fast- food 4 SUPERNATURAL
joints, car repair shops, and
people
. The neighborhood was a mix of Italians who had come in the early twentieth century, Latinos who came in the 1960s, and Albanians who came in the 1980s. Just down the street in one direction was Sears, Fordham Plaza, and the Metro North train; the other way, the Department of Motor Vehicles, the Bronx Zoo, and the Botanical Gardens. The “Little Italy” neighborhood still thrived, filled with delis, wine stores, restaurants, bakeries, pasta shops, and the occasional street fair, and John had gained fi ve pounds that semester just by moving closer to a source of canolis.
Of course, on a late Sunday night, there were almost no people on the street, just the cars.
The light changed, and Kevin and John ran across the street, since it was already blinking with the red hand indicating don’t walk before they made it halfway.
“Why’d you take a Monday morning class anyhow?” John asked. “You
knew
you’d be up late most Sundays.”
“It was the only medieval lit class I could take.
Only other one was opposite the Shakespeare sem-inar, and that’s a two-parter that I gotta take part two of next semester.”
They turned to walk up Fordham to Cambreleng. “And you’re not taking a medieval lit class
next
semester, why, exactly?” Never
5
more
“ ’Cause Dr. Mendez’ll be on sabbatical, and that means Father O’Sullivan.”
John, who was a history major and therefore had no clue about the English department, scratched his chin—he needed a shave, something
else
his mother’d be on his ass about
were she here—said, “Yeah,
and . . . ?”
Kevin’s eyes got wide. “Father O’Sullivan’s had tenure since, like, the
Dark
Ages.”
“Middle Ages.”
“What?”
“It wasn’t the Dark Ages,” John said defensively.
“They don’t call it that anymore, it’s called—”
“Dude, the Roman Empire had indoor plumb-ing. The Holy Roman Empire peed out their windows. It was the Dark Ages.”
John gritted his teeth and was about to respond, but Kevin got back to his original topic: “Father O’Sullivan got tenure in, I swear to
God,
1946.” They turned onto Cambreleng. “Dude, my
father
was
born
in 1946.”
“My
point
. The man’s a freakin’
fossil.
No
way
am I taking a class with him.”
“Whatever.” John didn’t really care all that much.
“You should still come to the party.”
“No way, I need my beauty rest.”
John grinned. “Ain’t enough sleep in the
world
to make
that
happen.”
