Every year we lose people, pets, homes, money. The sky fills with smoke, the flames race down the hills, and it always, ALWAYS, comes closer than you think it will. Even in this cement jungle surrounded by bonfire material it’s disconcerting. I’m always thankful that concrete doesn’t burn. Usually.

But you drive out a couple days later and you wonder. The sidewalks are black. The hills are naked of anything that isn’t stone. Abandoned cars are nothing but fire-mottled steel and molten lead. Glass has liquefied, run over the sides, pooled on the ground. There are no tires. They exploded in the heat and the treads burnt to nothing. You can see the places the fire jumped the freeway.

People ask me where I get my ideas. Well, now you know.

So first and foremost, I’d like to thank all of the men and women who risk their lives in the face of these wildfires. The first responders, the paramedics, doctors and nurses, dispatchers, pilots, ambulance drivers, search and rescue teams, animal rescue, evacuation coordinators. Hell, even the guys who mix the Phos-Check that gets dumped onto the flames and turns everything bright pink.

Thank you.

As to the book, well, there aren’t maybe quite so many who’ve helped make this a reality, but it feels like it sometimes.

My wife, Kari, who might be the only person on the planet willing to put up with all most some of my bullshit. My agent Al Guthrie. My editor Betsy Wollheim, Josh Starr, and the outstanding staff at DAW. The incredible cover artist Chris McGrath who brings Eric alive to me more than any of my words could. Thanks for helping make this the best book it could be.

And then there are friends whose support I cherish, like Chuck Wendig, Richard Kadrey, K.C. Alexander, Jaye Wells, Jaclyn Taylor, Delilah Dawson, Lilith Saintcrow, Kat Richardson, Brian McClellan, Kristin Sullivan, Jeff Macfee, Brian White, Lela Gwen, Cassandra Khaw, Madeline Ashby, Margaret Dunlap, Jaime Lee Moyer, Andrea Phillips, Robert Brockway and holy fucknuggets so, so many more.

Not to mention all of the wonderfully sick people who talk to me on Twitter. Especially the Russian porn bots.

And finally, to my wonderful friend Kevin Hearne, he of the Iron Druid Chronicles (which you should totally read if you haven’t), beard aficionado extraordinaire, imbiber of impossibly large beverages. Because you see, Kevin killed me in one of his stories. Tore me apart piece by piece. Painfully. Horribly. On a whim!

Ball’s in your court, motherfucker.

Chapter 1

Necromancy 101: You’re too late.

Whether it’s watching empty Echoes playing their last moments over and over again, or talking to Haunts and Wanderers with their fading memories and draining personalities, they have one glaring thing in common; they’re all dead.