Excerpt from Don't Sleep with the Dead by Nghi Vo, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Hey—"

"Shut up," I advised, because there was a policeman making the rounds. The alley was crowded now, at least thirty men who stood miserably alone in the mob. I recognized Perry Sloan from the attorney general's office and Henry Kent from Kent and Sons. I wondered what the Sons would make of this, reading it in the paper first thing.

Sloan had a few bills out, and the policeman was already shaking his head, insisting on the whole wallet. He would have the money in it, and Sloan's identification as well, and I idly waited to see how long it might take Sloan to figure that out. I was numb, which is different from being calm, but one was as good as the other, said the soldier bunking with the French boy and the French girl.

The war again. This was becoming unbearable, and while I do not take pride in much on the wrong side of forty, I had at least prided myself on being able to bear most things.

"Look," I said suddenly to the boy at my side. "Speak when you're spoken to. Yes sir and no sir, like you're at school. You don't know anything. You're white and young and not too much a fairy. You'll be fine."

He actually looked more alarmed at that, and I shook my head again when he started to speak.

"And for the love of Christ, don't let on that you're with anyone. You're alone, understand?"

He nodded, but I was already pulling away. It was only a matter of a half step to the side and a slight change of posture before it looked as if we had nothing to do with each other. God only knew there was no help in being in this together.

Sloan was looking redder by the moment, the men around him edging away. Christ, but he was going to make this worse. He never knew when to shut up, and by the looks of things, he had already had his wallet taken. As I watched, the policeman snaked his pen from his pocket as well, no doubt something terribly expensive chased with gold. Stupid as well, to have things he liked with him, and probably more out of instinct than insight, he reached to take it back.

That wasn't the way it was supposed to go, and the night tipped. What was just going to be one more dreary lot of ruined lives suddenly became something much more dangerous as the police officer drew his club and brought it down hard on Sloan's hand. Sloan's cry was shocked and sharp, and I was already drawing back from the beating I was now sure that he and whoever tried to help him were going to get.

Instead of making myself scarce against the rear of the alley, however, when I shrank farther into the shadows, the boy I had been trying to avoid speaking to earlier was there, startled at my back and tripping me up when I stumbled into him. It caused me to lurch forward straight towards the policeman's second blow, and the thought occurred, crystal-clear and tired as Armistice Day: Well, I suppose this is what we're doing.

I grabbed hold of Sloan's arm, dragging him back from the swinging club as it came down, and as I did so, the cry went up, police and queers all alike as we realized things weren't going the way we figured they would.

"Carraway," Sloan managed.

I let go of him, because Christ, I could never stand the man, and to hell with standing next to him any more than I had to. The police had come in force, and now they poured into the mouth of the alley while the men who had been corralled there saw a chance that they might not end the night with their lives in the trash. There were no lines, no ranks, but something broke, and suddenly the clubs were lifted and a flying rock shattered the salamandrina behind me, sending a shower of broken glass over my shoulders and plunging the alley into darkness.

Killing floor, I thought, and someone's outflung arm clipped mine, sending me backwards again. This time my heel slid on some gravel, rolling my foot neatly out from underneath me. I felt myself falling, momentarily looking up at the dimly orange sky above me, and then there was a hand clamped tight around my wrist, hauling me up to my feet again as if I had only slipped on the street.

Excerpted from Don't Sleep with the Dead by Nghi Vo. Copyright © 2025 by Nghi Vo. Excerpted by permission of Tordotcom. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.