by A. J. Aalto
I opened my mind to guidance from above, wary of the fact that I hadn’t cast a protective circle or invited the Watchtowers to join me first. What came to me was a vast and wretched ocean of despair, and the ominous feeling of further abandonment, betrayal piling on betrayal until I was swimming alone in that dark ocean. It was so disturbing that I had to open my eyes and seek out the reassuring warmth of the candle. The candlelight flickered hard in my direction and the flame leaned toward me, questing for a taste of the power I’d summoned. I released it quickly, feeling dry-mouthed and unsettled.
I drank the rest of my espresso in one gulp and cursed Harry for stealing my brandy. My hands were shaking. It made me vaguely angry. Weak, I thought. Again. I can’t allow this. And then I heard Batten’s voice, as clearly as if he was standing in front of me, Pull your shit together, Baranuik.
I swallowed hard and squeezed my bare hands into tight fists, forcing my feelings into a compressed ball of anger, denial, grief, and sorrow. Not again. Not today. I was going to be fine today. I wasn’t going to play this stupid game in my head all day like I had every other goddamn day. No flashbacks. No hearing his voice. No obsessing every other minute about what had happened and why and what I could have done differently. I stared into the flame and willed my pain to sink into the burning wick, feeding all my feelings from the churning pit of my stomach into the fire.
The fire responded by erupting four feet into the air. Hot wax splattered all over. Yelping, I flung myself out of my chair, waving as though I could dissipate what was landing on me in hot little splotches. It hardened instantly in the cool air of the room, coating pencils and my desk blotter and my day timer and my coffee mug. There were dots of wax cooling on my jeans and my hands and my hair.
A minute later, Umayma showed Mrs. Swerdlow into my office. They both stopped short and stared at me as I stood by the garbage pail, picking little bits of hardened wax out of my turquoise bangs. When I waved her away, Umayma rolled her eyes and shut the door behind her without asking.
Hazel was ninety if she was a day, and had the eyes of someone who’d seen a lot in her day, but never anything quite as ridiculous as me. She didn’t question it, though. Maybe she thought my eccentricities added to the authenticity of my visions. She walked cautiously with painfully arthritic knees, sat in the chair nearest to her, knowing I’d close the distance between us if needed.
“Boy, that other customer sure has been in the bathroom a while,” she said in place of a greeting. “He must need checking on, dear.”
I glanced at my book and then felt one of my eyebrows dart up. Under the filmy coating of candle wax, the next appointment was a woman named Ramona, not a man. “Describe him?”
“Young man, track pants, red running shoes, blue jacket, bit of a limp, bless his heart.” She clucked her tongue. “Baseball hat, which he didn't take off when he came in. Not much for manners, that one.”
“The Blue Jays?” I asked, getting up, making a hand motion for her to stay where she was. I went to the window and parted the blinds with my fingers, scanning the street for My Buddy’s car, remembering (thanks to Hood) that it was a silver truck. A Nissan. Didn’t spot it. “Was he sitting in the waiting room?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Stay here, Hazel,” I said quietly. “If Umayma comes in, ask her to stay with you.”
Umayma wasn’t in the empty waiting room, and a quick glance out the front window didn’t reveal her next to my car. She was likely upstairs, working on homework in her office under the eaves.
Beside my office, down a little hallway, past the stairs and a tiny two-piece bathroom, was a partition Harry had set up, a folding door blocking the alcove leading to Batten’s personal space so clients didn’t think about straying down that way. Meant to be temporary, it would have been replaced with a proper door. It had a little hook lock on it, a pointless gesture that would do precisely nothing to keep anyone out.
The hook dangled, still swinging gently back and forth.
I folded the door open quietly, listening for footsteps. Something felt off. I rubbed my bare fingertips on my thumbs and focused on the leavings of the fire and wax, reclaiming some of that angry power I’d released, calling it back to me. It came as summoned, obediently and easily, as fire magic was wont to do; it was hot but dark, and beyond my usual power, which didn’t warn me away as it usually would have.
I had cleaned out the stuff that Batten left behind in his office, boxed up for Harry to put it in the back of the house, where he was “taking care of things with Agent Chapel.” Sometimes, in the late evening, just before I drew my bath, Harry would leave on his Kawasaki, saying he had things to “take care of” at the office. He had stopped using Batten’s name, feeling through our Bond my jolts of grief at every mention. This was where he came, to quietly pack up Batten’s life in cardboard to be toted away someday. It was a difficult task, but one that Harry would manage with courage and grace. I sure as fuck couldn't cope with doing it yet, if I ever would.
I knew immediately the ransacked mess in his bedroom was not Harry’s doing. Boxes were torn apart, dresser drawers hung open, pillows from his bed were on the floor, and the mattress was shifted; someone was hunting for something in a hurry.
I heard a shift, and the Blue Sense reported frustration. That someone was still here. Was My Buddy making his move? In broad daylight, in a house full of people? Would he be dumb enough to waltz in the front door instead and slipping in the back? Move with enough confidence and people think you belong there, Batten’s voice reminded me.
I dropped to a full crouch and patted my right thigh, where my calf sometimes held a knife in a sheath; it wasn’t there today. I put my back against the edge of the tall dresser and scanned the room, watching shadows and corners, looking for movement. When I was sure the bedroom was clear, I slipped around the corner of the dresser and moved to behind the door, staying low. I hoped that Umayma wouldn’t chance by the folding door and investigate why the partition was open. If she assumed I was finally in here mourning or some shit and needed to be alone, that would be better; I didn’t want her in the line of fire, if it came to that.
I spent a moment behind the door collecting my impressions of the scene and Feeling the space, letting the Blue Sense roll ahead of me like a storm front, a cool push that set my nerve endings awash with cold fire. Again, frustration and inquisitiveness bounced back at me. I was distractedly grateful that I had never been able to touch Batten with either of my Talents, because being overwhelmed by whatever remnants of him inhabited this space was not something I needed.
I rubbed my hands together, wishing I had some gloves, preferably my big sparring gloves, so I could whap Buddy without risk of hurting my hands; bare-knuckle fights were not exactly my arena. I homed in on his location by letting my eyelids flutter closed for just a second and listening, shutting everything else out but the sounds of the old house; the creaking of the floor up front, the wheeze of the old furnace, the hum of the refrigerator in Batten’s kitchen, rubber sneakers on ceramic tile. Bingo.
Now that I knew he was in the room with the knives, my approach had to take a different turn; always one-up your opponent, weapons-wise. I took a quick peek out Batten’s bedroom doorway to make sure the intruder wasn’t where he could see me, and then slipped past the threshold to the spare bedroom, where Batten and I had once polished the floor with our sweaty, naked bodies. This was where Kill-Notch had kept his guns, in a safe in the closet. If Chapel hadn’t come to remove them, this was where I’d find one.
The windowless room was dark but free of furniture. It was also without a rug. I debated ditching my big, clunky boots; they might make noise on the wood floor, but then again, I remembered trying to kick someone with my bare foot and badly hurting my toes. The boots would stay on. I moved quietly to the closet and used a fingertip to touch the door open. As I suspected, the gun safe was gone; Chapel and his sensible responsibility, always a step ahead of me. Not helpful, Unflappable Chapel
. My own gun was safely at home, because I’m a special kind of idiot. For a moment, I felt a swell of fear, but then reminded myself I was tough now. Marnie 3.0, motherfucker.
Very well, I thought. Knife-to-hand combat it is. With that thought, a hot shock of excitement rushed through me, something I hadn’t felt in a long time; the grey cobwebs of sadness fell away and in rushed the bright spark of contest, of survival, and the possibility of venting my frustrations. Hadn’t this guy just volunteered to be my punching bag? Oh yes, he has. The thinking part of my brain started to fade out to the buzz of anticipation. This fucker came to the wrong house. I crept out of the bedroom and back down the hall, where the stealthy sound of a drawer being eased open pinpointed his exact location. I stopped around the corner, trying to use my peripheral vision to find a body-shaped shadow among the other shadows in the room; he’d left the lights off as he skulked around, so I couldn’t spot him. What was he looking for? Did he think I lived here? Had he followed me from the gym? Was this someone else entirely? At this point, did it even matter who it was? Whoever it is, they're gonna get their ass handed to them.
I steadied myself, and the traitorous wood under my foot gave a minuscule creak.
Well, fuckberries.
Chapter 3
I froze, holding my breath, listening to the kitchen. He’d stopped moving, but I could hear him breathing. I’d been wrong about his location when I guessed he was at the drawers near the back door; he was a lot closer, practically at my shoulder. The slow slither of steel on steel told me he’d drawn Batten’s boning shears from the knife block’s sharpening holster. Okay, I corrected, hand-to-scissors combat. Bring it the fuck on.
I swung around the corner as low as possible. I whipped one leg out to catch him in the ankle, putting my weight into it. The tip of my boot struck him above his sneaker. I rolled immediately to my feet but misjudged his reaction, and my rising forehead connected with his groin. The resulting slam was hard enough for both of us to go urf in unison. I fell back on my bare hands, and found myself awash in an unwanted vision of Batten and me boffing vigorously on the kitchen floor. I lurched to my feet, momentarily distracted by seeing how Batten's shoulders, back, and ass looked from the opposite side I normally got to experience during our feverish trysts, and barely dodged a defensive swat, a blow to ward me off. My Buddy bobbed and weaved as I threw a few shots, and I recognized the training behind his dancing, his backing off. He ditched the scissors behind him on the floor and kicked them back to keep them out of my reach. The Blue Sense blasted me with his intent to flee instead of fight, and my rage bubbled up.
“You’re not going anywhere, shitgibbon,” I whispered.
His lips formed a perfect O.
I lunged forward, throwing a left jab to move him away from the door. Instead of backing down, he stood and absorbed the shot. Swiping open-handed at my left shoulder, he smacked me hard enough to knock me back a step. I launched myself bodily at him, my anger making me clumsy with my strikes. I was all fists, and he was all arms, anticipating my moves easily; my body was clearly advertising my intentions.
“Nope,” he replied, pushing me aside. It was the first time I’d heard his voice, and the accent sounded familiar enough to hit me in the gut with confusion. He moved toward the door again, and I feinted to my dominant side before throwing a left leg kick that hit him in the knee with a solid, satisfying thump. His leg crumpled to one side and he snarled, but his return strike was meant to fend me off, not hurt me.
When I rushed him, he threw open his arms and collected one wrist and the other, twisting me away from him in one smooth move that I recognized, too late, as a classic Batten move. This fucking guy was a cop, or something cop-adjacent. He bundled me up tight and put me in a clutch that was meant to convey knock-it-off. I gritted my teeth and tried my reverse head-butt, my instep stomp, my limp noodle drop, but anger was making me sloppy as hell, and we both knew it. At least I had him winded.
He growled in my ear. “Don’t wanna hurt you.” It sounded like yuh; every word was clipped, economical. “Lookit, stop.”
“Let me go,” I growled, “or I’m gonna give you a hot slap in the eye.”
He applied more pressure, wedging my arms more tightly, immobilizing me to make his point. “Be a good girl, now. I’m walkin' away; you’re gonna let me.”
“The instant you release me,” I told him, shooting him a glare over my shoulder, “you’re going down, you patronizing fuckwad.”
That surprised a chuckle out of him. “Naw. Gonna go now. No harm, no foul. Got it?” We panted together for a tense moment. “Been fun. Check you later, honey.”
The arms loosened in a rush. He gave my denim-clad ass a sharp spank and booked it out the back door.
My jaw dropped. Honey? He wasn’t getting away with that, and no way was some simpering shitdick going to smack my ass without getting his beaten. I grabbed the scissors off the floor, getting an instant impression of his regret from them. Bolting after him just in time to see him plunge up and through the ivy at the back fence, I gave chase.
That evergreen ivy was still lush and bright at the end of winter. I pelted across the small yard and shot my left hand out. With a hot spark in my palm, I snagged the green energy out of the leaves, dragging fiercely, relishing the jolt of raw vigor that coursed obediently through my veins. My heart thumped in alarm at the new speed. My legs quickened.
I vaulted over the fence, ignoring the stab of weathered chain link on my bare hand. I landed with a thud and rebounded on legs flush with stolen energy, training in on my target and his fleeing backside. I squinted, narrowing my focus, though the green energy was starting to cool. With a frustrated huff, I drew my scissor arm back. He was getting further and further away. Raising my left hand to the sky, I aimed it at the sparrows fluttering in the neighbor’s bird feeder. The spark was a prickling hot and cold mess this time. It fought me as my arms shook but I insisted, doubling down on my efforts.
I barked, “Mine,” to snatch every drop of power.
The birds fell dead in the snow with a silent puff. I released the scissors. End over end, a silver blur through the air, they whipped through the yard and hit the intruder dead in the ass cheek. One blade sank in up to the handle. He howled and jerked, clutching his backside, but he didn’t fall. Instead, he stumbled forward and whipped around, his hat flying off his head. As the sun fled behind a heavy bank of clouds, Buddy cut his eyes, wide with disbelief, back at me. He looked at my left hand in the air, my throwing arm slung forward. Then his focus fell on the circle of dead birds, feet curled up in the air, little bodies on the snow.
He finally brought his gaze back to mine. “You’re not supposed to do that,” he said, licking his lips.
“I’m not supposed to do a lot of things,” I agreed heartily.
He was right, of course. What I’d just done was far darker magic than any time I’d ever borrowed energy from the living before. But the important part was, how did he know what I would or wouldn’t do? I didn’t even know anymore.
“Less fun for you, honey?” I challenged. “Take a hike, or we’ll have some more.”
I pointed at the black bird on the roof behind him, and the starling gave a cry of alarm before taking flight to escape; it startled Buddy back into motion. The Blue Sense reported his urgency. I didn’t blame him. If I was willing to sap living things to gain power, he had underestimated this witch. With the scissors still lodged in his ass, he limped to the street beyond, now hitching more on his right side than his left.
Trusting I’d been nuts enough to scare him off for life, I turned to go back to the house and saw Umayma standing at the fence, watching me without expression through the brown, dead ivy I’d drained. Her lips tightened, but I didn’t sense disapproval; a whole lot of what-fresh-hell-is-this, but no disapproval. Snow started to spit from the sky in fine, icy pellets, and it coated her dark hair in seconds. I thought she was going to tell me off, but she kept her hands in her pockets.
&nb
sp; I explained, “Marnie 3.0 doesn’t like intruders.”
She nodded once and signed, Three M.
“More importantly,” I said, shooting her a pair of finger guns, “did I look like a bad-ass?”
She managed to squelch a smirk but not the eye roll that went with it.
“What?” I asked. “Did you get a vision about him?”
The smirk didn’t go away, and she signed, “You could do worse.”
I fished out my cell phone, frowning at her cryptic appraisal, and dialed Hood. When he picked up, I said, “Local hospitals. Dude with scissors stuck in his right ass cheek. I’m fine, but you might wanna check on him.”
“Mars,” he said, and his concern rattled the Blue Sense into a vibrating mess against the left side of my face through the phone. “Was just about to call you. I ran those plates. I need to see you. I’ll be over tonight around six.”