by A. J. Aalto
“Perhaps the Master of Vlastimirova has doubts,” Harry said.
“The who of what now?”
“Vlastimirova is to the Soul Leech what Felstein is to the Raven of Night.”
I made a thoughtful noise.
He elaborated impatiently, “Vlastimirova is the stronghold of House Sarokhanian, Dearheart. Please do keep up, if you wouldn’t mind terribly.”
I let that go, since he already had his silk knickers in a wad. My forearm wound itched and I rubbed the gauze absently. “You think Mitch Dunlop is working for the Sarokhanians?”
He made an affirmative noise. “I am equally distrustful of your new best friend, ducky.”
“Umayma?” I couldn’t imagine why. Jeremiah Prost was dead, Umayma was free and content in her new temporary home, and frankly, way too busy to spy on me; she’d begun taking online classes to get her high school credits and she had college in her long view. “Umayma is not working for the Sarokhanians.”
“No, not that lovely girl, I mean your new shadow,” Harry said.
I jumped guiltily. “Umm…”
“The furry one.”
I glanced at the Bobster, who was now enthusiastically attacking his favorite toy, his own tail. “The Fluffy Ploughman Poet? Yeah, he’s pretty shifty.”
Harry huffed. “I mean your Mr. Folkenflik, who has rung for you no fewer than twelve times, now. Between him and that eager snake oil salesman, I’ve taken half a hundred messages for you.”
“And by ‘snake oil salesman,’ do you mean the virologist, Dr. Delacovias, who is working with the CDC on what I can only assume is a lycanthropy vaccine?”
“Have you forgotten so easily that I myself once sold patent medicines and supplied pain relief to those who did not need it?” Harry said tightly, his emphasis on the end of that thought.
“You’re saying if there’s a vaccine, I shouldn’t take it?”
“What I am saying, cricket, is that I know a charlatan when I hear one. He may as well have told me you have a vitamin B-17 deficiency and offered you laetrile.”
I sighed. “Are you still angry at Ernst Krebs?”
Harry stared at me for a long, unblinking moment. Not unusual, since the undead don’t require blinking, but it was unnerving and made my own eyelashes flutter in response. Then he puffed from his nostrils when I didn’t retract my query. “Well, of course I am! Of all the ludicrous questions.” He scratched under Bob’s chin absently, causing the bell to jingle, and shook his head. “Nonsense and quackery.”
Harry rarely brought it up, but the notorious “doctor” Krebs, whose laetrile not only didn’t cure cancer as he promoted, but ended up giving some patients cyanide poisoning, had offended Harry personally and deeply. Since Harry wasn’t ready to explain fully, it was my place, as it often was, to be patient and wait for that day to come. I suspected that Krebs had been at fault for sickening someone in Harry’s life, but I couldn’t imagine who that might have been; Grandma Vi hadn’t passed of cancer or poisoning, so I’d removed her from my mental list of the charlatan’s possible victims.
“I’m sure Dr. Delacovias isn’t going to offer me any snake oil liniment or a phony cure for lycanthropy.”
“And what of your were-kin?” Harry asked, and his chrome eyes flashed unhappily.
“Slow your roll, eh? I wouldn’t go calling me a Folkenflik just yet, dead guy.”
“I feel I must remind you that your Mr. Folkenflik’s brother, Gunther, is a servant of Ms. Sayomi Mochizuki, the DaySitter of Prince Sarokhanian.”
My Mr. Folkenflik. Like I needed one of those. “I’ve not forgotten. Granted, I haven’t actually spoken to him yet, but from his letter, Finnegan seems more reasonable than his brother. Less bitey. ”
“Seems, yes. And things are always as they seem, love.”
Point: Harry. I sighed again. “What’s in the bag?”
He looked down at his grocery sack as though he’d forgotten he’d dropped it in the hall. “I brought you something from Our Lad’s house. I tackled the bundling of the last of his clothing this evening. I thought you might like to keep it.”
I went to the bag and took the item out. It was Batten’s navy blue Department of Justice sweatshirt with FBI printed on it from his training days at the academy, softened and faded from plenty of washing. I held it to my face. Maybe I only imagined that it still smelled of him. I tried to thank Harry but the words got trapped behind my tongue somewhere; he inclined his head with understanding, put Bob on the floor, got up from his chair, and went into the kitchen, encouraging over his shoulder, “Make your appointments, love. Mustn’t put them off forever. I trust you can manage the charlatan on your own, mindful that he doesn’t come at you with the Golden Hammer. But you’ll see the furry one under my watchful eyes, yes?”
I buried my face in Batten’s sweatshirt for a beat before drawing free and saying wearily, “Yes, Harry.”
“Sustenance in a few, Dearheart, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” he requested politely from the kitchen.
“Yes, my Harry,” I promised.
I tossed the sweatshirt on over my black t-shirt and wore it like armor as I trod into my office to face the first phone call. Harry had left both phone numbers on a frog-shaped notepad on the big, antique desk beside my laptop. I chose the less scary phone call first, to Dr. Delacovias from the CDC. His call went to voicemail, and I left a quick message assuring him that I’d call back tomorrow during business hours.
Folkenflik picked up his call on the third ring, and knew it was me calling. “Dr. Baranuik. Thank you for getting in touch with me. You have been in my thoughts. I’m concerned with how you are feeling?”
I sat at my desk, slouching deeply, as if I could lose myself in my chair. My first instinct was to ask about his brother’s well-being, ‘what’s up with Ol’ Furface,’ but I had people skills now. Point: me. “I’m waiting to find out whether or not Gunther has caused me any lasting damage.”
He made a quiet noise, and the Blue Sense reported easily: regret. “I would like the opportunity to visit you in person, Dr. Baranuik. May I call you Marnie? Please feel free to say no.”
“Sure, what the heck.” I picked up a pencil to scribble randomly on the notepad. “Would Saturday work for you? It would have to be an evening. My companion insists on being present.”
“Of course, I understand,” he said. “If you give me an address, I will be there.”
I gave him directions to my cabin, and told him to show up after seven that evening – long enough after the funeral that I figured I’d be well rested. “Is there anything I can be looking for in the meantime? Any signs? Early symptoms?”
“With an infection, there may be a dull pain in your lower back, in the spine. And some blurred vision is possible.” He cleared his throat. “Have you had restless legs or muscle cramps?”
I got up to pace while I talked. “No, none of that. Mr. Folkenflik, it’s been two months. Wouldn’t I be seeing some changes by now if I'm infected?”
“I am told you attempted a cure?” He left it hanging.
“An elixir that may have had some effect, or none,” I admitted, briefly explaining what Declan and I had stumbled on in the tomb in Egypt and the circumstances of the elixir’s application. “It was a whole mellified man situation. We panicked and tried it.”
“We’ll discuss this further when I arrive on Saturday night,” he promised, and the Blue Sense picked up a hint of worry under his curiosity. “Thank you for having me over. Is there anything I can bring with me? Is there anything you need?”
I couldn’t think of anything, but my mouth was saying, “Cookies are good” before it struck me that this was pretty cheeky.
Finnegan Folkenflik chuckled with surprise. “Who doesn’t need a cookie now and then? It will be done. I look forward to meeting you.”
I lied about being happy to meet him, too, and hung up, finding with surprise that I was standing in front of the herb cabinet. My key chain was hanging from t
he one key stuck in the lock, swinging softly. I didn’t remember putting them there. I took them out and chucked them in the top drawer of my desk, slamming it firmly. That papery whisper came from behind the sliding door of the cabinet, and I imagined Ruby Valli’s grimoire mocking me. I ignored it and went in search of my hungry revenant.
Chapter 13
Even first thing in the morning, the gym smelled of damp sport socks, medicated powder for jock itch, and a healthy dollop of mentholated muscle rub. Under all this was the scent of wet asphalt from the parking lot outside as I hurried into the lobby, ten minutes late after being held up by a fender bender at Lambert’s Crossing. I half-expected both cops to be late, too, considering the police presence at the car crash, but they were there, waiting for me and finishing up phone conversations. I threw my gym bag off my shoulder and crouched to dig out my red sparring helmet.
Morgan Sally nodded in greeting while settling his own protective gear around his noggin. It had probably been white, once, but had been beaten and scuffed to a creamy taupe the color of old piano keys. “Held up by the accident?”
“That damn bridge. It really needs to be widened,” I said.
Hood nodded. He’d said as much a hundred times after nasty crashes at the one-way bridge. It had a yield sign at both sides, but sometimes both drivers were the aggressive type and neither yielded. When that happened, they discovered the hard way that only one of them fit.
“Before we go, I want to see some arm control and takedown from you,” Hood said, and I assumed he was talking to me, because Sally smiled at me to say bring it.
I loosened my neck from side to side. “No problem.”
I’d practiced on Hood often enough, but never with anyone else; Harry refused to play rough if it wasn't for hunt-flavored sexytimes, instead insisting that I join him in his yoga practice.
Hood took a step back and crossed his arms, assuming the stance of gym coaches everywhere preparing to evaluate their students. “Cross arm to triceps, lower arm to wrist, pull high, push low through the wrist, fish your hand outward,” he reminded me. “Into rear arm lock. Got it?”
“Senpai, notice me,” I muttered, and moved smoothly into it, trusting muscle memory and moving in nice and tight. I tried for the arm bar, but Morgan resisted in the elbow, so I slid into a shoulder lock, turned, and dropped my weight, taking him down to the mat with a surprised grunt.
Hood pursed his lips and exhaled slowly through his nose. “Well, that was messy.”
I remembered pouncing on an unsuspecting Prior and doing some disgraceful things in the minutes after my brother had been scalded by holy water. “You haven’t seen messy, pal. This was a thing of beauty by comparison.”
“Again,” Hood said, and I popped to my feet obediently.
We grappled, using variations of the lockup and takedown for thirty minutes or so before Hood switched us up to sparring after granting us a quick breather. He pointed at me with a glove while Morgan and I strapped ours on. The deputy was still watching me with a skeptical expression that I wanted very much to wipe off his face. Preferably with a left hook or a right cross, but a roundhouse kick would do in a pinch.
“You eat?” Hood asked me.
I shot him a gloved salute off my temple. “Yes, sir.”
“Chin down, gloves up, let’s see what you got.” He gave Morgan Sally a nod and stepped back to watch, his hands coming up into a low guard as he visualized being engaged with the action. I doubted he even knew he was mirroring us subconsciously as we circled each other.
The chief deputy’s fighting style was quicker and more explosive than Hood’s, and he had me on the defensive immediately, weaving and dodging; I got winded more quickly than usual, and didn't have the presence of mind to keep up a poker face. Under his sparring helmet, Morgan wore a funny little grimace that told me, more than my psychic Empathy did, of his discomfort when his strikes landed. He was fast, and he was strong, but he was pulling his shots. Gradually, he took the brakes off as his confidence grew and he got comfortable with the lack of objection from me or Hood. I tuned my own expression to I’ve got this, and he accepted that; his blows came more rapidly. After a few minutes, I saw Hood out of the corner of my eye, putting on a helmet. I expected him to tag Morgan Sally out. He didn’t. Instead, he joined in, and I found myself sparring with both of them.
Going up against anybody two-on-one was a test I’d never faced before, and certainly not two well-trained cops. I had to think three moves ahead while being flexible enough to shift directions based on their choices. Hood’s solid but predictable shots provided enough challenge on an average day; adding Morgan’s quick, near-manic blows from another angle eventually backed me into a corner. Rob called a hold and we paused in place, Morgan dancing on the balls of his feet like a boxer, Hood in a sturdy stance, ready to either quit or defend himself.
Hood said, “You done?”
“I’m not out of moves yet, boys,” I promised.
Morgan’s shoulders relaxed and his arms hung loose but Rob tensed, believing me. His experience served him well. I drew a hearty slam of psi and focused on being quick, light, then weightless, and then something a bit more and less than that at the same time. Saying a quick mental spell (Give me lightness, give me speed, give me the little push I need), I made my move. It wasn't quite Harry's shadow-stepping, but it was enough to give me the advantage of surprise I needed.
I blipped through space, popping up behind Morgan. He yelped in surprise, and then in pain, when I delivered a spin-kick to the back of the knee; he crumpled but didn't go all the way down. Hood rushed me after only a moment's hesitation. I aimed low, throwing jabs at Hood’s groin. He blocked and crowded me until I was once again running up against another corner.
“I want you to get out of this without your tricks,” Hood barked.
“You sound winded, sheriff,” I noted. “Have I surprised you?”
“The element of surprise is nice but unreliable,” he said, adjusting his stance. “What if you’re fighting someone who matches you in the magic department? Show me what you can do without it.”
Point: Hood. “Fair enough.”
I feigned a head butt then dropped, throwing my weight down as he jerked back to dodge the strike that didn’t come. I couldn’t roll to the side as I was crammed against the wall, so I sprang into a front somersault and ended up on my feet near an irritated Morgan Sally, who took two dancing steps forward and threw a left hook. He caught me on the flank, but I braced for it, absorbing the hit and ducking the follow up. I felt Hood behind me and drove back with my elbow, catching his hard, chiseled belly just as his arms closed around my shoulders. He clamped down. I ran up Morgan’s legs and used them to launch off, whipping Hood and me backward against the wall. Morgan was coming at me for more when Hood’s timer went off, and Rob called it with a sharp command. His deputy immediately stalked off for his water, casting an accusing half-smile at me.
“Okay, witch-woman,” Morgan said. “Show me that move again.”
“Which one? I have so many,” I bragged, catching the bottle of water Hood tossed in my direction. Well, mostly. I ended up cradling it against my chest and squirting myself in the chin, because I'm smooth like that, even when I'm being a total kick-ass ninja.
“One second you were in the corner,” Morgan said, “and the next, you were behind me.”
Hood made an unhappy noise and said, “Pennywick Funeral Home. The ghoul.”
“Yeah, it’s not black magic, though, so don’t give me that face. It’s just…” I stopped, remembering Ruby Valli and the black Witch-Walking spell, and how she’d been invisible in my home. That could come in handy, sure, but it wasn’t necessary to delve into her dark magic. Couldn’t I just alter my white magic spells, boost them? I’d used the same bopping-through-space idea in Malas Nazaire’s creepy fortress of Furry death with the far sloppier invocation of “Fuckshit, witchy stuff!” How far could I blink through space like that? How much could I amplify white
magic before the power tilted into grey areas, as long as the intentions were good?
“Mars?” Hood prompted. “Everything okay?”
“Maybe,” I said, and meant it. I gave my head a shake and turned to see both cops staring at me with varying degrees of uncertainty.
“I still need to see that no-hands plank that you bragged about,” Deputy Sally said. “Now that I’ve seen that poof shit, maybe you can plank hands free.”
Maybe I could. I removed my helmet and unstrapped my sparring gloves, tossing them in the general direction of my gym bag. Tugging on the pair of leather gloves from my gym bag, I dropped into a push up position, bracing myself, adjusting into a plank until I was evenly balanced and comfortable.
Drawing energy from the room as slowly but deeply as possible, I collected a warm push of power until it felt like solid pressure directly beneath my chest. I gathered more as I raised my left hand off the mat and placed it on my opposite shoulder, which caused my weight-bearing right arm to shake a bit. Summoning more support, I used it to cushion my entire torso. Here we go. No faceplant, Marnie. I let my right hand lift off the mat, moving it slowly it across my body to my left shoulder, leaving my upper body hovering in a neat, flat position. I held this for a long beat before slapping the mat with both hands, dropping to my knees, and shooting them a victorious smile.
“Ho. Ly. Shit,” Morgan Sally said on a sharp exhale. He blinked rapidly, and the Blue Sense reported that he was caught between being scared and envious. Hood’s usual skeptical-sympathetic gaze had gained a glimmer of amazement.
“After all you’ve seen,” I said, “this is what finally freaks you out, Hood?”
“No, you freaked me out the first night I met you,” Hood reminded me. In the hospital, after Danika Sherlock had stabbed me, the good sheriff had come to get the details for his report. I’d made a proper fool of myself, but redeemed my pride by Groping his hand and proving to him my psychic abilities, nailing the name he was born with and the reason behind it, his father’s crush on Errol Flynn.