Blightmare (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 5)

by A. J. Aalto

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said. And then, “I may have over-reacted. A tiny little bit. But I was upset. And—okay, okay, I probably owe him an apology. Dammit.”

  Golden smirked. “Boy, you crack easily.”

  My discomfort made Harry uncomfortable in a rush, and he was content to change the subject. “You received another letter from Master Folkenflik, rather official-looking, outlining some details about the lycanthrope life. He seems quite keen.”

  “He can be as keen as he likes. He can be a super-keener. I’ve had quite enough of werefolk.”

  “He’s left several more telephone messages, ducky, in which he points out that his advice could be helpful in future, should you find yourself in need.”

  I growled low at him. “We’ve made a date. I’ll see him when I see him.”

  “Perhaps you need him more than you know, my fierce little vixen.” Harry set an espresso in front of Golden along with a plate of yesterday’s cheddar scones. “Your temper has been quite erratic of late. Perhaps this is a symptom you should not ignore.”

  “If I were a werefox, I’d know it.”

  “Would you?” Golden looked over her sunglasses at me again. “Would you, though?”

  “I know things,” I assured her. “Take your sunglasses off. It’s night and you’re not Corey Hart.”

  She did, but her smug little smile remained as she sipped espresso and politely didn’t cringe at the taste. She swigged to finish it quickly.

  “There have only been two full moons since your unfortunate tussle with Sarokhanian’s pet fox, I agree, but as you know, the virus can lie dormant for quite some time.” Harry eyed me knowingly. “Are you afraid that Master Folkenflik will confirm something you’d rather not have set in assurance?”

  “Harry, I made an appointment. He's coming Saturday night. Other than that, I don’t know how much more I can take. I have a lover to bury, a Horseman of the Apocalypse to find, or not, a brand new sheriff’s deputy to mock, and a stalker to counter-stalk. I don’t have time for—”

  Golden had gone to the fridge and popped the cap on a beer. The beer I only kept there for Batten. She had no way of knowing that. I’d never mentioned it. But seeing her help herself to it, the way he often had, stole my words and made my mouth go dry. I felt the color drain from my face. Before I could continue, Harry’s cool hand landed on my head. I craned up at him; his smile was full of compassion.

  “Your case is not going as expected, ducky?” he prompted.

  “I need a vacation. In a place where there are no monsters and I’m not a monster, and naked cabana boys bring me drinks.”

  Golden cocked her head. “Wouldn’t their dinks hang in the drinks?”

  “How long are their arms?” I boggled. “Why are they holding the tray way down at thigh level?”

  She tried to mime holding an invisible drink tray lower than her groin area to double-check the physical logic of her query. “Anyways, cocktails was my punch line.”

  I shot her double finger guns. “Nice.”

  Harry made a discouraged noise at both of us, but I appreciated her noticing the crashing mood and steering a course for penis humor. “You know what you should do?” Golden asked, returning to her chair.

  Here it comes. Since Batten’s death, people had been giving me all sorts of advice. See a therapist. Work out more. Work out less. Go out for a drink with them. Drink less. Take some yoga. Try some Feng Shui on my office furniture. I bit my tongue and accepted that all of these suggestions were coming from a place of concern and caring that just happened to be floating, by my calculations, in the middle of a vast sea of useless stupidity.

  “You should write this down in a journal. Didn’t you keep a diary?”

  I had. My Dear Diary entries had been frequent on my trip back home to Niagara, mostly because I needed to vent about poltergeists and Movember and Batten’s horrifyingly retina-searing Hawaiian vacation shirt. I nodded, considering this to be the first suggestion that felt remotely helpful.

  I smiled at her. “You know, I’m actually glad you stopped by. First time for everything, I guess.”

  She attempted to glare at me even as the corners of her lips twitched up. “Love you, too, bitch.” With that, she popped to her feet and put her empty beer bottle in the recycling bin under the sink. “Nice to see you again, Harry. Goodnight, you two.”

  Harry walked her to the door, as he was feeling especially gentlemanly, and returned to me in the kitchen. It occurred to me that Golden’s repeated checking on me was starting to feel like Hood’s babysitting, but I hadn’t confronted her about what Batten had said in her letter. I guess I didn’t need to.

  “Well?” Harry asked, the chill of him stirring all the little hairs on the back of my neck as he swept past me. “Don’t keep me in suspense, pet. There are no secrets between us.”

  “You keep tons of secrets from me,” I retorted.

  “The secrets of the grave are not to be shared with the living,” he chided, and moved gracefully into the chair opposite me. “Something ruffled your feathers today, my Own, and I will hear the truth of it.”

  I tried to stare him down, but he stared back unblinkingly, expectantly, and I gave up. “Batten told Hood to check up on me.”

  He read the resentment on my face and said carefully, “The brute. What an absolute cad.”

  “It’s insulting, Harry,” I said.

  “That Our Mark cared about you, or at least your well-being?” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps you’re not pleased that the good sheriff is concerned. He is a larger part of your new life, and you’re worried about what that means.” His tone softened. “It doesn’t have to mean anything, love. He’s your friend, and he’s comfortable in that role. Nothing changes if you lean on him a bit more right now, if he’s helping you find your feet. It doesn’t have to become complicated.”

  I wanted to believe that, but wasn’t feeling up to a long dissection of it. My backpack was nearby. I went to it, seeking my new purchase. “Speaking of complicated,” I said, “what do you make of this?”

  I took out the spyglass and toyed with it. The black glass caught the light and seemed to gobble it up. Harry made a thoughtful noise and watched as I peered through it at the kitchen. The spyglass was beyond useless for seeing clearly. Everything was foggy and dark. Everything, that is, except for Harry; he lit up like a front window in Amsterdam’s red light district. I took the spyglass down from my eye and handed it to Harry.

  “Check me out,” I said, “and tell me if you notice anything.”

  Harry didn’t ask why and complied. He held it to his eye and made a soft noise of surprise. “There is a soft glow around your neck, love, tracing the Mark of the Overlord.”

  “I heard the capital letters on that. Don’t give my scar a name.”

  “It has a name, darling,” he corrected. “Do you believe you’re the first to bear His Mark?”

  “Ugggggh,” I growled, and held my hand out to receive the spyglass. “Demons. I thought we were resolved to limiting the demon crap in our lives. I’m doing a sweep!”

  “Sweep away, my dove!” he encouraged, and pulled this morning’s newspaper forward so he could finish the International news.

  I went from room to room, searching for demon influences, waiting with dread for it to light up like Frodo’s damn orc-seeking sword. My bedroom was clear. The bathroom mirror showed a faint pink smear in the middle, which was a lingering trace of the time Asmodeus appeared there to snark at me. In my office, I was relieved to find nothing but a soft glow around the part of my herb cabinet that contained Ruby Valli’s grimoire.

  I grabbed the keys from my desk, unlocked the sliding door on the cabinet, and slid it open, expecting the whole grimoire to be a blasting red mess. But it surprised me.

  The grimoire had somehow become turned on its spine, flapping half open with the upright half leaning against the back of the cabinet. Most of the upright pages did not glow. Only the lower half, t
he fallen half, showed streaks of demon influence. Told you there was good stuff in there, my mind teased. Only the last bit of it is tainted. Go ahead, take a peek.

  I slid the door shut on it, deciding not to take that chance while I still had some of my shadow remaining and not a hint of the black magic Blights. The spyglass shook in my hand. I knelt beside my desk and slid it into my safe, closing the door with a thump and locking it.

  I texted Umayma: Need to get a look at that trumpet.

  She wrote back: The less I know about your sex life, the better.

  Laughing, I went in to cuddle up with Harry.

  Chapter 16

  The Ten Springs Motel had changed owners and had a new name: THE JOLLY ASPEN, all capital letters, like the jollity was so intense that they needed to shout it. The sign had a mascot with a bright face made of sunshine and too many teeth, peeking out from between two bushes that most definitely were not Aspens. The exterior had been painted a classy, understated moss green, but the trim was a garish yellow to match the sunshine face. Each door was the glossy black of patent leather shoes. White numbers stood out boldly, one through fifteen. I pointedly did not look at Room 4, where Danika Sherlock had done a fairly good job trying to gut me in a frenzy of post-revenant insanity.

  Beau was staying in Room 3. Umayma had picked up on my anxiety, and though she didn’t understand it (we’d yet to share sordid stories from our pasts except in bitter jest), she stood close enough to bump shoulders with me. The first time we’d met, she’d tried to kill me. Now she was worried about my feelings.

  I rapped on the door just below the number then looked away, trying to imitate the no-big-deal body language Chapel always managed when he’d come to fetch me from the cabin for important things. Just looking around at the scenery, like the trees were particularly interesting today, or the fact that his car was here in the spot. Shoulders relaxed, hand in my pocket, arms hanging loose, one knee kinda swaying around. I popped a stick of Juicy Fruit gum in my mouth so I could chaw at it super-casual like. I was two seconds from blowing a carefree bubble when I figured I was pushing it.

  I felt his eye on me through the little peephole and said to Umayma casually, “It might actually warm up a bit today. Finally feeling like spring.”

  She followed my gaze skyward, easily falling into the routine of being faux casual. I was impressed enough to remark upon her acting skills, but this wasn’t the time. Beau cracked the door, and a whiff of peanut butter and body odor came out.

  Beau was wearing a striped blue and white dress shirt with a pocket protector from which little white plastic spoon handles jutted. He was less twitchy this morning, but his eyes were red from lack of sleep and moon-wide, and the rash on his chin was worse. There was no sign of his chauffeur, even though the car was out front.

  Beau was fiddling with a cheap, plastic e-cigarette, loading a new fluid cartridge. The box behind him on the TV stand said Caringfree Caramel Caress You, which sounded like a bad English translation from another language. Maybe they’d tried to say the smoker would be Carefree. Or maybe the manufacturers were Free From Caring as their discount chemicals caressed your tender lungscape. That sounded like a bigger warning than the red label on it. The price was handwritten in black marker, like he’d bought it somewhere other than a legit vape shop. Ol' Beau seemed to have a thing for secondhand retail.

  “Oh, is this one of those vape things?” I said amiably, pushing my way into the motel room, forcing him to walk back to let me in. Umayma followed, closing the door behind us. “Gawd, don’t show it to Harry. He loves gizmos. It’s hard enough to live with Undead Hipster Dickhead. No offense.”

  “I’m not undead,” Beau said with a shrug.

  “Yeah, that’s not the—never mind.” I smiled. “Did you start vaping to help you quit smoking?”

  “Is that what you came for?” he asked. “To see if I’d kicked the twigs?”

  “You say that like you think I’m not concerned for your well-being, Beau,” I chided, noting the many plastic spoons piled on the night stand with smears of mouth printed peanut butter. There was an empty jar in the wastebasket. “That’s certainly not the case. You’re my client. My paying client.”

  “So it’s a shakedown, eh?” His left eye twitched rapidly. “I already paid you half up front.”

  I blinked in the face of that absurdity. Firstly, he hadn’t paid me a dime yet. Secondly, did I look like I was capable of a shakedown? I glanced down: black on black on leather on shit-kicker boots. Okay, maybe I did look like a mini-bruiser, heavy emphasis on the “mini” part. “Beau, I’m not here for money. I want what’s best for you.”

  “But that’s not all you want.”

  “True! I want peace between religions, a reboot of Three’s Company without the homophobic innuendo, and a really good pizza.” The last surprised me. I actually was hungry. “You know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Beau said, bobbing his head. “Three’s Company was great, but it’s not cool to make jokes about a person’s sexuality.”

  “I meant the pizza,” I said dreamily. “With a thin, crisp crust, and pepperoni sizzling hot, salty green olives, tangy pineapple, stringy mozzarella, and a sauce that makes your tongue go oh-Mama!”

  Umayma swallowed hard, tugged on my elbow, and when she had my attention, made me-too eyes at me and rubbed her belly.

  “Yes, after this, we’re getting pizza,” I agreed. “I know a place. But first, Beau, you need to know that you’ve kinda tied my hands here if you won’t let me use my primary Talents to help you.”

  “How so?”

  I looked at him sternly until he squirmed and then laid it out for him. “If I can’t examine the magical object that has caused your problems—”

  “She caused my problems!” He flinched, and I Felt a source of repeated pain in him. There were signs of abuse written all over him that my Empathy confirmed, and despite my suspicions and my frustration with him, I tried to dial back and respect that.

  “The dream horse lady, yes,” I said in soothing tones. “But you said she couldn’t come here without you signing that certificate to—”

  “I never got that far. I broke the seal, but that was it.”

  Lie. The Blue Sense crawled up my cheeks and flooded my chest with it as though he’d exhaled a special blend of Lies, Damn Lies, and Statistics-flavored vapor into my face.

  “So, just so we’re clear and we’ve recorded this exactly as it happened, all you did,” I clarified, “is buy the trumpet, bring it here, open the case, find the scroll, and break the seal.”

  “Right,” he pounced on it, fingers questing for another plastic spoon in the front pocket of his dress shirt. He didn’t immediately fetch a jar of peanut butter, but he played with the spoon. “I got it at Footer and Solmes'. I paid four hundred and eighty dollars for it. She wants it back so she can summon the next Horseman of the Apocalypse. You’re not going to let her get away with this, are you? Maybe you are.” He sneered at me. “Maybe you like demons and the End Times.”

  I scowled and pulled down the gauze on my throat to show him the scar healing there. “See this? A creepyass pervert Demon King whom I will not name lashed me with His tail.” Even at the mention of the scar, I felt my skin crawl and knew that the Overlord’s eerie, preternatural focus had shifted to me across whatever passed for distances between His realm and the real world, that I had His smug momentary attention. “He wrapped it around my throat because I was sass-talking Him, and He squeezed, Beau.” I got closer so he could really see it. “He squeezed and told me I was His creature and there was no escape. It was not good times. Demons aren’t fun, Beau. I take demons very seriously. I don’t like them.”

  He shivered once, hard. “I don’t either,” he whispered in my face, like he was admitting some dark secret. Again, the Blue Sense tickled me with a warning. Pain, it said. The kind of pain that wears a body down.

  “Now,” I said gently, “I want to see that trumpet.”

  “
I already showed it to you.”

  I didn’t need the Blue Sense to report that lie; I knew damn well he hadn’t brought it to the office. “No, you didn’t. Your memory is very selective and fluid, Beau. I want to see the trumpet, and I need to hold it.”

  “I don’t want you putting your taint all over it.”

  “What’s wrong with my taint?”

  “Your taint is the worst!” he cried.

  “Mine is a fine taint,” I insisted.

  “You want it? Maybe we can make a deal.” His smile slid sideways into a lewd, repulsive come hither look.

  I felt my lip curl and didn’t bother to tame it. “I’m in mourning here, pussy-menace,” I told him. “My vagina has folded in on itself in grief, and it isn’t about to open up for you. Especially when you were just shit-talking its next-door neighbor.”

  “Well, that was graphic.” He reached for his peanut butter jar and I slap-chopped it out of his hand. It rolled halfway under the unmade bed.

  “I want that trumpet,” I said firmly.

  Umayma waved her hand to get our attention, and then mimed a book opening.

  “Oh, right!” I said, getting her hint instantly. Big fibbing time. “My associate is reminding me to tell you I found a spell to put your scary ex into this instrument.”

  Beau’s jaw dropped. “Like, for real?”

  I flapped my hands at him. “Of course for real. That’s what you’re paying me for, right? To save humankind from one of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

  “Well, yes, but…” He blinked, gaping at me. “Damn, you’re quick.”

  “The quickest,” I agreed, snapping my bubble gum.

  “Fine. I guess you can’t do any harm. It’s not like you’re, well…” Beau went to rummage among three laptop cases on the floor, one of them with a cord snaking out of it. While his back was turned, I did a quick scan of the room, but I didn’t see anything of interest: a few take-out containers with cold, congealing scraps of food, newspapers with that puffy, already-read look, various receipts and scribbled notes. One caught my eye and I sidled closer, digging out my phone to snap a quick picture of it; a list of funny names and states and some sort of ranking. I thought it might be race horses, worth a second look. I slid my phone back in my pocket just as he stood.