Blightmare (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 5)

by A. J. Aalto

  I didn’t look back at him, and though it was a cruel thing to say, it was the truth and I was glad to know it; I knew where I stood with those two immortal houses. Seeing me break down in the court room in front of the UnHallowed Throne hadn’t been enough for them. They wanted the full experience, start to finish.

  “Fucking bloodsuckers,” I rasped under my breath. Chapel could have been giving the most beautiful eulogy in the world, but I couldn’t hear it; I was blocking it out of emotional defense and focusing on this scrawny bitch in the back row.

  Chapel wrapped up, opening the podium to anyone else who wanted to say something. There was motion to my right, and I saw Mitch Dunlop heading up to the front of the room, limping slightly, his shoes hushed on the carpet, doing up his suit jacket button, running a quick hand through his hair.

  Chapel stepped aside and regarded Dunlop with interest. I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. I was almost dreading what he might say. He paused to collect his thoughts, and I got this impression this was unplanned on his part.

  “Mark Batten was like family to me,” he started. “My uncle Don and his grandfather Jack ran around with the same crowd, hunting monsters and acting like heroes. I’d cross paths with Mark on weekends. My sister Jessie and I were always mad-jealous that Mark didn’t have to go to school, didn’t have parents tellin’ him what time to go to bed, got to ride around on the back of Jack’s motorcycle stabbing vampires instead of doing algebra tests. We were a bit younger, and when he’d come around, we just thought he was the shit, man. The absolute boss. Soon he got his own dirt bike and a leather jacket and a kill kit. Rules didn’t apply to Mark. Long before he was an adult, he was drinking beer and smoking his grandfather’s Camels. Guess Jess and I thought that made him tough or grown up or cool, I dunno. Mark and Jack were inseparable. Where you found one, the other wasn’t far behind, though if you were an unlucky vamp, you might not see him until it was too late.”

  Harry gave an involuntary shudder and I pushed reassurance through the Bond; that was not our Mark. That was an earlier Mark, or at least, ours was a Mark that had come to terms with his hatred of Harry and had warmed to the idea of coexisting.

  Dunlop continued, “When Batten joined the police force, I couldn’t think of another job that I wanted more. I looked up to him, man, wanted to be just like him. Me and Jessie, we both wanted to be just like him. As soon as I was out of school, I joined the academy and wore that uniform with pride, and so did Jess. It was no secret, she fell for him pretty hard. The feeling seemed mutual, at least on the surface. Then Jack and Don disappeared on a routine stake job. They went in, with Mark, and never came back out. Mark did, but he was never the same. He got angry, quiet. He built a big fucking wall, wouldn’t let anyone close to him. He left town without a word, left the police force, just walked away from me, from Jessie. It broke her damn heart, not even getting a goodbye. She died of breast cancer three years later; before she went, she asked about him. I didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t looked back, hadn’t checked in. She died still wanting him, still wondering. There was a long time, I thought I’d never forgive him for that. But look where we are.” He drummed his fingers on the podium for a second, shaking his head. “Not good at sharing his plans, is Mark Batten. Not good at letting people in, or giving them a clue about what’s going on in that thick skull of his. It does not surprise me one bit to find you all here, bewildered, wondering what the fuck went wrong. It makes me sad for you, but please know this: it isn’t you. It just isn’t. I wasn’t going to speak this morning. But I heard so many people whispering about what they could have done differently, how they could have saved him, how this could have been prevented. Don’t play that game. Anyone who knows Batten knows this: this is just him.”

  My tears had dried up right around the time when Mitch Dunlop had slipped up: he’d been speaking of Mark in the past tense until just near the end, when his temper started to flare a bit, and suddenly, there it was. Not good at sharing his plans, is Mark Batten. Is, not was. Anyone who knows Batten, not knew. This is just him, not was. Is.

  He left it there, and though the Blue Sense reported easily that his anger and frustration were both genuine, he was absolutely hiding something. I popped another Lifesaver and crunched on it in thought, my mood spiraling downward quickly. If Mark Batten was alive somewhere, if this was all an elaborate ruse, he could just fucking stay gone. I wasn’t going to be asking for him on my deathbed like that poor, heartbroken Jessie Dunlop.

  The people started filing out and I excused myself to grab Hood by the elbow and wheel him outside. He didn’t fight me, just quickened his long strides to keep up with my tiny, marching legs.

  “We going for a run?” he asked by way of shaking me off. “C’mon, Mars, what’s up?”

  I stopped just beyond the last row of parked cars. “I need to punch someone.”

  “And I’m so grateful that you chose me,” he deadpanned.

  “Like, I really, really need to punch someone.”

  “Can’t you handle this without physical violence?”

  I thought about it for half a second. “No.”

  “Punch one of the dead guys,” he suggested. “They’ll barely feel it.”

  I snarled at him and made my hands into tiny fists.

  “Whoa, there, slugger,” he said soothingly. “Is it the other woman that’s got you all riled up?”

  “No, it’s Batten. Jerkface Batten. Being a Jerkface right up until the end, if that even was the end.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shook my head with frustration. “I don’t know. It’s just… a feeling.”

  Hood didn’t tend to argue with my feelings; he had treated my psychic Talents with respect since the end of the day we met. This time, though, he looked to be about to shoot me down. That skeptical-sympathetic green gaze of his tilted, heavy to the former, the latter losing strength.

  “I think it’s helpful to admit you’re angry,” he began cautiously, looking over his shoulder at the limo that had pulled close to the curb. Viktor would be within, hidden behind very dark tinting on all windows which was likely illegal but on which I knew Hood wouldn’t bother to comment. “That’s a step in the right direction. You’re clearly not alone in that sentiment.”

  “Are you mad?” I asked suddenly, frowning. I’d never asked him. Hood and Batten had had a relationship of sorts; I wouldn’t have called it a friendship, but there was camaraderie and some light joking around, mostly at my expense.

  He was surprised by the question, like he hadn’t expected me to ever get around to asking his opinion. The Blue Sense told me that it pleased him, which embarrassed me. Had I so infrequently ignored his input that my asking his thoughts would come as such a shock?

  His answer came easily enough, with the shrug of his lips, a simple, honest, “No.”

  “No?” I boggled.

  “Mars…” he started. Mental backtracking made his eyes dive up and to the left. He chose his words carefully. “Batten was a severely focused individual.”

  He made “focused” sound like a disease that was a death sentence, and in a way, maybe it had been. I braced myself, because there were fresh ill feelings on a wave of psi coming not just from Hood but from everywhere, now, as mourners left the funeral home and dispersed. He ignored them.

  “It’s hard to get mad about Batten’s lasting trauma. Some people get stuck in trauma and they spend the rest of their lives trying to make things right at the expense of everything else. I saw right away that Batten was trapped. I’ve met ex-cons that came out, cleaned up, moved on with life, and I’ve seen other ex-cons that come back to the outside world wearing their jail cell around their necks, unable to shake it. Batten never struck me as a free man. I think he went into that nest with his grandfather, and a big part of him never came out. Like he was just waiting to get back in that house so he could be whole again.” The sympathy was outweighing the skepticism in his eyes again, and one pale eye
brow darted down like his forehead hurt. “There were times I wondered if he might shake it. I caught him watching you a few times when you weren’t looking. That wasn’t often, mind you; you guys had a pretty fierce chemistry bordering on mutual obsession. But when I did catch him, he seemed to be considering.”

  I found my voice, though it was choked. “Considering what?”

  “A future, I thought,” he said, “though confidentially, I’m a softie who likes happy endings, so maybe that’s just me.”

  My head was shaking back and forth without my permission. “There’s no such thing as happy endings.”

  “I hope you don’t mean that,” he said as though it stung him to hear.

  Behind him, Elana Vulvolak left the funeral home, heading for a rental car in the parking lot. She slid me a sly look before she got into the car, and though her lips didn’t turn up, I could taste her inner smirk on the wind. Victory, it said, and more than that: he fucked with the wrong houses.

  I wasn’t going to take that, no sir. I flipped her an enthusiastic bird that Hood didn’t even bother following or questioning; he knew it could be meant for literally anyone today.

  Seconds later, Mitch Dunlop left the funeral home, eyeballing the limo that was waiting for Harry and Wes, plopping his Blue Jays baseball cap on. Jessie Dunlop’s big brother, Mark Batten’s biggest fan, who had been so let down by him, just as we all were, hit his silver truck and got in. I was fairly certain I’d never see him again.

  “Yeah,” I told Hood, my shoulders dropping. “I think I do.”

  Chapter 24

  Even though it was still mid-March, the scant warmth of the sun was lingering outside, gilding the treetops and encouraging the birds to keep playing noisily fractionally beyond dinnertime for most people. Harry’s daytime rest in VK-Delta had been abbreviated after the funeral, but Wes was still in his casket, recovering from the efforts of remaining alive with the morning sun up. He’d done quite well but had slipped into rest in the limo on the way back; Viktor had carried Wes into the cabin and placed him carefully in his casket under Harry’s cool, watchful eye, before being shown to the door. Viktor, half-ogre, half-revenant, didn’t seem to require rest at all, and not for the first time, I’d been forced to speculate about his physiology.

  While Harry, be-aproned and freshly-groomed, puttered around in the kitchen, removing paint swatches and stowing them in a drawer, fussing with setting out a proper tea for tonight’s guest, I went to sit outside on the small front porch on an old, splintery-sprung wicker chair that would probably be tossed out with the construction debris after the kitchen renovation. A clean ashtray sat on the porch beside the chair, and while I sipped a cup of Earl Grey, hot (Harry reminded me that Captain Picard of the USS Enterprise drank his that way), I pictured Harry out here late in the night, smoking his menthols, legs crossed, bopping one foot to some rhythm in his head (or his iPod), watching the debt vultures as they watched him.

  The funeral had been rough; I hadn’t made it any easier on myself, but I moved forward, emotionally, even if that move was more of a stumbling, staggering, zombie-like lurch. It was important to see those kill-notch tattoos. They weren’t complete confirmation to my suspicious mind — admittedly, I was getting paranoid after so much interaction with revenants and their manipulations — but it was good enough for now. I felt like I was accepting the loss a lot better. I was tired, but in a good way. It was over. The other shoe had dropped. I had survived. And I wasn't a screaming blue wereferret.

  The tea wasn't bad, I thought, sipping and closing my eyes lightly, enjoying the last trickle of sun as it began to slip behind the tree line. The yard became quiet. The porch light flicked on and the front door opened a crack.

  “My dearest, shall I fill you up?”

  I rolled my head against the chair back and smiled lewdly at the shadowy opening, finding Harry’s inquiring expression. His lashes fluttered and his lips pursed immediately, but I said it anyway. “I don’t think we have time for all that.”

  “I see you’re in a mood, Mae West,” he clipped prudishly. “Do settle your loins before your Mr. Folkenflik arrives, will you please?”

  The door softly clicked closed behind him and I went back to relaxing, letting the stress of the day drain from my shoulders, softening my face, willing my heartbeat to slow. There was a growling noise in the distance that I didn’t immediately recognize until it got closer, bouncing off the trees along Shaw’s Fist Road: motorcycle engines, plural. As the rumbling increased, I heard the windows of the cabin began to rattle, and Harry reappeared at the crack in the door. I heard him make a deeply surprised and delighted noise when the first of the bikers turned into our driveway and slow to a roll across the spring-softened lawn, cautious not to tear up the grass.

  They came in pairs, and I lost count after fourteen, because their leader cruised closer to the porch, dismounted, held up a hand for the others to turn off their bikes. I was sure Mr. Kujawski next door was glued to his side window, gaping at the biker gang filling his crazy neighbor’s front yard with noise and leather.

  I stood while the leader removed and stowed his helmet and removed a long, rectangular box from the rear pack attached to his bike. He was an older man, mostly bald; what hair remained was shockingly white. Folkenflik was lean and trim and of medium height, an altogether unintimidating sort. Little round glasses reminded me of John Lennon. If I were casting him in a movie, he’d be the lawyer or accountant. Under his leather jacket, which I noted had a many-tailed fox sigil on the back, he wore faded denim and a beige sweater vest over a plain tan shirt. He turned to approach the porch and me, smiled somewhat sadly, and offered me the box.

  Cookies. I handed my teacup behind me. Harry’s hand snaked out and whisked it away.

  “You sure know how to make a first impression, Mr. Folkenflik,” I said, taking the box and holding them like one might hold a baby.

  “Please,” he said, “do call me Finn, if you’re comfortable with that.” He waved in the general direction of his crew. “Forgive us the ruckus. We’ve no doubt disturbed the quiet of your evening. It’s far too fragile a moon phase for us to be apart. I hope you don’t mind our traveling here en masse. Togetherness helps some of the older ones resist the shift.”

  I stowed that handy tidbit, and looked at the faces around me; mostly men, mostly giving the appearance of being in their forties and fifties, their eyes glinting in the sunset, but wary of my reaction and what they had doubtless been told was residing here; monsters afraid of a different kind of monster, uncertain about their leader entering the abode of the undead.

  “I don’t mind a bit,” I said, “but they won’t all fit in my kitchen.”

  His smile tilted, acknowledging my undertone. “They’re more than fine waiting out here.”

  Where it’s safer, I added mentally on their behalf. I took a moment to reach out with the Blue Sense and explore the general mood of the yard: curiosity, longing, hunger, and under all that, a vast sea of empathy. They’d already decided I was one of them, a new lycanthrope struggling to find her feet. They’d all been there. Now, they were here for me in addition to being here for each others' comfort.

  From behind me, I heard a hushed tongue cluck. “Do be a gracious hostess for once in your life, cricket, and invite the gentleman in for tea,” Harry admonished.

  I didn’t turn around. I rolled my eyes at Mr. Folkenflik. Finn. “I’m to be a gracious hostess and invite you in for tea. Will you make yourself at home, Mr. Folkenflik?”

  He did not prod me to use a more familiar name before I was ready to do so. Instead, he inclined his head in thanks and followed me into the cabin; the biker gang got restless behind him, watching their leader disappear inside.

  Harry was in the kitchen in full tuxedo and top hat, his apron neatly hung up behind him on the wall peg. The table had been covered by a white tablecloth, and he’d laid out Grandma Vi’s eclectic mix of fine china tea cups and a chintz teapot. My Cold Company had spent the after
noon in his casket, but had risen early from a light rest to make sure he had fresh lemon cranberry scones, butterscotch biscuits, Madeleines, meringues, and a cute selection of finger sandwiches. Anything one could want in their tea, from lemon or honey to sugar and cream, had been placed in the middle of the table next to the candles.

  “I do hope you haven’t gone to all this trouble just for me,” Mr. Folkenflik remarked, pleased nonetheless, finally coming face to face with the revenant. I took his leather jacket and hung it on the coat rack.

  “Nah,” I said, “we take tea like this every night. Gotta be ready, you know, in case the Queen Mother drops in for a sleepover.” He refrained from any retort and waited politely to be introduced. “Finnegan Folkenflik, may I present Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, my companion.”

  I tried not to roll my eyes again when Harry removed his hat and showed off with an elegant, full bow. “How do you do, Master Folkenflik,” Harry greeted.

  “The pleasure is all mine, I’m sure, my lord,” Folkenflik replied.

  Suitably chuffed, Harry swept an arm at the table. “Do come in and have a seat. You are most welcome. May I pour you a cup of tea?”

  “You are too kind, Lord Dreppenstedt,” Folkenflik said, accepting a seat at the table. “I am given to understand that you are not entirely unaccustomed to giving shelter to my kin, my lord, and so, I greet you as a friend and more.”

  I felt my eyebrows lift. “Whoa, whoa. Come again?”

  Harry flashed me a tiny, mischievous I-still-have-secrets smile that came and went so quickly that I’d have missed it if I blinked. He cleared his throat, reaching for a teapot. “Perhaps you’d care for an herbal blend, Master Folkenflik? I have a soothing peppermint-chamomile that might be enjoyable on such a night as this?”

  “Harry,” I prodded.

  He blinked innocently. “Yes, my Own, what can I do for you?”

  I would get no answers to his werekin-sheltering shenanigans right now, but I stored it beside the skulk-helps-resist-shape-shifting tidbit in my head for later review. I bit back my questions and gave him a steady look. He accepted my frustration with a wink.