Blightmare (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 5)

by A. J. Aalto

  “Blow it out your ass, Chuckles,” I said instead. “I’ve faced worse than you. Way worse. I ruined a giant, rotting zombie with a pan of soiled kitty litter. I've slugged a boggle the size of a bulldozer in the dangly bits. I stared down a serial killer. I've been shot, stabbed, drugged, and slugged a hundred year old woman in the gootch. I crowned a queen, and there was this troll and a wyrm thing, and there was a whole show-down with the revenant high council. You had to be there. It's too bad you weren't, because they probably would have eaten you as a fucking apertif.”

  “And tell me about this… revenant show-down.” His head was tilted again, and it made me nervous.

  “Oh, you mean the Artist Formerly Known as Lichlady?” I said. “No. I won’t. Know why? Because I didn’t like you much to begin with, you've been a shitty, creepy, date-rapey asshole of a host, and I want to go home now.”

  “And that’s just what we shall do,” said Finnegan Folkenflik from the sliding doorway.

  He looked very small standing there, but to my jittering guts he felt like an entire prowling pack of animals, alerted to danger and on the offensive as one unit. I saw why. Just beyond the frosted glass of the door, dark shapes hulked, shapes with large shoulders, long muzzles, and perked ears, all looming up on their hind legs. Finnegan himself was calmly human and almost eerily still, blinking softly behind his glasses, hands cupped in front of his small belly. His eyes, as amiable as their expression might be, gleamed with preternatural potential. I felt his efforts not to shape-shift as a pressure in the front of my skull, a weight that I, too, had to fight. Maybe my anger had called to the skulk and my new friend had answered. Or maybe Finnegan had gotten suspicious and tired of waiting. Either one was fine by me.

  Delacovias didn't flinch or react outwardly, but the Blue Sense flared in me to offer a prickle of alarm; when I searched the doctor’s face, I couldn’t see it.

  “Please don’t make any attempt to get in my way, Charles, or make any sudden movements.” Finnegan moved deeper into the room; the closer he got to me, the closer I needed him to be.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Check yourself, doc.”

  “I see you’ve brought your gang of hairy misfits,” Delacovias said, carefully retreating without giving the impression of backing down. He didn't get a reply, Folkenflik focusing on removing my neck brace and wrist restraints, so the doctor tried again. “You’re looking well, Finnegan.”

  “I’m feeling much better than the last time you would have seen me,” Finnegan said crisply, finishing his work by removing my waist and ankle straps. “Marnie, are you well enough to walk?”

  I nodded vigorously, not knowing whether or not I could, but very much wanting to try. I could always do my Marine crawl. It was a lot further to the parking lot than it was to get under my bed, but anything that put distance between me and Delacovias worked as far as I was concerned. I'd do fucking somersaults if I had to.

  Finnegan said, “Please stay here one moment,” and turned away. I had a heart-dropping second of pure panic as he went to the door, and cut my eyes at Delacovias. But the doctor had lost interest in me for now; bigger prey, literally, had arrived.

  Folkenflik spoke in gentle tones to the hulking shapes, and they moved away, falling to all fours and loping in shadow, mostly unseen in the dim hallway. I got the glimpse of a reddish tail and one large, black haunch, and heard the snuffle of a powerful canine nose, but they were gone quickly.

  “There’s a vaccine,” Dr. Delacovias reminded me. “The older one. You don’t want to shape-shift. You don’t want to go through that, Dr. Baranuik. Try to think clearly. We can give you a dose now, and in six weeks, we can give you a booster.”

  I blinked rapidly at him in utterly baffled incomprehension. Did he really think I could trust him with anything, especially something that came in a needle? “Suck my balls,” I said, jerking a thumb at Folkenflik. “Suck his balls. Suck all the balls, you quack.”

  Folkenflik returned to my side and offered me a supportive arm in a courtly gesture that reminded me of Harry. He didn't offer his balls to Delacovias, but I hadn't really expected him to.

  “Charles,” Folkenflik said, “you would be wise to drop contact with Dr. Baranuik, unless you would like to experience your favorite virus personally.”

  “Are you threatening me?” the doctor boomed as Folkenflik led me to the door on my somewhat wobbly legs. His tone turned accusatory. “You threw her in front of me like chum, hoping that I would bite.”

  The Blue Sense told me that Dr. Delacovias very much believed what he was saying, that he’d been baited and entrapped on purpose. My Empathy scanned Folkenflik’s noise of disapproval and found that this had genuinely not been his intention.

  “As usual, you mistake yourself for the shark, Charles, and me for the fisherman.” He looked back once before we left, peering over his glasses. “We are only little fishes, you and I.”

  I wanted to sneer one satisfying final quip of my own, but Folkenflik’s reply was an elegant mic drop and I’d have ruined it with my sass mouth. My things were in a pile on the floor by the door and I gathered them up but didn’t pause to dress. The hallway we entered was silent and empty, now. I appreciated that. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see any other werefolk right now, especially not walking around on two legs like fox-men. Folkenflik seemed to know I wasn’t ready. His consideration and his apologetic smile won him big points. Delacovias didn’t come after us. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to see him again, and the thought of legal action seemed exhausting, though I’d definitely be calling Chapel when my hands stopped shaking, and maybe Dr. Varney for a consult on how to proceed. And then I'd be calling someone to deliver a pizza.

  “I’m sorry I ignored the impulse to check on you sooner,” Folkenflik said, and as we hit the elevators, he sounded winded; it was getting harder for him to control the shape-shift now that he was not under the doctor’s scrutiny. The animal wanted out, and it was somewhat alarming how the animal in me, no longer in dispute, longed to join him. I felt I was shaking on the edge, drawn out by the heat of his pressure.

  “Just get me the fuck out of here.” When I couldn’t stand up straight much longer, Folkenflik again offered his forearm. It shook slightly with tension under my grasp, but it was sturdier by the time we hit the parking lot and the bright morning sun.

  I noted, with a sharp bark of laughter, that at least one of the skulk had peed on Chuckles' car.

  Chapter 27

  I finally hung up on my last phone call of the afternoon, having left messages or having shaky, angry conversations with anyone in the field I could think of to formally report Dr. Delacovias’ behavior. Chapel had been nearly speechless, and I felt his feelings of guilt blast right through the phone and light up the side of my face like a furnace; he’d connected Dr. Delacovias to me, but if he hadn’t, the doctor still would have found me. He'd figure that out soon enough, and when he did, I'd still be around to make inappropriate jokes about it.

  When Harry woke up and got a taste for my day through the Bond, he dealt with his anger by baking chocolate banana bread in a manner that suggested both the banana and cocoa crops had aggrieved him personally, banging loaf pans and stirring so vigorously that flour dusted the table and his red apron-front, whilst swearing a blue streak in a fairly impressive mix of French and archaic English, very little of which I understood.

  The kitchen became a war zone when Wesley woke up and instantly picked up on the tenor of both our thoughts, and was further aggrieved by the scent of the pizza he wasn't allowed to eat. He had been bouncing into and out of bat form, hoping to further clear up some scarring on the left side of his face by transitioning. Currently furry, Bat-Wes fluttered about the kitchen, drawn to the bits of whatever was flying from Harry’s spoon after the banana bread fiasco and nearly getting backhanded with a pan for this unintended affront; after swooping out and returning in his normal form, he kept making awkward conversational starts, which Harry responded to by raising the same pan a
nd brandishing it ominously. I sensed it might contain the remnants of Snickerdoodle cupcakes from the smell of cinnamon, but at this point, it was anyone’s guess.

  Not wanting to catch any culinary crossfire, I rolled up the rug in my office to make room on the floor to work a spell. On the slightly worn hardwood floor, my sister Carrie had painted a white pentagram with a tree in the center, home to three white owls. Nearby, I had my Beretta mini Cougar, because I was still shaky from my morning and it felt right to have it handy. This was the perfect place for me to be, now. I needed comfort and reconnection and to free myself from stress. Finding the other half of my shadow wouldn't hurt, either.

  There were more noises of revenant angst, both cooking- and flight-based, emanating from the kitchen, but, until one of them came through my door, preferably with a tray of warm, delicious desserts in hand, I ignored them.

  I set out a copper burning bowl, sat cross legged in front of it, and said quietly, “Hail Aradia, Mother of Hearth and Home. Witness my wishes, hear my desires. I now release the darkness I don’t want, and welcome the light’s return. I now forgive myself and others for the pain I am feeling. I release my frustration and confusion. I hereby let go. My Lady, guide my hand to do the highest good without my focus being tainted.”

  I lit a white candle to represent peace in my grief, and said softly, “I acknowledge the pain and regret of losing you.”

  I lit a purple candle to represent my dreams and wisdom in the future. “I vow to continue to pursue my dreams on the right hand path, cherishing the future.”

  I lit a blue candle for forgiveness and to honor the memory of Batten. “I honor the place in my heart that is reserved for the best memories of us.”

  I lit the last candle, the silver one, for stability, and said, “I thank the Mother for causing you to cross my path, Mark Batten, and hope you are at peace.”

  There was a crunch, but it hadn’t come from the terribly raucous kitchen full of irate revenants. It had come from directly behind me, and the sound made my spine itch. I grabbed my gun, blew out my candles, and crept to the window to peek out the blinds.

  Nothing.

  The porch light illuminated grass, the Buick, Harry’s Kawasaki, the honeysuckle on the far fence, and, in the distance, the dark hump that was the forest. Nothing moved that wasn’t pushed by a soft breeze.

  Crunch.

  I squinted, and my eyes cut east to the direction of the noise. It had been a distinctly slow-footstep-like sound. I waited, expecting my half-shadow to be lingering around. What had Umayma called it? My Fetch. Nothing like that seemed to be present, but it’s hard to pick wayward shadows out of the dark.

  Shuffle-crunch. And there it was. A shift far to the east, barely visible from this angle. A man’s shape. Hauntingly familiar. No. My heart dropped.

  Tucking my gun in my waistband, I hustled past Harry and bolted out the mudroom door, hearing it squeal and slap closed behind me. My panting left clouds in the frigid air in front of me. Running through the sloppy damp grass in the back yard, looking for footsteps, my heart hammering, I made my way through the dark from the side yard back to the dock, where I was sure the boathouse light had showed someone standing. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to be right or wrong. The cold air hurt my lungs but that was nothing compared to the vice grip around my heart. I swallowed hard, pushing my feelings down as low as I could, cramming them into the tight ball that was my stomach.

  It must have been a trick of the light, I thought, just before the Blue Sense spiraled open and started nagging about a void, a void, and so much sorrow. Wry, bittersweet sorrow.

  “Care to explain what the fuck I just read?”

  I whipped around, jaw dropping. The dark shape peeled away from the back of the boathouse.

  Mark Batten swatted me upside the head chidingly with a rolled-up magazine, then unraveled it to show me my own face in black and white on newsprint, my eyes wide, my mouth contorted with effort, wrestling a yeti wearing a blonde wig and a tutu. He said with disbelief, “You fucking kidding me with this shit? This is what you got up to in Nepal? A yeti fight club?”

  My mouth worked around a thousand replies as I stepped back once, twice, three times. My boot slid in the soft, muddy grass and I stumbled. Batten reached one hand out to catch me and I saw he was wearing thick leather gloves laced with chain mail.

  “I saw you,” I choked, shrinking from him. “I watched it. You died. He drained you.”

  He nodded grimly. “Yeah. Fancypants dead guy killed me.”

  “We buried you yesterday,” I said. “I saw you in your casket.”

  He didn’t look too pleased to learn that, and he squinted as if he could read my mind through my skull if he stared hard enough. “Don’t know who you saw, but it wasn’t me.”

  “He had your tattoos.”

  “Well,” he drawled. “Clears that up. I’m the only person who could possibly have black marks on their skin. That can’t be faked with five minutes and a Sharpie.”

  “You’re dead, Mark,” I accused. “You’re dead.”

  He see-sawed his hand. The chain mail made a metallic rustling noise. “Dead-ish.”

  I felt it like a slap, the yawning emptiness where the soul had been, the stirring power of an immortal. “They turned you.”

  He moved to leave the shadows, stepping into the light of the boathouse halogen, so much paler than he’d been in life. “Didn't have many options after your dead guy drained me. Was either this or the real thing.”

  “Harry didn’t want to drain you,” I said, bristling. “You left him no choice. It was either him, or Wilhelm, or—”

  “Or Sarokhanian. I know. I was there.”

  Something new started stirring in my veins, familiar but not, rolling low in my guts. The Blue Sense. Had I Felt Batten, Capital-F Felt? He’d always been a null for my psychic Talents in life. Was I psychically Feeling Batten? Was he no longer a null for me, now that he was undead?

  No, this wasn’t the same. This was something worse, something stronger. I felt Batten’s conflicted emotions, all of them, as though we were two parts of the same person. He’s so happy to see me. And so angry, too. At me? No, at himself. And at the circumstances that he feels he couldn't avoid. How could I know that?

  The House Bond. Horrified, I whispered, “You’re a Dreppenstedt.”

  He shook his head. “Not exactly.”

  “Wilhelm didn’t turn you?”

  He cut his eyes out across the lake, and his jaw did that clench-unclench dance I thought I’d never see again; in that moment, I was so torn as to whether I was desperately happy or furiously upset. His own conflict only added to my own. He had a score to settle, here, but he wanted me out of it. And part of him wanted me in it, completely in his life – or unlife, I amended – more than ever before. He was startled by how badly he wanted to hold me. It was unnerving to him, and even moreso to me. I tried to block it out, focusing on his anger and mine. All those times I had wished he wasn’t a null for my psychic Talents, and now I’d have given anything to get his feelings out of my head.

  Batten spoke over my shoulder. “How’d you manage to keep her in the dark this long?”

  I spun to see Harry standing at the screen door, the light behind him spilling into the snowy yard. He said nothing, backing away from the door. His voice pushed across the space at me with his audiomancy, husky and heavy with concern. “You must uninvite him, pet. Quickly, now.”

  I didn’t question it. I barked, “Mark Batten, you are no longer welcome in my home.”

  Batten snatched at my arm and I tried to jerk away, but he was too fast, showing that effortless, eye-blurring strike speed of the immortals. His viselike grip landed on my bicep and I felt his squeeze hard through my leather jacket. I don’t think he was trying to hurt me, but he did. My training kicked in and I swung in a circle, shedding my coat in a flurry of leather. When it got caught on my shoulder, I jerked and it ripped, and I left him holding its remains impotently. He tossed
it with a snarl. I pulled myself low into a crouch, rolled under his next swipe, and popped up to swing a fist at his midriff; it was like hitting a frozen side of beef. I felt my knuckles sharply complain and took flight instead as I heard the back door slap open. Harry’s low, warning growl bristled all the hairs on my neck as he rushed past me, putting his body between Batten's and mine.

  Batten’s chainmail-protected hands dropped to his ankles, where solid metal sheaths held two rowan wood stakes against metal braces around his jeans. I opened my mouth to scream, but Harry had anticipated the stakes. He leapt into the air gracefully, throwing both arms up, and sailed swiftly down, slamming both feet into Batten’s chest. Kill-Notch blew backward through the air into the boathouse, shaking the building on its foundation, causing an avalanche of the snow from the roof. Harry whipped through the falling snow, a bodily weapon in his own right, four hundred years of immortal clout smoothly slamming his opponent up against the wood siding.

  Batten made sounds of struggle under Harry’s solidly choking forearm; he no longer needed to breathe, but Mark hadn’t been undead long enough not to panic at the thought of his windpipe being crushed, and Harry unperturbedly used this to his advantage. Harry’s free arm closed in on Batten’s dominant hand, crushing all the little bones until pain caused him to release the stake. The other stake poked the air between them.

  I hurried back to assist Harry, grabbing the stake and twisting toward Batten’s mailed hand. There was no way I’d manage to overpower Batten’s strength, especially now that he was undead, but I could try to swing it away from Harry’s body.

  “I don’t wish to cause you more pain, lad,” Harry said coolly, though his eyes had gone pure chrome and his fangs were fully extended should the need to use them arise. “Shall we instead enjoy a nice pint and have a chat?”