by A. J. Aalto
When wicked-looking headlights pierced the gloom at the road and swung into my stone driveway, I sighed; Batten pulled his Bugatti Veyron in behind my dusty Buick Enclave.
On the other end of the phone, SSA Chapel, as unflappable as always, said, “Geoff just wants us to shut down until Internal Affairs is done their inquiry.”
Assistant Director Geoff Johnston was a major thorn in Chapel’s side, a bored paperpusher who apparently had nothing better to do than keep us under his magnifying glass, and was a pernicious stickler when it came to rules and regulations. I’d have bet my favorite frog-print undies that he alphabetized his socks by manufacturer, sorted his shirts by thread count, and got off watching C-SPAN.
“Geoff is a dick-fingering ass-monkey,” I said frankly, knowing Chapel would pretend he hadn’t heard it. The fact that all the calls on the PCU's phones were recorded didn't mean two happy penguin shits to me, and I hoped whoever got stuck listening to our conversation ruined their keyboard with some nasty, government-issue coffee. Or maybe they'd forward the recording to Johnston, so he'd have a legitimate reason to have his junk all up in our business.
Our last case had involved some vigorous rule bending and a fairly liberal interpretation of the ones we had (more or less) observed in order to contain what came far too close to becoming a nationwide zombie outbreak. I thought our justifications were entirely reasonable, all things considered. I was still waiting for a thank-you card and my likeness on a statue in the town square. I didn't even get to keep the assistant I'd had on the case; he'd fucked off with an ancient revenant to work out his daddy issues. All I'd ended up with was his iPad full of half-baked theories and a pleasantly robust collection of Irish traditional MP3s.
“Mark will be on call in case of emergencies, and he can fill you in on the progress of the inquiries. Is he there?” Chapel asked. “He hasn’t been answering his cell.”
I watched Batten vault out of the Bugatti with his grandfather’s vampire hunting kit in hand, saw the fight in his strut, and dropped the blinds on the window so I didn’t have to watch his approach. “Just got here. Want to talk to him?”
There was a moment of thoughtful silence. “No, I guess not. Just tell him I’ll be back next Friday. Marnie, there’s also the small matter of…”
Chapel left his hanging, but I knew what he was referring to. Okay, so I failed at not having dirty thoughts. During my second case, Chapel had, in a moment of poorly thought-out generosity, arranged for Harry to link us metaphysically through a bond known as the dhaugir, so that Chapel could bear the brunt of my physical pain. Handy, that. I would have liked to keep it indefinitely, especially on bikini wax day, but it just wasn’t fair to Chapel. In trying to fix it the first time, I had botched the spell with an errant elbow and a bottle of medication, and now Chapel was feeling my pleasure instead. This was wildly uncomfortable for both of us, what with my incessant lusting for Batten, and the fact that Harry and I had a sometimes-sex life which wasn't exactly limited to candlelight dinners and fields full of wildflowers.
“I’ll have time to look into dissolving that properly, since I’m on forced vacation,” I said. I waited for him to suggest a more exciting way for me to fill my time off. When he didn’t, I sighed. “I’ll get right on it,” I promised, and when Chapel said his polite good-byes and hung up, I tucked my phone into my front pocket, pulled my leather gloves on, and went to open the front door before Batten could get to it, in case he was thinking of kicking it down.
I’d forgotten all about the mustache; probably, I was trying to build a mental block around it. Unfortunately, as he unzipped his jacket, I could see that it was now joined by a wild Hawaiian-print shirt — blue and yellow flowers on an orange backdrop. In my overactive imagination, the shirt generated enough power to light up the whole front yard like Klieg lights.
“Satan’s sack!” I yelped, throwing an arm in front of my face to ward off the assault. “You should warn people before you leave the house wearing something like that.” I've seen a rock-monster's taint and a demon in a micro-kilt made of something that I doubted was leather; my standards for Do Not Want are really impressive. Batten's shirt was worse than both, because it was not only produced, it was apparently sold for real, actual money.
Swooping in like an irritated hawk, Batten invaded my space, but his glare quickly slid off and weariness replaced frustration. “I’m on quote-unquote vacation,” he said, pushing past me into the cabin without an invitation. His standard-issue boots clumped loudly in the small space. “This is my I’m-On-Quote-Unquote-Vacation shirt.”
“Okay, weirdo,” I said, shutting the door on the night. “Just be prepared for Harry to mock you.”
“Where is Short, Limp, and Pasty? Don’t see the Ferrari.”
“He’s still with de Cabrera, assisting the revenant who was under the truck,” I said, ignoring the blatant pigtail-pull. “He told me his name is Krystof Duchoslav, a recent transplant from New York.” I eyeballed him as he removed his leather jacket and tossed it at the coat rack, missing it completely. I scooped the crumpled coat off the floor and placed it on a peg. “Have you noticed the influx of revenants from the Northeast? Something’s goin’ on up there.”
Batten’s answer was a grunt and a one-shouldered shrug as he kicked off his boots.
I said, “There's apt to be more trouble between the newcomers and the more territorial local residents. Harry’s the eldest in this territory, since Malas fucked off with Declan, but we can’t have him leaping to the rescue at every single interaction.” Though nothing would please the old bugger more than this deranged June Cleaver welcoming committee shit. “And you’re welcome for that, by the way.”
“Because I give a crap about what happens to half a vampire?”
I heard the V-word and the insensitivity, opened my mouth to fight with him, and then recognized the set of his jaw: tight lips thinned and pale against his teeth. This conversation had nothing to do with revenants – Batten was worried about Chapel and the integrity of the PCU, and he was spoiling for a fight. I had two choices: give him one, or continue to ignore his digs and wait for him to get tired. The latter didn’t sound particularly enjoyable, which meant it was probably the right thing to do. Marnie Baranuik, reporting for emotional punching-bag duty, Sir! The situation would be a lot less fun if his rage didn’t turn me on; which reminded me that I really, really, really needed to let Chapel off the dhaugir hook.
Technically, Batten and I are still coworkers, or did the fraternization rules get suspended along with our jobs? That was an altogether dangerous line of thinking. I snapped the elastic band on my wrist twice and followed him into my kitchen, smelling his watered-down Brut cologne, highly aware of his body in a way that no elastic-snap could cure. He dropped his kit on the Formica table, right in the middle, a murderous display that served no plausible purpose beyond annoying me.
What I wanted to say was, Let’s rumble, hot stuff! Instead, I pointed at the kill kit and asked, “Is that necessary?”
“Are you?”
I fought not to smile at that, folded my arms, and watched him help himself to a Left Hand beer from my fridge. I’d have been irritated at his presumption if I didn’t keep a six pack there solely for him. Harry didn't drink directly, and my tastes ran towards the liquor cabinet, except for whisky, which I was never, ever, touching again, because it made me think of Declan Edgar, and of sea shanties and shitty hotel rooms and the worst seduction attempt of my life.
“You care too much about dead guys,” Batten said.
I felt my eyebrows dance upward. “You let me worry about what or whom I choose to care about. That’s my problem, not yours.” Neither of us wanted to touch our feelings for the other without a HAZMAT suit and a set of radiation-shielded waldos, like the dudes who refueled nuclear reactors. I wondered if Harry would buy me one of those bomb-detonation remote-control robots if I asked nicely, and told him I'd use it for grabbing Batten's junk.
“A lot of energy wast
ed, is all I’m saying.”
“You want to see a waste of energy?” I pointed back and forth between us. “This, here, this is a giant waste of my energy.”
He leaned back in the chair with far too much familiarity. “Easy fix. Quit your job.”
“I tried that a bunch of times already, for all the good it did me,” I reminded him. I’d quit after Buffalo after the Jeremiah Prost fiasco, where I’d taken bullets in the shoulder and back, and my heart had been trampled. Eight months later, Chapel and Batten had charged back into my life. “I quit just about every day. Nobody listens. I keep getting pulled in.” I was tempted to do my impression of Al Pacino in The Godfather, but he’d already heard it and I like to keep things fresh. “You people don't seem to understand the concept of 'fuck off.' Especially you.”
He pointed with the beer bottle at my empty demitasse cup. “We got problems with Internal Affairs and our UnBio expert is taking High fucking Tea?”
“Internal Affairs are boring,” I said. “Next time you wanna drag my attention away from my espresso, show up with an erection.”
He dropped his voice to barely above mutter and swung into a seat. He settled into the chair with a long groan. “You’re an enormous pain in my ass.”
I nodded. “I certainly hope so. That’s part of my job description. I’d hate to be a slack-ass.”
“Could you dial it down to minor irritant?” Batten asked, flicking the bottle cap across the table in my direction. It clipped the chrome edge and sailed towards my espresso. I caught it in my free hand and fired it back at him with a complete lack of my usual klutziness. He batted it aside and it hit the floor. Neither of us moved to fetch it.
I shrugged. “Megabitch is much easier to maintain. You know, I don’t even know why we’re being suspended,” I said, plopping myself down in a chair opposite him. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
He stopped in the act of taking his first swig, beer bottle an inch from his bottom lip. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all.”
“Let’s start with the oil tank.” He mimed writing on an invisible scoreboard; Marcel Mo-Fo, the world's hunkiest, most jerktastic mime.
“What oil tank?”
“The one that exploded in Ruby Valli’s magic shop, flattening the building.”
“She did that. I didn’t do it.”
“A uniform reported that 'the witch yelled, “fire!” just before the whole place went up in flames.'”
“That was a warning to Harry. I can’t set things on fire just by saying the word. If I could, your ass would be in constant danger of charring. Like, now, for instance.”
“Fine.” He used his finger to chalk up another invisible mark against me. “Let’s talk about the incident at Pennywick Funeral Home.”
“I chased that ghoul off.” I used my sleeve to mock-rub his pretend-scribbles off the invisible score board, trying not to remember the ghastly toe-cheese smell of Dead Kristin’s ghoul scum under my fingernails. “That’s a good thing.”
He cuffed my hand away with his and made exaggerated I’m-writing-in-this-airspace motions. We degenerated into a minute-long mid-air slap fight, me flailing at him and him deflecting shots with one hard forearm, before he gave up with a snarl. I may have copped a feel of his bicep. Or three. It was as meaty and delicious as I remembered.
“You raised a girl from the dead at her own funeral,” he said, pointing in the vicinity of where the imaginary score was, indicating he was still counting it whether I’d fake-erased or not.
“How was I supposed to know I had her eyeball in my pocket?” I slouched in my chair. “Technically, Ruby raised her, and the eyeball just jump-started it. Not my fault there, either.”
“You released an ancient, bloodthirsty vampire from Ruby's basement.”
Batten finally had a valid point, and I had to concede, “Nobody innocent died. Except for the revenant. Doesn't that count in my favor, even with you?”
He looked at me levelly, and didn't speak until taking two more swallows from his beer, either deciding it wasn't worth giving me points for or arguing about. “A short time later, you blew up Chief Deputy Neil Dunnachie with a propane tank.”
“One, he started it by firebombing my house,” I aimed a thumb at the scorch marks on the linoleum that I hadn't yet replaced. “Two, he was a fucking zombie at the time. Three, he was trying to eat me. That gun you loaned me wasn't doing dick-all to stop him, and I have strong feelings about being eaten by the undead.” I smirked. “You know, without my consent.”
“You melted Cosmo Winkle into the asphalt outside the Starlight Dreams motel.”
“You were there, you cock-witted jackass; Cosmo was also a zombie. And when I grounded him, who did that bother, really? A few hookers and a pair of businessmen with their dicks out. And a couple of cats who really needed their litter changed, anyway. I should have called the goddamned animal services department on the manager and reported him for neglect. That was disgusting.” I made sure Bob the Cat's boxes (there were three) got scooped every day. Hurling a tray laden with a month's worth of kitty bombs made a big impression on my views towards litter box maintenance.
Batten settled back in the vinyl-and-chrome chair, letting his knees fall apart, tipping the beer bottle to drain the last of it before dropping his final strike. “Did you or did you not summon a three-headed Demon King to the fine state of Colorado from the second circle of Hell?”
I didn't even know how he'd found out about Asmodeus' showing up on my porch, looking like the world's gnarliest Cutco salesman. “Pretty sure I didn't summon Him. Pretty sure He just shows up whenever He wants, being a Demon King and all. Was I supposed to fill out a requisition for visitation form before doing that? I don’t remember reading that in the employee manual. That was mostly a lot of boring shit about health insurance, dress code, and not fucking your coworkers, remember?”
Batten narrowed his eyes and strode across the kitchen to take another beer out of the fridge. I very pointedly did not check out his ass and the broad spread of his shoulders as he did so. His flamboyant shirt was doing wonders for my self-control.
“I once tracked you down using nothing more than a spork, a bowl of chili, and some fancy words, pal. I’m capable of some freaky-ass shit. Might wanna keep that in mind.” I gave him my best warning point. “I’m on vacation, too, so don’t drop dead fish into my pool of light and goodness.”
He exhaled long and steady through his mouth, rolled one shoulder like the tension was causing him pain, and repeated, “Vacation.”
“Does it bother you that much?” I asked.
“That you’re a walking disaster?” He sighed, returning to his chair. “I try to work through the pain.”
“Va-ca-tion,” I said, monitoring the tension disappearing around his eyes, the way his shoulders were softening. He might be null to my empathic Talents, but I could see the fight leaving him. Mission accomplished. “And hey, how about not taking this out on me? It’s not my fau—Well, it’s not all my fault.”
He just stared at me. There was a long moment of silence, during which our unspoken words played back and forth in twitches around the eyes and lip tension. He opened his mouth, and I was sure I was about to get a second dressing-down, when the front door opened with a hard gust of winter air, accompanied by Harry’s haughty, vexed gasp.
“'Tis frigid as the depths of — oh!” Harry had one arm out of his overcoat when he spotted Batten at the kitchen table, and the sight stopped him cold. “Oh, my God, Magnum.” His Higgins impression was, of course, impeccable. The worry in his cashmere grey eyes shifted to abrupt delight.
“Hullo, Harry,” I greeted, instantly cheered by the influx of his amusement, which spilled through our Bond like a cascade of fresh fruit in an oversaturated produce commercial. He, in turn, was warmed by the presence of his DaySitter, and the pleasure of this caused delight to pinball through us both.
“Good evening, ducky. Fully clothed, I see? Could it be t
hat your elastics are working?” Harry smirked and ignored my desperate attempt to shush him with the power of panic-wide eyes. “Bully for you. If you don’t mind terribly, you might tear yourself away from your verbal sparring and foreplay to attend to a small matter at the door, my chirping cricket.”
Hmmm. A noisy insect. Not the best compliment, but a lot better than what I was getting from Kill-Notch, so I’d take it. I lifted from my seat and went to the hall. Upon hearing Harry’s voice, Bob the Cat hurried from the office with an excited brrrrip; I had to do some nifty footwork to dodge the furry missile underfoot. Harry finished removing his coat, hung it on the coat rack, took a moment to brush a speck of lint off the tweed, then bent to scoop the kitty up and cradle him like a baby. Bob attempted to purr and nibble Harry's caressing fingertips simultaneously. I couldn't blame him; that was always a good time.
“Your invitations are needed, love,” Harry said.
He wore one of his many impeccable dark suits, looking like he’d just arrived home from the Oscars but for the smudge of road grit on one knee. I looked past his dark shoulder at the front door, propped open to the cold night. Two unhappy paramedics waited with an unzipped black body bag on a stretcher. An ambulance sat quietly in the yard behind them. The dark-haired paramedic couldn’t meet my eyes. The other, a blond with a tight military buzz cut and tighter lips, had a glare that was sliding from hurry-the-hell-up to get-me-out-of-here.
“Oh, Harry.” My shoulders fell. “I hate when you bring work home.”
Harry’s chin lifted, and he wiggled some fingertips at me as if to show me how clean they were. “I am a gentleman, young lady; this is the first night I’ve had to work in three centuries. Besides, this began as your work, not mine.”