by A. J. Aalto
“Why would he say that?”
Again my yap snapped firmly. “Could I get some caffeine and Advil before we continue this conversation?” And a toothbrush? And a comb? And a make-over? “I feel like I'm vaulting willy-nilly onto a hangman's stage to show off my mad tap dancing skills.”
He put both hands on his thighs and used them to thrust himself to standing. “Would you drink coffee if I made it my way?”
I hid a yawn and grimace behind my hand. “Better let me do it. Tell Chapel I'll be there in ten.”
* * *
There wasn't enough Advil in the world to fix the psi-headache that was brewing now, any more than an umbrella could stave off a tsunami in the South Pacific. I pulled a double shot of espresso and downed it without putting a single thing in it. After I had blinked myself awake, I realized I needed Harry. I couldn't feel his hunger, but it wasn't too early to seek him out for his acronychal feeding. He had to be famished, and I was hurting.
Withdrawal usually didn't hit me so soon. I had gone six weeks in Buffalo apart from him, because I'd had oxy-lipotropin, an artificial ms-lipotropin substitute on trial in pill form. I'd suffered a few annoying symptoms, the odd headache and some irritability. But I'd also been adjusting to working with Hard Ass Batten for the first time, so it was hard to tell where the crankiness was coming from. I tried to remember the last time I'd fed Harry and came up empty handed, vaguely recalling some yoga and a black and white movie. It might have been years ago; it certainly felt that way. It wasn't like us to get off schedule like this. I knew he was letting me recover from my injuries, but I felt fine in that respect. Better than fine. The wounds had healed faster than the stitches dissolved. Internally, I was confident that if the surgeon took the staples out now, he'd be startled by the recovery.
I popped my head into the office to catch Batten off-guard, on one knee in front of my gun safe, fiddling with the dial. He made a comical jerky snort-grunt.
“So busted.” I grinned. “Get out of my shit.”
“Just making sure your gun was locked up.”
I was pretty sure the Beretta was still under the front passenger seat of the Buick, which Sheriff Hood had kindly had some uniforms drop off late last night. Looking back, I saw that bringing the gun into the magic shop would have been the better choice, although since I didn't see the attack coming, I might have shot my butt off when I was pushed down the stairs. Maybe Mark was right. Some people just shouldn't own guns.
“It's in there,” I assured him. There meaning the Buick, not exactly a lie. “Where's Chapel? I made a crapload of coffee.”
“He must have gone up to grab a late shower. Been working all day in here, unlike some people.” Batten moved to my herb cabinet, peeking in the doors with a frown. His gaze skimmed the shelves like he was looking for contraband. “Cream, if you have it. Otherwise double milk.”
“Oh yes, welcome to the Starbucks that is my home. Imagine for a moment how pleased I am to serve you.” I put two fingers to my temple, felt thudding there in concert with my pulse. “You know where the fridge is, jackass. If you're looking for marijuana to bust me for possession, it's third shelf on the far right. If you're looking for poisons, they're marked with a smiley face. Be back in a few, checking on the dead guys.”
I slipped through the pantry into the narrow stairwell that had been, when Harry first bought the cabin after the shooting in Buffalo, a rickety set that seemed more ladder than stairs. We'd had them redone while he redecorated the cold cellar, which had previously been used to store preserves and root vegetables. It was now his “bed chamber” as he called it. A place for a decadent four-poster bed and a double-wide cherry casket, a video game center complete with high-backed leather gaming chair, and his ever-present space heater.
I didn't even pause in my steps after I saw it, because it didn't register for the shock that it was. In fact, the only part of me that registered what I was seeing was my throat, which made a startled little noise akin to strangled horror. Then my brain bucked, tried to kick the image violently out of my mind before I could fully grasp it, and my hands flew to either side of my face like if I didn't hold them there, my head was going to fall apart. My one foot slipped out from under me as most of my body reeled to a rejecting halt and the other bit didn't get the orders. I banged my shoulder on the door jamb, felt nothing.
The broad, pale stretch of muscular back leaning in a graceful arch was Harry. About that, I had no doubt. The bare lines of him were etched in my mind, the sharp cut of his shoulder blades, the lean cleft of his waist. The hand that braced his shaking arm in a long column, fingers curled against the gleaming cherry lid of the casket, had my name lovingly tattooed in flowery script, the ink a shock of contrast against his alabaster wrist. His shoulders were bunched up like a big cat preparing to pounce, but he already had his prey by the throat.
Gary Chapel's legs lay under him, the cuff of one navy trouser leg sloppily hiked to reveal argyle socks in tan and blue. Chapel was utterly motionless, and my first fear was that he was dead. The second, following only an instant later, was that he wasn't.
The worst thing was the look on my brother's face as he worked at pulling blood from the vein in Chapel's wrist. I wasn't sure there was even a word for it, for surely no human could ever experience such bliss. The flush of a feed was making his arms shake, but Wes held carefully onto Chapel's forearm, tilting it just so, reminding me of all the cautious feeds I'd ever given Harry in the rec room of the Baranuik home, back when we were new to one another.
I couldn't see Chapel's face. I didn't want to. I was pretty sure the reeling nausea in my stomach couldn't handle knowing.
Wes' eyes drifted open like he was rousing from a long night in an opium den. He fixed his heavy-lidded gaze on me, blinking sleepily, and with the sudden realization that he might have his meal taken away, his fingers dug possessively into Chapel's tender inner elbow. More animal than man, a bull dog with a stolen soup bone, he watched with horrible wilted-violet eyes to see what my next move might be. His lips curled back in a twitch and I caught a glimpse of gums above fangs, flushed pink with blood.
Chapel must have sensed the tension on his arm, the deeper pulling at his vein, because his other arm tugged at Harry's in warning.
Harry didn't look up. His voice was firm and half-muffled. “I am not done.”
“Marnie,” Chapel gasped.
“She's fine.” Harry knew I was there.
I slammed my palm into the casket lid like a teacher with a ruler-strike on a desk, and barked, “Marnie is not fine!”
Wesley detached and pushed back to rest on his heels, his head falling back and a great, rattling sigh leaving him.
Harry whipped his head around, his fangs slick with crimson. “I said you're sodding fine.”
“And I say, fuck you in the ass, you two-faced ingrate,” I shouted.
Harry released his meal. Chapel's knees buckled and he did an awkward, embarrassed shuffling unfold to his feet, propping himself against Harry's gaming chair. A great and terrible shudder ran through him, and from the way he swayed I was surprised he didn't topple.
I watched his stumbling progression with reluctant concern. “Gary, if you're well enough to excuse us, I think my Cold Company and I need to have a chat.”
Chapel looked, for once, unsure. His fingers fumbled at the buttons on his pale blue shirt. Business casual for feeding someone else's companion behind their back. “Should I be apologizing right now?”
Harry cut me off mid-inhale, answering for me: “Of course not, Agent Chapel. You've done absolutely nothing wrong.”
“Nothing wro—” The insistent glare from Harry's ice-shard eyes took the words out of my mouth. “Just go please. Wait, where do you think you're going?” I stabbed a finger at Wesley as he inched to his feet. “My advice to you, little brother, is that you'd better sit the fuck down.”
“Think you should be talking to two immortals in that tone of voice?” Wesley said boldly, but when I
jammed my hands on my hips he backed down, looked away.
“Oh is that what you think, Wesley? You're a badass revenant now, you can do whatever you want? Read my mind: am I scared of you?” I threw thoughts of rowan wood spikes at him and he flinched, hurt flickering in his sickly violet eyes.
When Chapel was gone, I whirled on Harry. “You snake. How long has this been going on behind my back?”
Harry pulled his legs up onto the casket lid with the rest of his body, folding them into a flexible cross. “It has not been going on behind your back, my love. You were well aware that I would be feeding while you were incapable.”
“You said you had O-negative in the freezer. That was a barefaced lie.”
“I think you'll find that Agent Chapel's blood type is in fact o-negative.” Harry made a show of licking it off his lips, slowly, his platinum eyes daring me to argue. I wanted to slap him hard, but slapping a revenant is akin to suicide by cop. “He might not be in my freezer, exactly—”
“Harry!” It came out as a pitiful wail, which wasn't my intention. The sorrow just sort of leaked out.
Harry's face went through a prompt rotation of surprise, concern and distress. “You're heart-broken by this. Why is this so?”
“Look at yourself!” I said hotly. “Did he undress you?”
Harry laughed with surprise. “No, my love. Agent Chapel is not a bender.”
I made a stab at translating, for clarity. “Gary's not gay?”
Wes laughed sharply. “The amount of times he's pictured bending you over your desk and givin’ it to you up the—”
“Wesley!” I yelped, shrinking in my clothes with embarrassment. “Need to know basis!”
Harry sucked his fangs in condemnation in Wesley's direction. “You simply must use discretion, young one, as we have discussed at length.” He cocked his head at me. “Your brother needed to learn how to feed properly from a willing partner. And Agent Chapel, for personal reasons, needed to know about the process as well.”
“Personal reasons?” I repeated.
“As I have said.”
“How many times did he need to know?” I snapped. “And why is it his ‘need to know’ extends to the state of your rippling abs?”
Harry's eyebrows crept upward as though he were channeling Agent Batten's. It furthered my irritation in a way I couldn't describe.
“Rippling…” he said in flattered wonder, running a hand over his midsection. He was pleased and he let it show. Under the flickering light of his mock-candle wall sconces, his gold court ring drew attention to the faint flush of life he'd acquired from the feed. Though his hunger roared sudden and fierce in my own veins, the call to feed him strong; he had taken a bare minimum from Chapel. “Wesley, I would speak to your sister alone now, if you will excuse us.”
Wesley frowned at the older revenant, considering. His gaze washed across Harry's face, a violet searchlight. After a moment, Wesley's spare and diminutive shoulders fell. He touched the front of his faded blue-on-grey plaid t-shirt, fingers feeling, maybe for the tell-tale dampness of a bloodstain. Then he nodded once and darted up the stairs.
Harry motioned to a tidy pile of clothing draped on the couch, the white dress shirt hung in such a way on the corner so as not to require ironing. “I merely removed my morning jacket so that it would not get spotted. And the shirt was brand new, love. It soon followed.”
“I want to know everything.”
“A bold request. I do not, in faith, know everything.”
“Don't fuck with me Harry, you know what I mean.”
He put a hand up to soothe me, nodding. “Agent Chapel has private, personal reasons, my love, for making such a request of me. I would not betray his confidence.” He shrugged, as though this was not his fault. “Understand ducky, he has never had the opportunity to pick the brains of the living dead of a…” he searched for a word and settled on: “Friendly sort.”
“It's not your brains I'm worried about. I'm tempted to take a pickaxe to them myself at the moment.”
Harry's eyes widened slightly.
“Jealousy,” he whispered, so low I couldn't imagine it was meant for me to hear. He scanned me with an intensity that was downright uncomfortable. “This is new.”
Frustrated, I blew my breath out slowly. “You're saying this was all Chapel's idea?”
He wiggled his fingers at me, and I turned to see a pack of menthols on the side table. I handed them to him. “Splendid, thank you.”
I watched him pinch a cigarette between his lips and light it. I told him, “I haven't seen any marks on him.”
“Nor should you. I'm hardly new-turned,” Harry sniffed disdainfully. He drew his legs up and refolded them lotus-style. Putting his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers and drew on the cigarette, making the end burn a brighter orange. He hadn't fed enough to kick-start his lungs but inhaled deeply on the drag and exhaled curls of smoke in my direction.
“Batten could have you arrested and staked for this,” I hissed, glancing over my shoulder. “He'd say you coerced Chapel, and push for a warrant.”
“Don't pitch your knickers, love. He would never do such a thing.”
“Oh yes he would.”
“And risk Chapel retaliating with news to the authorities of his fraternizing with a well-known forensic psychic consultant from Gold-Drake & Cross? They've both broken rules, love. It is the way of men to break rules when it suits their desires. Besides, do you think me so trusting?” He exhaled slowly through his nose, trailing smoke like a drowsy dragon. “I had Agent Chapel write a full disclaimer before I allowed him the honor, signed and dated, to protect myself legally.”
“I want to know Chapel's so-called personal reasons.”
“Please do not be cross with me, ducky, you know I am hardly so boorish as to betray a confidence.”
Anger and betrayal was still filtering hotly into my gut.
“Seeing its effect on you, perhaps I shouldn't have given in to him this evening.” He studied me unhappily. “I was confident you knew.”
“But then you also knew it bothered me. I've been stressing for days. Empathically, through our Bond, you felt I was sick with worry and confusion,” I said plainly, smacking the back of the chair. It occurred to me at the same time as he looked perplexed at something that was flittering through his head. “You liked that I was upset.”
“Yes,” he said, bemused. “I think that may be a fair statement.”
“But why? What did I do to deserv—” I broke off, drawing a deep breath. “This is about Batten.”
He cut his eyes to the far side of the room. “I quite hardly think it is.”
“Is so. You're jealous of him.”
Harry's laugh was a sudden delighted eruption that tickled down my spine and prickled my skin. When his face came up, his eyes were sparkling.
“Oh, my love. You know I am a thousand times more magnificent than he.” He hopped off the casket. “Even if we turned him, and he were in the same preternatural league as myself… darling, he would be centuries behind me in polish and sophistication.”
“And lacking your buckets of modesty,” I groaned. “Fine, if you're not jealous of Mark then what is it? Why do you want me to feel all squinky? Especially seeing I'm at wits end with everything else that's been going on. I mean, that's borderline crap-weasel of you.”
He agreed with a thoughtful nod. “It is a petty streak that I am disappointed to discover in myself. Perhaps…” He came to offer me one of his hands. “Perhaps I needed to know.”
“What do you mean?”
“That you still want me. Your possessiveness was refreshing. Sometimes I feel that you view me with the barest of patience. That I am a nuisance. An inconvenient, sucking parasite. That you regret ever…”
Stunned, I took a running leap at him and threw my arms around his neck. He fumbled with the cigarette, dropping it.
“You silly, stupid creature.” I squeezed him hard, grasping hard muscle under my han
ds, pulling him as close as possible, wedging my face into the fragrant hollow in his neck. “I don't regret it for a second. The day you came into my life was the day I started living.”
“Do not think me so foolish that I cannot perceive that my arrival prevented you from having a normal life.”
“Who the hell said I want a ‘normal’ life?”
“You do, every crudding day,” he said sadly against my hair. “How you want to be left alone, how you hate the psychic nonsense, how you do not want to work or leave the house or see anybody. This is all my fault, of course, and I encourage it, because at least inside you are safe and out of harm's way.”
“My being a bitch has nothing to do with you.”
“I am afraid it has everything to do with me, love, and always has. My irritation becomes yours, my unease and displeasure. This is the way of the Empath and his companion. When added to your own unhappiness, it has made you the bundle of raw angst you are today.”
“Harry,” I drew back to look him in the eye. “I bitch and crab and whine, but I never mean for a second that I don't want you around, or that I'm unhappily stuck here with you. I'm not miserable for escape. I am profoundly honored to be your DaySitter. I want you for always. Okay?”
He released me so he could bend to pick up the cigarette from the cold stone tiles. He blew it clean and tucked it between his lips. For a moment, he studied me. “So I was wide of the mark?”
I assumed that meant “wrong” and said with a smile, “Brace yourself, your Lordship, it happens.”
One corner of his lips twitched up. “It still felt awfully good, after all these years, to have you crazy with possessiveness as though we were some newly bonded couple.”
“I wasn't crazy,” I gave him a swat. “I was…mildly perturbed.”
“Please, mon petit chou, you wanted to rip into Agent Chapel's thinning hair like a seedy vixen in a pay-per-view cat fight,” he teased.
“That's because you're mine!” I warned playfully, making a fist and shaking it in his face. Harry grinned in reply. “Mine, all mine. Got that, bloodsucker?”