by A. J. Aalto
“Dear Diary,” I said aloud, “Hammerfest is already a real joy. It's full of deer poop, posturing revenants, and has a Jerkface infestation. I’m the luckiest Groper in Gropetown.”
“Gropetown is also a crap business name,” Batten observed.
Somehow, I managed not to smack him upside the head with his beer.
Chapter 9
The elevator hauled me up through layers of warring scents and feelings, and I was vaguely aware that I wasn’t entirely happy to see Batten, even though it had been my initial desire to bring him as Second. I snuck a peek at him out of the corner of my eye and was startled to find that the bulk of him had no physical effect on my normally overactive loins. Having him show up (uninvited, Marnie, that’s what’s bothering you. The surprise. Like an ambush.) claiming he wasn’t here to hunt revenants? It smelled fishier than Pike Place Market on an unusually warm Seattle afternoon.
When we got to my room, Harry wasn’t there. Our go-bags and my valise were, but he’d left without telling me where he was going. Perhaps he was settling Golden into her room and explaining the switch in Seconds. I dug out my phone to text her but got no reply.
I heard the soft noise of Batten’s weight settling on the bed. “My room is so far from yours.” I heard the subtle sarcasm while he continued, “I don’t feel unsafe at all in a city swollen with immortal visitors, some of whom are thousands of years old and want me dead.”
Then why did you come? “No one will touch you while you are under Harry’s banner.”
“Banner?”
“It’s not a physical banner like the one at their strongholds. It’s an invisible claim. He’s marked you, as he has Golden.” I glanced over my shoulder to judge his reaction. He did a good job of not flinching but his expression darkened. “You belong to him, Kill-Notch, and through him, you belong to his prince. As much as the others might salivate at the thought of sinking their fangs into the throat of the most infamous vampire hunter in the New World, no revenant will touch you. Not while you belong to House Dreppenstedt.”
“Really?” he said flatly. “Like Gregori Nazaire didn’t touch what belonged to Harry in the cellar of Ruby Valli’s magic shop?”
“That might have been my fault,” I admitted. “I doubt you’ll make the same mistakes I made.”
“Let’s review those.”
I’d invited a starving Gregori to feed from my mouth with the understanding that he’d help me escape my chains with his renewed vigor. I’d been in a bad spot, waiting to die. I hadn’t seen many options in that cellar. My invitation, though, was naïve and ill-worded. Batten knew this; he just wanted to hear me say it, because who doesn’t love hearing me admit I’m wrong?
I bristled. “I’m not perfect. Not news. I’ve made mistakes, and I don’t need you to remind me.” I poked him in the chest. There were a hundred and eight kill-notch tattoos on his right pectoral now, three new ones added since he'd left the PCU. His last kill had been in self-defense, he said. Did I doubt him, or was Harry’s frustration blurring my senses and misplacing my doubts? “You’re not my boss, and you’re not my teacher. I don’t owe you explanations.”
He met my gaze steadily. “You don’t,” he agreed calmly, “but I’d like you to agree that maybe, maybe, you might want to practice thinking before you speak. Especially while you’re surrounded by ancient vampire aristocracy.” I opened my mouth to retort when he cut me off. “You land your ass is serious trouble, I can’t help you. Understand?” He showed me his empty hands in a gesture of helplessness. I wondered if he was taking body language lessons from Chapel. “Way out of my fucking league here.”
At least he recognized that. He swallowed hard and I heard a dry click in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Harry wasn’t the only one who was afraid.
Before I could say anything, he continued, “Frankly, I don’t care how extraordinary your fancy-pants dead guy is, I’m getting the distinct fucking impression that he’ll be up shit creek, too, if you open your yap and piss off a court of noble vamps.”
My mouth worked around a bunch of useless nonsense and finally settled on an old fallback position. “Don’t use the V-word. You know not to use it. You keep using it.”
“Don’t get me killed,” he challenged. “Yeah?”
“That’s the last thing I want,” I promised him. “Well, the second-to-last.” I reconsidered. “Third. Third-to-last.”
His expression soured further. “Uh huh.”
“I swear,” I said, but my irritation left me in a rush, and I was left swimming in a baffled miasma of humor and sheepishness. “And don’t you get us killed.”
“We take our cues from Harry. For now.”
I half-smiled. “Hey. You didn’t call him Tall, Limp, and Pasty that time.”
He stood from the bed to his full height, rolling his tight neck to relieve some tension. “He's not that tall.” I was tempted to throw my arms around him, but the mood didn’t feel right. He clenched and unclenched his jaw with a ripple of muscle. “Taking first cue from Harry: he expects me to sleep elsewhere.”
“What about your king crab?”
“I can call room service just as easily as you can.” He shot a thumb at the door. “Better get to it. Sure it’s safe?”
I wanted to say fuck no, you’ll be ravaged by marauding deer and frenzied revenants; you’d better stay with me tonight. That thought must have shown on my face, because a big smile flashed across his, and for a moment all the snow in Hammerfest couldn’t have cooled me off. A real Mark Batten smile, all for me, encouraging, warm, and pleased.
His voice dropped. “Too many ears, here.”
“I’m not loud,” I lied.
His grin widened. “You will be. Another night, Snickerdoodle.”
“I was just thinking of your satiety.” No! Wait! Fuck! “Safety.”
“Uh huh.” He wasn’t buying it. “You gonna be all right?”
Nope. You better hide me under your big, strong bod. “Sure.”
“See you in the morning.”
I nodded and waved as he opened the door, figuring that was safer than speaking. Harry was in the hall, leaning against the wall with one ankle slung casually across the other. He was doing everything but whistling and cleaning his immaculate nails to make it clear that he was giving us privacy to say our good-nights, although how much privacy one could have from one’s immortal companion lingering outside a door, I couldn’t say; with his preternatural hearing, he’d heard not only every word but every skipped heartbeat. He smiled tightly at Batten in passing, then pushed off the wall and glided past me into the room. I shut the door.
“Should I have made myself scarcer?” He quirked his eyebrow, expecting me to deny the obvious lust rolling through my body and through the Bond.
“For at least another half hour. The Great White Shark’s gotta get her some.”
Harry drew out an mmmhmmm and gave me a knowing look. “We were maintaining our anger at the hunter for his blatant stalking behavior. What changed? Did our brawny lad flex a muscle or, Lord and Lady forbid, shift a button?”
“I’m not that easy,” I said.
“Lies? To me? How perfectly asinine.” He pursed his lips in mock indignation. “Take care not to treat Our Mark like a common drudge; even if that is precisely what he is, he won’t appreciate being looked down upon.”
“I never do.” Do I? “What about you? You do that to him all the time.”
He brushed the subject away. “Good news. I have decided on your outfit, Dearheart.”
“I need an outfit? What for?” I folded my arms. “Is it a leather catsuit? I’ve always wanted a catsuit.” I'd done time in a squirrel suit, but that wasn't the same thing at all.
“Heavens, no,” Harry said with a chuckle.
“I could rock a catsuit,” I informed him seriously. “I mean, not with my Keds; that would look silly. But with some thigh-high boots. Tell me I wouldn’t look hot.”
“I do believe I shall sidestep th
at landmine and point out that a court dress is far more suitable to the climate and the occasion,” Harry said, and I thought I caught a hint of a teasing smile flash across his lips, and an absolutely unfiltered wave of what he thought of my notions of playing dress-up once we got back to Shaw's Fist. He'd indulged my boots-and-apron-and-nothing-else requests with aplomb and spectacular results, so I could hardly begrudge him on that score.
“Okay, but if anyone else at the court-party-thing is wearing a catsuit,” I warned him, “you might never hear the end of it, and we both know I’m going to live a loooooong time.”
“Not nearly as long as you think if you do not remember your manners,” he replied primly.
I smiled as he eyeballed the length of my body. “Sorry. I’m sure I’ll love this court dress, Harry.”
“But of course, my love. I only hope your excessive brownie consumption hasn’t changed your dress size too drastically since the last time I shopped for you.”
I held up a finger. “I had one brownie, and you shopped for me last weekend.”
“Yes, one isn’t likely to forget dropping eight thousand dollars on vintage Valentino,” he purred. Sometimes, I wondered which he liked better: the dresses or the woman inside them. Or maybe it was the label and the price tag. Four hundred years of fetishes could do weird things to a guy.
I sighed. “Harry, I haven’t gained a whole dress size in a week. It's not even that time in my Shark Week cycle, sheesh.”
“Of course you haven’t,” he said congenially, but his tone was doubtful. “You must understand, darling, the garment I have my heart set on is a precious article of eighteenth-century dress, and I’d not like those generous breeder’s hips of yours to…” He sensed the flare of irritation that no doubt surged through the Bond, and chastised himself. “I’m being unforgivably rude, for certain. Forgive me, my spirited sparrow.”
“You’re not talking about an actual dress from the seventeen hundreds?”
“Oh yes, love. As I’m sure you’d noted previously about my kind, we do tend to hold on to the past rather vigorously.”
Duh, I thought but carefully did not say. Not that it mattered to Harry, but none of the potentially eavesdropping revenants needed to hear it.
“At court,” he reminded, “you, indeed both of us, are accessories to one another, to our house, and to the court itself. You are there to see and be seen. To decorate and delight. To feast the senses and to impress others with your flair and finesse, your power and prowess.”
“Flair and finesse; that’s my specialty,” I drawled.
Harry smiled and stroked the turquoise lock back from my forehead, tucking it next to my long, black braids. He gave one a playful tug. “I will help smooth off your rough edges, my angel.”
With what, a rotary grinder? I didn't see anything in your luggage labeled DeWalt or Craftsman. “Dying to see what you’re going to wear.”
He tsked me. “Do let me surprise you. I have a perfect ensemble in storage at Felstein for an occasion such as this.”
I pictured the portrait of Harry in my office, the lace cravat beneath his pale, dimpled chin. I said, “I’m sure Batten will be a great accessory.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “I do believe, my cricket, you overestimate how useful an accessory Our Mark could be to anyone but yourself.”
“I dunno. I doubt any other house will have such a unique Second in tow. The infamous vampire hunter?”
Harry gave this the benefit of further consideration. “Standing ready at my heel, answering my call, loyal to me alone while remaining a danger to all others, tamed by House Dreppenstedt and collared by my DaySitter?”
Collared. Like a pet cat, or in Batten’s case, a pet jaguar. “Easy there, big fellah. Our prince won’t be pleased to see Batten. But then, our last meeting didn’t go much better, did it?”
“My prince will no doubt be perturbed by our choosing the lad, but the court will be impressed. Oh, you’re right, my pet, how the others will positively seethe with envy.” Having settled that, he clapped his hands. “Right. Into bed with you. You are past tired.”
“I’ll never sleep here, with all this swirly-whirly psychic activity,” I vowed, slipping into my worn, sloppy night shirt; it was red and had a sleepy cartoon moose on it wearing bunny slippers and waving a limp Canadian flag. My sister, Rowena, had sent it to me after my last visit home. I took it as a kind of peace offering, and sent her one in return with a chubby cartoon mountain lion on it.
“My Own, I think you should happily discover that this is untrue. This eve, as the frigid Arctic wind faffs upon the sturdy shelter offered by our inn, we have one another for comfort, and that is all that truly matters tonight. I will clear your mind for you. Up.” He gestured at the bed.
“Faffs. I’m guessing faffering doesn’t mean what I think,” I said, popping into the pouch made by the tightly-tucked sheets. I felt like I was stuffing a Marnie pierogi. “Did you check on Golden?”
“She’s acquiesced to stay behind in Norway, now that I have upgraded her to a suite. She claims she is feeling unwell and is much happier to remain in bed with room service. Perhaps it is only a kazzardly case of woofits,” he said. “Only, by the way she groans, one would think she had the sinkings.”
I snort-laughed. “Whatever all that is. That's extra-gibberishy gibberish, even by your standards.”
Harry showed me a tolerant smile and stood beside the bed for a long moment. I felt his hunger stirring lazily, but he was content to ride the urge for a while; I knew he’d enjoy the anticipation of his feed, as he always did, nearly as much as the feed itself. Through the Bond, I felt the saliva sting his tongue and the slow, steady push of his fangs as they elongated from their soft pocket behind his human canines.
I remembered my Grandma Vi’s advice in Marie-Pierrette’s journal: always keep your Cold Company comfortable. She had written this as an addition to Marie-Pierrette’s second canon: a warm vampire is a fair and gentle companion. I didn’t wish to rush him, but I also didn’t want to lay here for an hour while he stared at me.
“How does my pet?” he asked.
I pulled back the sheets for him. “Tired like a two dollar hooker on a Friday afternoon.”
“Always a lady,” he remarked drily.
“I’m very fucking tired, Cold, Dark, and Handsome. Come get warmed up before I fall asleep on you.”
“I should like to think you know by now that I do not prefer my pet to be unconscious during our intimate moments together.”
“Mmmhmm,” I assured him, patting the bed. “Then you’d better hurry up.”
“As you wish, my petite collation au coucher,” he said, and flashed a full-fanged smile.
***
Even after Harry’s deep feed and a comforting snuggle, I couldn’t sleep. While he propped himself up in bed with his pince nez and his Proust, I went up three floors to find Golden. Curious to see if she was really sick or just happy to laze about, I slipped off a glove and flicked a testing fingertip at her doorknob; too many images spilled into the front of my mind, scrambled like some film editor had done a bunch of meth and spliced a hundred movies together in random snips. I withdrew my hand like the doorknob was hot and took a soothing inhale through pursed lips, laying my hands out, palms down and waiting for the Blue Sense to stir.
I wasn’t prepared for how quickly my Talents responded here. The Blue Sense was not a lazy swirl of psi, but the yank of a big fish hooked during a riptide. A surge of power rattled through my bones, and I struggled for a moment to tame it, surprised at its vigor. All the black ghost hairs on my scalp had prickled, but I willed the churning rush of psi to settle down. When it had quieted, I sent it sloshing outward into Golden’s room, seeking feelings, calculating and weighing.
As I suspected, Golden was fine. She answered my knock on the door prepared to fake some kind of wellness complaint, but I headed her off, shoving my glove back on.
“Harry said you were okay with staying,” I said befo
re any greeting. The beginning of an I’m-so-sick lilt to her voice cleared up immediately. “You don’t need to convince me. I’d rather be in bed for the duration, too.”
She smirked and motioned me in. “To be fair, I am tired.”
“As soon as I saw Batten downstairs, I knew Harry wasn’t going to let him out of our sight. Not here. Not in the court of power. Can’t have Harry’s pet vampire hunter running lose in the Arctic. What will the neighbors think?” I popped gloved hands over my cheeks and mimed shock and shame.
“You’re taking this well,” she replied. “Everyone has lied to you at least once today. How’s that sitting with you?”
I chuckled. “You sound like Dr. Phil. ‘How’s that workin’ out for you?’”
“So, Batten shows up in Norway after telling you he wasn’t coming, and after Harry specifically didn't invite him,” she reviewed, as though I wasn’t grasping the facts, “and Harry told you I was sick so you wouldn’t feel bad about replacing me with Batten.”
“So, when did you lie to me?”
“It wasn't exactly a pickle that was excellent in Micklewallop.”
I grinned. “Bizznatch.”
A ridiculous charade. Did Harry think so poorly of my own Talents to think I wouldn’t know? Why bother lying? You’d think after a decade as his DaySitter, I wouldn’t be surprised by his insistence on pointless little lies and games. Sometimes, he lied because he thought it was best. Sometimes, he lied for his own entertainment. It was a quirk I’d grown to accept if not always anticipate. Of course Harry made shit up; when did Harry not make shit up? I should change his ring tone to Voltaire's “USS Make Shit Up.” It would serve the preternatural prevaricator right.
I said, “Oddly enough, I don’t really care.”