by A. J. Aalto
It was true. At the moment, the men in my life were not the issue bothering me, unless I misjudged the source of my discomfort.
Golden flopped on her bed. “If it makes you feel any better, the ‘sick’ part will be true tomorrow or the next day. I haven’t had a real vacation in years, so I’m going to drink stuff I can't pronounce until I barf.”
“Do that,” I suggested. I looked around for nearby garbage cans, since the carpet looked awfully nice and it would be rude of her not to at least try and keep it that way. I hooked one out from under the desk and scooched it over towards the bed with a little more force than was probably warranted.
“What’s with you?”
I sighed. “What’s with your face?”
“Nice people skills. You backsliding?”
“Shut your dick-shiner.” I wandered the room, poking things. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“Do you want that alphabetically, or in order of importance?” she asked helpfully. I liked her a lot for it, and felt my lips slide into a crooked smile.
“I’m feeling tired and cranky and a little numb. And other things.”
“Such as?”
“You don’t wanna hear about it. I dragged you halfway around the world only to leave you stranded in a hotel. I came to apologize.”
“You didn’t ask me to come, and you didn’t ask me to hang out here.” She reached one finger out and poked at one of the crystals on the bedside lamp’s pull. “Yeah, this is gonna be rough,” she laughed. “I’m in a deluxe king sized suite with all my room service covered and spa services every day. There are probably a thousand strapping Vikings and Valkyries in this town who could show an abandoned American tourist with time on her hands some local hospitality.”
She made a very compelling argument, and if I didn't have to be some kind of decorative revenant court muffin and prevent the Trollpocalypse, I'd be all about a week of that kind of thing. I nodded, feeling a bit better. “You should be perfectly safe here. You’re still under Harry’s banner of protection.”
She nodded, and I knew Harry had explained it to her. “So what’s wrong? I mean, beside the whole ‘harbinger of war’ and ‘stalked by a vampire hunter’ stuff?”
“I’m feeling… uninspired.”
“Sexually?” She drew the word out and made it sound dirty.
“Weird, right?” I let out a long, baffled exhale. “I’m still taking my little white vitamins, the bremelanotide. I’ve even got permission. I just can’t get excited.”
“About…?”
“Anything.” I knew what she meant: was I less excited about Harry, Mark, or my own body? Was I turned off by everything, or something in particular?
She gave this some thought. “Are you depressed? You said numb.”
“Maybe? Generally?” I shrugged.
“You’re going to the seat of power where all the oldest, noblest revenants live and rule. That doesn’t excite you a little?”
“It should. It’s my first time. Instead, I’m feeling out of touch with reality, petulant. I don’t want to be touched.”
“Maybe it has something to do with what’s coming. Maybe dread is killing your vibe.”
“Dread is not the best aphrodisiac,” I agreed, “though it’s never stopped me before.”
“Before I forget, I overheard something when I was fetching a bottle.” She motioned with a thumb to a bag which must have contained whatever her liquid agenda for the evening was. “It didn’t make sense to me, but maybe it will be important to you. There.”
The Blue Sense relayed a bit of disappointment when she mentioned there; as much as she was okay with staying behind, she had been looking forward to the experience of visiting the seat of revenant power.
She continued, “Someone said ‘Prost won’t show.’ I remembered that name from a PCU file Chapel had mentioned. That was, Buffalo, right?” When I confirmed that with a nod, she went on, “Then they mumbled something I didn’t hear, and the first one said ‘the doctor is a combat SAMBO champion,’ and then the other said there was ‘no rowan wood except in the sky’.”
I considered things, and made a mental note to jot it in my Moleskine ASAP. It sounded important, though it made little sense to me. Rowan wood in the sky? “Thanks for keeping your ears open. And thanks for being cool with the change of plans.”
“Hey, what are friends for?”
I didn’t have many of those, so I didn’t have a good answer to that. “I owe you.”
She grinned. “You’ll be paying me in spa treatments and room service, trust me.”
Chapter 10
The lights in the hallway of the north wing were dim, since the hotel had sequestered all their revenant guests in a block of rooms there. That made sense; if you had a host of undead guests in VK-Delta all day, the housekeeping staff would know not to wander into any room there until after dusk. I strolled through the carpeted hush of an abandoned lounge, passed the glass wall fronting an empty swimming pool. A little restaurant was open, but the hostess stared at her cell phone, smiling down at her texts, thumbing away. Behind her, all the tables were available.
I heard a sharp, breathy pssst and skidded to a halt by the men’s room. The door was propped open by the shiny black tip of a man’s boot. The lights within were off, offering a slice of dimmer nothingness. I frowned at the boot, wondering why the person who belonged to said foot wasn’t showing his face at the crack in the door. My first thought was, nope, can’t be a good thing, but upon consulting the Blue Sense, I picked up only an eager need to connect, or, rather, reconnect. There was a touch of anxiety and the subtle undertow of worry, as though the person behind the door really didn’t want to face me at all, but was doing so anyway. Taking a deep breath and steeling myself against my natural expectation of imminent demise, I lifted my chin and said a quick prayer. Got my back, Dark Mother?
It wasn’t the first time I’d thrown open the men’s room door and pushed my way into the forbidden territory of urinal cakes and lolling todgers, but it was the first time I’d done so in the dark. I readied my fists of fury in case I needed to chuck knuckles. The door swung shut, revealing a familiar face.
Declan Edgar gave me a worried, sheepish smile above a frilly lace cravat. “Hi?” He made it a question, as though wondering if I’d go ahead and use the fists even — or especially — after I saw who it was.
I lowered them to my side. “Hello?” I answered, equally uncertain as to how I felt about seeing him.
I gave him a full inspection: he looked like he was ready to visit Louis XIV at Versailles, done up in layers of silk, lace, and velvet, tights and buckled half boots. His blackthorn walking stick was tucked behind his back. He looked accustomed to the fancy duds. His tidy but soft pot belly had been accommodated in custom tailored black velvet, ruffles and flourishes hiding and flattering in turn. There was only an emergency light on, high above his head, casting a soft green glow that glossed his unruly black curls into an eerie Halloween wig.
“Can we have some more light,” I asked, “or are you going for some ‘romantic interlude in the shitter’ ambiance? We gonna make out like club kids, Irish?”
Declan let out a soft heh and reached slowly toward the wall to flick on the light. “I’m guessing you wouldn’t be up for sucking face with me, Dr. B.”
“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I often make out with dudes I’d like to punch.”
He laughed then, that familiar, warm, caramel-sweet belly laugh that had a tendency to dissolve my defenses and made him instantly more likable. “Is that it, then? You don’t want me to grovel and beg your forgiveness?”
“I totally want you to grovel. Nobody’s ever groveled for me before. I bet I’ll like it.” I tried not to smile at him, but I’d missed my annoying assistant, and my lips betrayed me, curling ever so slightly upward. I should be angry. He’d lied to me. He’d let down the PCU team. He’d released Malas Nazaire from his bondage and loosed a dangerous creature back i
nto the world. Perhaps the velvet and lace was better punishment than I could mete out. If Batten got his hands on Declan, he’d probably try to strangle him, not that I thought he’d have much luck; we had little information on what exactly it meant to be dhampir, physiology-wise.
I pointed out, “You done wrong, kid.”
He nodded, lowering his chin to look at me through his lashes. “Yes. I do realize why you might see it that way. If it makes any difference at all, I’ve taken responsibility for feeding Master Malas all on my own. No human body makes enough to feed him alone, and he’d always had a group feed arranged, but it seems I am able to keep up with the demands of his appetite. He is not killing, he is not draining, and he is not putting any burden on the mortal population of Monaco. I’ve been at his heel the entire time. He’s turned no one. He’s been an absolute prince. This, I swear to you, Dr. B.”
Monaco. So that’s where they’d been hiding. Was it still considered “hiding” if no one was really looking for you? I’d assumed the primeval revenants would have lowered the hammer on Malas for his disrespect of the Bond and working with John Spicer to turn Youngers into hybrid revenant-zombie creatures. Instead, they invited him to a party. Tricksy old buggers. Or maybe they were scheming. I didn't go in for inscrutability, much. I liked to scrute. I don't think that's actually a thing, but it's totally a thing that should be a thing.
The Blue Sense picked up a flutter of fear in Declan’s belly. I felt my gloved fists relax. “But…?”
His eyes darted away from mine. “I have concerns. About…” He waved his hand vaguely behind us in the direction of the bay. “All of this. For obvious reasons.”
Obvious to you, maybe. I looked around at the bathroom. Marble floors, pale beige walls, everything tidy and in good order. A big wicker basket in the corner by a silk palm tree held crumpled paper towels. The two urinals were sparkling clean. The air was softly scented with mandarin orange by an automatic air freshener. It was a strange place for a meeting, but we certainly wouldn’t be interrupted by a revenant. The undead don’t need to eliminate unless they eat regular food; their systems use every last drop of blood they ingest. “You can confide in me, Declan. My lips are sealed.”
“We’re running out of time,” he said, and his voice fell under his breath. “Certain people can’t be nominated. It would be disastrous.”
I was going to continue to bluff my way through this, but he must have seen a flicker of confusion on my face. “Marnie, you know why we’ve been called, right?”
“If I say yes, will you buy it?”
He gave a frustrated little cough-snarl. “Speaker Aristoxenus is the right hand of the Overlord. He’s going to monitor the transition of one of the houses into the ruling position, to make one revenant king.” He registered the shock on my face. “Don’t you pay attention to what’s going on at court? Doesn’t Harry keep you updated?”
“Never,” I admitted with a baffled shrug. “Harry says we live in the New World and our concerns are limited to North America and the territory vacated by Malas. Why is the throne unoccupied? What’s happened to the First Turned?”
He couldn’t be dust; the death of a master wiped out that entire bloodline, and since each prince was turned by the king, every revenant on the planet would have been turned to ash if the king had been destroyed. A terrifying thought. I didn’t want to imagine opening Harry’s casket one evening and finding nothing but a pile of dust, but I’d been warned a thousand times that this was perfectly possible; should anything happen to the king or to the crowned prince of our house, Harry would simply cease to exist. I was mentally prepared for it. Emotionally, I’d be decimated. I hadn't even picked out a cookie jar to put his ashes in.
But the king had never been absent from the throne, either. He’d never been replaced. It was unprecedented, unheard of. The weight of the idea settled low in my belly like a slice of sketchy meatloaf that should have been pitched and not eaten as a midnight snack. I wondered if it tied into BugBelly's predictions, and the coming of the trolls. He'd mentioned the immortals and their husbandry of mankind, their burden of sheltering humanity from the onslaught that would surely come if the portal failed. Falling away into madness taunted at the edge of my mind.
Declan shook his head. “I don’t know. But the houses that have been called are all eligible to replace the First Turned. The shift will be decided at court. The rest isn’t clear. But…”
Eligible? A replacement? I felt that flutter of disquiet again from him and slowly peeled off both of my gloves. His eyes widened slightly as he watched me slip them into my pockets. “You don’t want to say it.”
He shook his head “no” in agreement with what I’d said, and, after a shaky breath, offered me both of his hands, palms up, flicking aside his silly lace cuffs. I slid my palms on top of his, and he closed his fingers around mine.
The spark was immediate, and stronger than the last time I’d touched him. That made sense; he’d since become Malas Nazaire’s only DaySitter, and the frightening powers Malas wielded had become Declan’s to share entirely, that mushrooming telekinetic clout on top of his own natural dhampir abilities. I couldn’t fathom what power he could wield now.
A slip of heat purled through my veins, so much different than the invasive cold of other immortals; this was the power of the living, breathing dhampir, a sweet, pleasurable push. Even his fear was warm and vivacious, and it drummed into my chest like the power of a full orchestra, making my own heart skip ahead to match it. As my psychometry roared to life, it shoved my clairempathy aside to offer me several garish glimpses into Declan’s daily life: struggling to corral his companion’s thirst into a single, manageable urge, battling to contain the surging spillover of lust and hunger from an ancient revenant in his own self, and learning to balance the budding telekinetic Talent Malas gifted to him. I was also granted a brief peek into the mistrust and spite that monsieur Nazaire harbored for humankind. Finally, I saw what Declan most feared: the amplification of Talents and hungers that would come with the upgrade from prince to king, the freedom from responsibility to mankind that would come with Nazaire’s complete withdrawal from mortal society, and the inevitable failure for caring for the herd. For a moment my human mind rebel at the “herd” image, refusing to be lumped in with cattle.
Then I got a glimpse of the high parts of Declan’s current lifestyle: fine dining, elegant parties, the lookout point in Old Town, strolling in the quaint, winding pedestrian streets on warm nights, gambling at the bustling Casino Monte Carlo, the marina on the glittering Cote d’Azur. Dinner at the Hotel de Paris on Malas Nazaire’s coin; le vicomte had been sparing no expense in keeping his new DaySitter well-fed and content. Spoiled, even.
Though Declan’s new title required of him total loyalty, he and I both knew that Malas Nazaire would be a bad choice for king. Malas had a bad habit of turning people against their wishes, displaying some shockingly bad judgment, and being generally horrifying. Putting him in power would not soften or elevate his opinion of human beings. Malas of house Nazaire had no business being near the throne, much less on it. Declan wanted to say it, but was constrained from doing so.
I withdrew my hands, nodding to show him I understood. “Gotcha. And I agree. Some of the immortals gathered here should not be chosen to ascend the throne.” Some? Since I didn’t have any idea who the king was, or which of his strengths made him a good ruler, how could I judge which revenant, if any, would be a good replacement?
Declan seemed relieved. “I’m not sure we’ll have an opportunity to sway things one way or another. It’s not as though DaySitters will be given a vote or anything, if it comes to that. And if it did…”
“We wouldn’t really be free to vote our conscience,” I finished. “Loyalty would require us to stand behind our respective houses.”
He withdrew a square card from the back pocket of his pants and unfolded it. “And did you notice anything funny about which houses had been called?”
I sh
ook my head. I hadn’t dissected the houses themselves. “I take it you don’t mean funny ha-ha?”
“Not a single house with precognition or telepathy.”
Oh, that. Yeah, I'd noticed. The knot in my belly tightened further. “They don’t want us to know what’s coming. Why not?”
“I doubt it’s because they’re baking us surprise cupcakes.”
“That’s too bad,” I muttered. “I have a feeling I’m gonna need a fucking cupcake.”
Declan’s eyes sparkled and his lips curled up again in that sheepish smile. “I’m glad you’re not pissed at me for doing things all arseways. I’ve missed you.” He studied the toes of his half boots for a second and then peeked back up at me. “How’re things at the PCU?”
“You mean, who else might be mad at you?”
“I guess,” he admitted with a one-shouldered shrug. “Is SSA Chapel okay?”
“He’s back from vacation,” I side-stepped. “And he’s not the type to hold a grudge. You know that. I’m fairly certain he was over it two minutes after he found out that Malas was missing. He rebounds quickly. On the other hand, Golden is here in Hammerfest; she’d probably kick your ass halfway to Sweden, so you should probably avoid her if possible. Also, Batten is here.”
“Ha!” Declan grimaced. “Well, I think I’d best avoid him, too.”
“Yeeeeeaaaah, good plan. If he sees you in that getup, he’ll beat you up and steal your lunch money.”
Declan smiled down at his velvet and lace. “It’s not my first choice, Dr. B., I assure you.”
“Batten’s still got a warrant to stake Malas. Just a heads-up.”
Declan nodded. “Noted. Thank you. I don’t suppose you can keep it quiet that I’m here.”
“They already know.”
“Well, fuck.” He gave a soft sniff of a laugh. “I’m going to see them at court anyway. I don’t suppose you’ve got any guidance for me?”
“I say you make a flashy entrance,” I advised, pulling my gloves back on. “A whangdilly of a hullaballoo. You know, don’t just walk into the throne room like a goober. Oh! Oh! I know! Do the Bunny Hop. Everyone loves the Bunny Hop.”