by A. J. Aalto
“Very helpful,” he drawled. “I meant guidance on our larger predicament.”
A replacement. I propped my gloved hands on my hips and thought about it, clucking my tongue. “Well... do we know anyone who would make a good king?”
Declan looked pained. “Am I allowed to say ‘no’?”
“Probably not too loudly,” I said. “The biggest problem is, all of these revenant princes, they’ve been around a long time. A really long time. They’re accustomed to living among us in their own ways, in their own corners of the world. Each one has a Talent or two. The First Turned has all nine. He’s accustomed to leading, managing others, not doing his own thing. He’s sacrificed the niceties and freedom of living among humans. He’s been alone, segregated, way up north. He doesn’t miss human beings, of course, because he hasn’t ever spent time around human beings. He doesn’t need us. The princes, I imagine, would. I can’t even picture someone like Harry being stowed up there away from the hustle and bustle of mortal life. It would be like another death. How would he adapt?”
What I didn’t add, but didn’t need to, was: how does a DaySitter adjust to being trapped up in the Arctic for the rest of his or her life? I could see in his face that Declan was dreading that possibility. As a preternatural anthropologist, his life was spent in search of answers, and not just his own genealogy, but all the answers of the revenant history. And I could see that studying it was a vastly better option than becoming it, but wondered if Declan's curiosity at what the king's archives might hold was something he was conveniently overlooking for the moment.
“There are princes there,” Declan said doubtfully. “In their strongholds.”
“Ah, but they’re not always here. They’re free to roam. The king must stay apart forever and always, body and soulless husk. He has only his DaySitters, from what I understand. Other than a few demons, he’s kicking it solo. Maybe the Overlord swings by to play shuffleboard on alternate Thursdays.”
“Perhaps we do want one of them segregated like that,” Declan said. “Rather than putting the most benevolent on the throne, perhaps we can angle for the one that causes the most trouble for mankind to ascend. He’d be trapped there. Maybe…”
Jeremiah Prost, I thought. I could tell Declan was reconsidering making Malas a prisoner, though it would require of him the sacrifice of never leaving the Arctic. Prost couldn’t do any more harm to children if he were locked on an island in the Arctic. But… my mind strayed back to the orc mystic’s warning. Would Prost be the best choice to thwart the coming troll invasion? Would he even bother trying? (The sun sentries, my brain teased. Worm forge.) Declan was watching my face carefully, and I wanted to confide in him about the orc prophecy, but something made me hold my tongue.
“I don’t know,” I admitted, sighing. “And I don’t suppose I can ask Harry; I know what he’ll say. He absolutely has to remain true to House Dreppenstedt in this matter, and he'd expect me to do the same. There would be no choice, there.”
Declan looked like something had occurred to him, and he said slowly, “Yes. You would have to remain committed to House Dreppenstedt.” Then he gave me a pointed look. “I must remain a faithful servant of those above me. I cannot do anything unexpected. Can I?”
I shook my head, but I wasn’t so sure.
He seemed to be thinking aloud, now, so I didn’t interrupt. “My Master is not forgiving, nor would he stretch his neck out to protect me in any way. My choice would have to be defensible.”
Just then, the door slammed open and I spun around with a gasp.
Batten stood framed in the dim light of the hallway, glaring at us. “What in the world are you doing in the men’s room, woman?”
“I can be wherever I want, freakwad,” I blurted, startled into instinctive irritation. “What are you doing in the men’s room?”
“Looking for you,” Batten said, his eyes cutting to Declan. “Doctor Edgar.”
There was a moment where Batten’s jaw did its clench-unclench dance, his fists balled at his sides, and the tension in his shoulders was a visible vibration, but those lake water blue eyes did a full sweep of Declan’s layers of silk, hose, buckles, and frilly cuffs, which caused a flurry of confused blinking.
“Special Agent Batten,” Declan greeted, but then neither of them knew what to say next. Batten didn’t bother to correct him on the title. Declan stuffed his invitation back in his pockets and chewed on his lip. “Uh, well, thanks for the consult, Marnie. We’ll talk later. I should get back to, uh, my, um...”
“Malas Nazaire,” Batten said, his gaze challenging.
“Right,” Declan said, his lips shrugging, avoiding eye contact. For a moment, he looked like he didn’t want to get close to Batten to pass him. I didn’t blame him. Batten made no move to step aside. Boots squeaking against the tile, Declan ducked around him and disappeared down the hall.
I was far too distracted by our talk to get sucked into a tiff with Batten. I left the men’s room with him half a step behind me, mulling over the last thing Declan had said, wondering what he was getting at. Did he think that Wilhelm Dreppenstedt was the best choice? True, Wilhelm was dual-Talented and thus, following that kind of logic, a better choice than any revenant with a single Talent. I wasn't sure I bought into it, but it was a toe-hold.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s the first time I’ve seen a lace cravat save a man’s life.”
“Can’t believe he’s really here,” Batten grumbled.
I led him back into the hallway and nodded in the direction of the empty restaurant, my stomach demanding caffeine and sugar. “He was summoned to court,” I reminded him, “same as Harry and I were. He had no more choice than I did.”
He appeared not to hear me. “Can’t believe he dared show his face. Can’t believe you were chatting with him like nothing happened.”
“Walk in his buckled boots for a day,” I advised. “He’s not having a party. We know why he released Malas. He was desperate to—“
I stopped so suddenly that Batten plowed into me, grabbing my arms from behind to steady us. I felt the hot breath of his hard exhale on the back of my head.
Something toyed with my grey cells. An answer. Was it? Batten growled behind me playfully. “What’s up, doc?”
I whipped around excitedly. “I might be brainstorming.”
Batten smiled down at his shoes, chewing back some clever retort, then looked at me through his dark lashes.
Oh, no, do not be hot and demure and coy at me right now, Hunkypants. I am about to use my brain and need the blood upstairs right now.
“Shut up for a second, meathead,” I said. “I'm having a thought.”
Finally, he got out, “Oh?” It was followed by a reluctant chuckle.
My eyes darted around the hallway as if the answer would be found in the wallpaper. There was still a lot of psychic turbulence in the hotel, the combination of so many revenants and DaySitters under one roof. “I’m not sure. I have to think about it. I need a bath. I need a long, hot bath.”
I felt his hot breath again, but this time it wasn’t in exasperation. In fact, it reminded me of something else long and hot that I might have needed. It ticked behind my ear as he dipped his chin closer to my face. “Alone?”
“Yes, alone,” I sighed, unable to hide my smile. “How much thinking would I get done if I wasn’t alone?”
“None,” he assured me. “Not a single thought all night long, I can promise you that.” I felt the scratch of his stubble as he tucked his cheek against mine. “Thinking’s for suckers.”
I had to laugh. “I’ll not-think another time,” I promised. “I do plenty of not-thinking. Catch me on Tuesdays. I not-think a lot on my days off.”
“Without me?” He sounded offended. “Thought we had an understanding.”
I snort-grinned up at him. “You didn’t think our 'understanding' completely replaces my solo not-thinking time, did you? Cuz that’s just kooky talk.” I pointed at him. “I’ll be back. Catch you lat
er.” I ran halfway to the elevator before turning around and yelling, “Don’t kill Declan without me!”
“No promises,” he shouted back, but he was already walking to the restaurant, so I figured the dhampir was safe, at least until Batten had his fill of roast reindeer and lingonberry sauce.
I spent the rest of the afternoon stewing in a bath, staring at bubbles, trying to divine the answers to all life’s questions on the inside of the soapy spheres. I was, stunningly enough, entirely unmolested. No heat-leaching ghosts, no shit-talking Overlord, not even a sexy interruption from Batten or my Cold Company. Suddenly, and for the first time ever, most of the answers came back to one common denominator: me.
I had never been more terrified.
Chapter 11
It came as a surprise when the three of us didn't board a ship at Hammerfest. Instead, the 4x4 the concierge hailed for us left the hotels and ships and lights of Hammerfest behind, forcing the driver to display some pretty nifty rally-driving chops as he tore up and down and around the mountain through the trees. Harry was openly complimentary of his skills, while I hung on for dear life to both the oh-shit handles and my lunch. Batten stared out the windows at the dim scenery blurring past us. By the time we slowed at an unmarked dirt road that had only recently been plowed, my breakfast and coffee had reached an uneasy truce with my duodenum.
The cab paused at a checkpoint, and then another, and then a third. The guards at each checkpoint were heavily armed, blank-faced humans dressed in bulky military-issue coats and fur-lined hats. They didn’t look directly at us, just vaguely counted bodies and ticked off numbers on their clipboards. Only at the last did one of them speak, and when he did, I thought it was in Russian. Harry produced his passport. The guard gave it a quick scan, glanced at Harry’s face very briefly, and the Blue Sense offered me a wash of his discomfort.
The last mile of the trip was done in almost complete darkness, and the plow that had pushed through ahead of us had mounded large piles of snow on either side, throwing it up against lush, green spruces, which were nearly black in the starlight. Our path was illuminated by the spare, jittering glow of a single headlight; the other had been taken out by a reindeer, the driver told us.
“Motor vehicles are not allowed at the Bitter Pass itself or the jiekngasaldi beyond because of the indigenous population,” Harry explained, removing his gloves one finger at a time and laying them across his lap. He took my hand and held it for warmth, and, to his credit, he barely grimaced at the faint remnants of pizza grease. “Despite the vast differences between us, the local inhabitants have a treaty with the Falskaar Vouras, and we will be permitted to pass on foot to the pier where Captain Rask will meet us. Please have your firearms ready for inspection and all your permits and your passports in your hand.”
We got out of the cab and Harry had one more word of advice. “Please, tempting though it may be, my chatterdove, do not speak unless spoken to, and only answer what you are asked.”
“Uh, how truthful should our answers be?” I wanted to know. “How much do these guys know?”
“You may be completely honest, ducky.” His gaze slid toward Batten. “Although Our Mark may not want to advertise what his occupation is, outside of serving our house and our needs.”
Batten opened his mouth to retort, but in the end, his offended lift of a single eyebrow did enough. Harry retracted the “serving our needs” bit, but I didn’t sense a whole lot of sincerity from my Cold Company.
I’d seen military posts before, and this one looked like any Eastern European border, with one swing gate and a guard hut. The surroundings were barren, and little of it was plowed. There hadn’t been a lot of activity here, and the snow was undisturbed in wide, drifting swaths. Our footsteps from the car to the door looked to be the first of the day, though it was at least eight P.M.
The hut was warmed by a noisy electric block heater and armed with two desks and two men; one Russian, one Norwegian. Their uniforms were so similar as to be interchangeable to my civilian eye: khaki parkas, matte metal buttons, heavy boots, and utility belts. Only their patches were different. We put our firearms and papers on the counter, but they didn’t seem interested in Batten’s Taurus and even less interested in my mini Cougar. They said something in unison that I assumed was a request for my passport, which the Norwegian took with a frown and turned away to rustle some paperwork in a very official-looking way that suggested it was entirely for show. I glanced up at Batten and shrugged. The Russian snatched Batten’s passport with similar concern, and muttered under his breath to his counterpart. They scanned a bunch of pictures on their computer monitors, and one of them kept back and forth from me to the monitor. I’d had my passport photo updated to reflect my unexpected change of hair coloring; I’d figured that would save me from a lot of hassle.
“These guys human?” Batten said to me under his breath.
“Far as I can tell, yeah,” I said, and snuck a peek at Harry, who was taking his time removing his passport from the inner pocket of his wool coat. “They’re not revenants, anyway.”
When Harry produced his, the confusion left the faces of both soldiers. The Russian jabbed his finger to an X in red duct tape on the cement floor. Harry’s quick sweeping step away from the red X should have been my first clue as to what was next. I went and stood on it obediently; when Captain Comrade pressed a button, he caught me wearing my oh-are-you-taking-my-picture nose squinch. The printer spat out my confused-looking face in black and white and the Norwegian affixed it to an empty peg board under the word innenfor. The Russian printed another and put it on his own matching board under a word in Cyrillic.
Batten followed suit, giving the camera’s eye a challenging go-ahead-fuckers look. I may have filed that defiant gaze away for not-thinking purposes later on, assuming I lived through this.
The Russian printed Batten's picture out and showed it to the Norwegian; they shared a chuckle, and then said something that sounded derogatory which made Harry’s lips twitch with amusement. They flapped their hands contemptuously at our guns without so much as a glance at our permits, so we reclaimed them. I got the distinct feeling they thought we wouldn’t need them… or that they wouldn’t do us much good.
In a heavily accented voice, the Russian asked me, “You are traveling together?” He flicked a finger between Batten and me.
“We are,” I confirmed.
“And what is the nature of your relationship?”
Stymied, I blurted, “glurk.” It wasn’t so long ago that a question like that wouldn’t have caused any sort of mental block. Nature of our relationship? Hell if I know. My words stuck in my throat as my wide eyes darted to Harry for assistance. “Umm…”
Batten supplied, “We serve House Dreppenstedt together.”
Harry didn’t look over, but I sensed a smug waft of agreement from where he was pretending to read the import restrictions notice on the wall of the hut. Batten had behaved exactly as expected, and Harry was tickled. I stared at the side of his face until Harry finally granted me the benefit of his eye contact. I let him see that I knew what he was thinking; in return, Harry gave the barest nod and went back to smiling in satisfaction at the wall.
Two more copies of our mug shots were printed and signed by each guard, quickly and efficiently laminated into little cards, and given to Harry. They spoke to Harry with professional respect, some spiel they went through by rote, and Harry nodded as though he’d heard the instructions a thousand times. Maybe he had.
Batten said quietly to me, “No hardware.”
I scanned for guns on the guards or around the hut and found none. I asked the Russian guy, “So how do you stop people from just walking around and going in without doing all this paperwork?”
“You like to try,” he waved his hand at the back door, “you do, see what happen.”
Harry shot me a disapproving glance and I said, “Pass.”
The Russian was sketching something. A map on a scrap of paper of a three-fo
rked trail through the woods across a slash of pencil that could have been a border, a river, a road, or his signature for all I knew. He shook it at me.
“This is how we do things in the far north?” I asked. “Okay, thanks. And where do we go?”
“Out.”
“Helpful,” I commented to Batten, who smirked at me.
“Just follow Harry,” he advised, but he didn’t seem any more confident about this than I was. Still, he wanted to go first, his chin jutted out in macho stubbornness. His legs were longer and his stride surer but my feet were quicker and we got there at the same time.
Batten and I stepped out the back door together, our shoulders mashed in the crowded frame, ignoring Harry’s sigh at our mutual obstinacy. I stuck my one leg way out so I could claim to have exited first, because I’m super brave like that. Batten twisted his big shoulders sideways and we squeezed out like the last splurtch of toothpaste from a tube.
The immediate other side of the post was an abrupt end to civilization, but that wasn't what stopped us as if we'd walked face-first into a second door. The lush greenery and bright light had not been the case ten feet behind us. A noisy brook cut through a thick stand of trees that had been invisible from the side from which we'd entered, trees that had no business in this area: flowering corkwood, almond, white frangipani, blue orchid, each hosting vines bursting with tropical flowers. I looked back at the guard post; it was still there, boring and functional, but the snow was nowhere to be seen, and there was no hint of winter ice on the glass.
It was as though the Green Man had got a wild hair up His ass one day and dropped a shielded pocket of hawthorn and ash and rowan wood in an otherwise harsh environment. Something about the gnarled hawthorns nagged me, but my eyes were drawn to something else that made my breath catch; it was daytime. Full sun. Batten and I stood in mutual bafflement while Harry moved around the roadblock of our bodies without pause or care, an elegant sweep of dark wool, his pale skin like alabaster in the sunlight.