by A. J. Aalto
We stepped into the room between two DaySitters in bright red bellhop uniforms with shiny brass buttons, a quirk I barely noticed as I dropped my go-bag at their feet without having to be asked. Batten relinquished his, too. I spared only a brief thought to where the heck Harry had disappeared to; standing directly beside Mark, but approaching Harry’s master as he lounged grandly in an elaborately carved baroque divan, there was no doubt to where my loyalties were. The low candlelight flickered in candelabra on stands, barely lighting a lavish room that did not distract from the sole entity of importance here. Wilhelm’s shade was the center of everyone’s attention, effortlessly drawing interest, radiating immortal power and the lure of centuries of understanding; this creature took one look at you and knew you. You could hide nothing from these eyes. He would know what you liked, what frightened you, what it would take to make you melt into his clutches. Under his roof, you were his. And this magnificent being, he belonged to you, and happily so, as your master, the hand that decided your fate.
I knew that one false move by Kill-Notch, and my body would move without thought to take Batten down. That idea might have seemed ridiculous in America, far from Felstein and the stronghold’s precious inhabitant, but here, less than twenty feet from the owner of my Cold Company’s soul, I knew I could put Kill-Notch right through a fucking wall if I had to.
Aren’t you a delight, said that same voice in my head, and my step faltered, though my heart took a great leap toward the warmth offered by that presence.
My, how they all underestimate you, it continued. That is a mistake I will never make, you may be sure of it.
Sweet words. Perfect words. Hope surged through me: was I being told what I had always wanted to hear? It didn’t sound right, but it sounded so damn good. I wanted to believe it. A fog of pleasure washed over me, a blissful, smoky haze that blurred the concept of reality. I forgot that Batten was walking with me beyond the vague notion that I came before my prince beside a possibly-unfriendly thing that may or may not need to be stopped.
Come to me. Kneel before your Master and serve, My Delight.
I hurried forward to do so. In a daze, I was aware that my cold, wet Keds were squeaking on the stone floor as I picked up the pace and left my companion (he had a name, he’s a little dangerous, never mind him now, Master awaits me…) behind, and that same someone was saying my name, calling me back.
I was almost to his divan when Tara hooked me by the elbow and swung me around. “Hey, where are you going?”
My first instinct was to slap her and slap her hard. The phantasm corrected her behavior before I could. “Let her approach, Tara. There is no danger. Go help Jane prepare my bath.”
Tara would obey, though she did not want to; I could see that in her face. Her smile slid for only a second then rebounded at me as brightly as before. She hooked her arm through mine and brought me closer to her, and I could smell the sour stench of jealousy on her long before the Blue Sense could report it.
“I’m surprised to see you enter this room without your companion,” she said lightly.
The curl of her lips told me she knew something I didn’t, and immediately put me on the defensive. Was I supposed to wait for Harry to catch up? Had I already screwed up the etiquette? Impossible; Wilhelm had called to me, invited me, and my guts churned with the need to present myself before him. Tara dropped the other shoe with a little purr of pleasure.
“Lord Guy must be visiting. I’m sure the temptation to see his other DaySitter is unbearable.” Seeing her blow land with impact in the loosening of my jaw, her smile rebounded yet again. “I’ve got chores. Off I go!”
Other DaySitter? I reeled back, cold to the bone with the idea that Harry had someone else. Someone here. Someone back home? Was I nothing more than an illicit nibble? It can’t be true, I reasoned. Harry calls me his Own, his only one, in addition to eighteen thousand other cutesy things. Was that all a cover? Was I a side dish?
Hush now, My Delight, and kneel. The prince’s voice washed across my mind like warm water, rinsing away even the notion of dismay. I turned again to face the ancient shade lying on his divan.
This was a much stronger phantasm than the figure I had seen in the forest at Shaw’s Fist, but it did not fool me; Wilhelm himself was elsewhere in Felstein, safe and secure, and no doubt well-guarded. When I focused harder on him, it occurred to me that he might even be resting in wraith-state, enjoying the last remnants of a very deep feed, letting his fugue lighten to wake in time for the meeting at Skulesdottir. The lines around his eyes deepened and he cocked his head, reminding me of a crow or a grackle spotting movement in the dirt to peck at.
Batten caught up to me and I felt him take my elbow as Tara had.
“Settle down there, Snickerdoodle. Take a second.” His breath was hot on the side of my face. “What would Harry say?”
“Froo-fritty-froo-froo yammerty hammerty,” I reminded him.
“Very funny.” Batten lowered his chin and looked at me through his dark lashes. “Don’t fuck everything up.”
Tara’s words (Visiting… other DaySitter) nagged me like an insect buzzing in my ear, but nothing could be wrong here at the foot of my prince. I was suddenly very aware of the heat in my body, the rushing stream of warm blood coursing through my veins, life-giving blood, and I felt powerful and small at the same time. “Under His wing, I would begin the long walk of the lost,” Harry had once said. I understood in a rush what had tempted Harry to accept such a journey, why he had bent his neck to this immortal, and why he thought of his master the way he did. (He who had stopped the hands of time to mark a place in history with my soul.)
Wilhelm’s phantasm smiled at me, and I knew I was pleasing him; something about me amused him. How was that possible? Did Harry give him regular reports? Was it called the Screw-Up Tapes? The Overlord would likely find that pretty damn funny, too. The prince picked up on the direction of my thoughts and pushed his voice into my brain again. It felt like frozen corpse fingers drawing words in my grey matter. You will obey the call of our UnResting Father and accept His blessings and my own.
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stuck with the familiar. “Death Rejoices, glorious elder, cherished master of the grave, keeper of the gift of immortality.”
He replied formally, outside my head this time. “Hail, honored DaySitter. Centuries untold celebrate your gift of submission. Come to your Master. Bring me your heart. I would taste you.”
I hesitated. Taste? I had a vision of him ripping my heart out of my chest and chowing down, or sinking fang directly into my chest, right through my sternum if he wanted to. I remembered the force of Malas’s phantasm blowing through the safety glass in noisy shards to retrieve Anne Bennett-Dixon from the hospital. I knew Wilhelm’s phantasm could feed from me, but was this something I should allow? Could I refuse? I was very aware of Batten’s critical attention.
Then I heard Harry clear his throat behind me, and all thought of questioning the order (or where Harry had gone, for that matter) disappeared immediately. I shrugged off Batten’s hand, and felt his fingers twitch as though he was considering holding on tighter. I swept closer, smelling a heavy, crisp lemon scent I’d never smelled before. Or have you, Marnie? Isn’t that Harry’s 4711 cologne? It was. Blended with the heavy scent of Wilhelm’s burnt sugar power, fresh wood polish on his carved divan, and something unfamiliar, the smell was cloying; tart and sweet and oily, it coated the roof of my mouth. When his phantom hand reached for me, my scalp bristled and an icy wash flowed outward from him and hit my shins, sluiced around my knees. The hand passed over my glove and pressed further, making all the bones in my hand ache with the cold. I held my hand out to him, palm first, and if he had been solid, we’d have been performing the slowest high five in history. His eyelids fluttered closed; he drew from me in a palpable tug at my insides. It wrenched a little squeak from me.
Thank you, My Delight, the prince pushed into my head, releasing me. “I see that my Guy is o
beying my order to cease denying you his intimacy. This has strengthened your Bond and your Talents. I think you will find that I am pleased.”
I gave my hand a reinvigorating squeeze to get the circulation moving again as I felt Harry get closer, and wondered what Kill-Notch was thinking about that whole intimacy bit. My focus was reaching equilibrium as the mesmerizing draw of Wilhelm’s phantasm began to fade. For the first time, I noticed we were not alone; there were small round café tables to my left, lit by candles, around which several DaySitters lounged and picked away at something that looked like giant Fig Newtons on plates. Scattered among them, decked in old velvet, aging lace, and in some cases threadbare felt, were revenants old enough that their true ages wouldn’t matter; at a certain point, they reached a plateau of power, the primeval ones, masters of their talent, like fully charged batteries, crackling with potential. Next to Wilhelm, they were obedient shadows, potent allies, but more than that: bloodkin, sharing the chrome-flash Talents of the Dreppenstedt line. At a quirk of his finger, Wilhelm could have them launching through the air and on our throats before we knew what was happening. Despite never being able to Feel Kill-Notch psychically, I knew I was sensing exactly the flavor of fear going through him this moment.
Harry seemed in no rush to greet or introduce or speak to any of us. He removed his pince nez from the pocket of his jacket and used his monogrammed handkerchief to polish the lenses, taking time to huff on each delicately. Harry was resplendent in his black velvet jacket with the high lace collar; I understood now where he’d disappeared to. Ever the dandy, he’d popped out of his travel duds and into something snazzy.
“All shall fall before the Raven of Night, my Master.”
“As all have fallen before the Father,” Wilhelm answered formally, “and the unhallowed throne.”
“Might I formally introduce to the house my DaySitter, Dr. Marnie Baranuik, though she has rushed ahead to make her first impressions without me.” Harry touched his buttons with fine, delicate fingers. “How thoughtless it was of me to take a moment to preen like a common popinjay.”
Harry gave me a head-to-toe glance that was tolerant and not surprised. “How comfortable you look, my angel. It's lovely that you're not burdened with an overabundant concern for fashion.”
“I’m not comfortable,” I disagreed, shooting him a look. I just got Felt up by a prince and you— according to Tara, the friendly neighborhood knob-gobbler—have this other DaySitter. Comfort is not a luxury I’m enjoying right now.
One of Harry’s eyebrows crooked up playfully, and his three platinum brow rings twitched. In a room full of primeval creatures bearing the burden of time’s own weight, Harry seemed spry, the picture of youthful health, lacking the care he usually wore like a yoke.
“My MJ is displeased. Point out that which vexes you, my starry sky, my strength, my future, and let me be the force of your retribution.” He dropped his voice. “Have you heard our Master’s voice inside your head?”
That wasn’t what was bothering me, but I nodded. He smiled sympathetically and eyed Wilhelm’s phantasm over my shoulder, raising his voice. “My pet, what a fuss she does make. My apologies, your grace, if her discomfort is Felt by all.”
Discomfort, my ass. (“He must be visiting… his other DaySitter…”) Ugh. Tara. I hated her already. I couldn’t wait to give her a real piece of my mind. I ignored the subject, turning to a more interesting thought.
“So, when do we get to see you in your full, uh… glory?” I asked the prince.
Wilhelm’s phantasm gave Batten the hairy eyeball.
“This man is not the Second you meant to bring,” Wilhelm said. “Explain the change, won’t you?” It wasn't a question.
Golden’s sick, I nearly lied, but fibbing to a creature this old was unwise. Even the new dead could taste a lie. “Jerkface here tracked us to Norway. We didn’t think it was safe to go on without him, because he’d probably just track us further.”
“And what led you to believe he could do so?”
I took a deep breath and confessed, “He’s Mark Batten, the vampire hunter.”
If Wilhelm had heard the name, or had any concerns, he did not show it.
“Few have breached the Bitter Pass without guidance,” Wilhelm said, eyeing Batten up and down, “but your consideration for my safety is noted, DaySitter. Guy?”
“My Master,” Harry replied.
“We will dine together this evening when I wake, just you and I and Carole Jeanne. Until that time, Jane and Tara will see you settled into adjoining rooms. The item you requested from storage has been placed there; Carole Jeanne was happy to lend it.”
I Felt Harry warm happily at the mention of this name, and could not hide my jealousy; it spilled, unwelcome, through the Bond, and I wrestled it away as best I could. Harry shot me a troubled, guilt-laden look that I ignored.
Chapter 14
Harry didn’t need to be shown to the room — after all, it was his Felstein bedroom — but Tara insisted on dragging the girl Jane with all of us and chatting my ear off about life at the stronghold. She yammered on about the banner, and the falling raven symbol and the never-closing eye, and the dress that she had fetched. I pretended to ignore her completely, feigning indifference; she was attempting to prick me, and I wasn’t going to allow any more of that if I could help it. She was playing sneaky, plausibly-deniable games. If I called her on any of the unspoken bullshit she was dropping, she could easily sidestep and claim she hadn’t meant to bother me. Jane radiated discomfort. The Blue Sense also reported Jane’s awkward relief; perhaps she was normally the target of Tara’s bile. When we arrived, Harry interrupted her with a wave of his pale hand.
“Please do show our brawny lad to the next room, ladies.”
Batten cast me a questioning look when Jane invited him to follow Tara and her. I nodded that he’d be fine. Seeing Kill-Notch clingy was tiring but understandable.
“Ah, there it is. Come, angel,” Harry said.
I approached the bed with a mix of dread and wonder. Palest blue velvet parted to reveal cream silk, and gold and silver metallic thread. At the wrists were three angled layers of frilly lace, the trim embroidered in a small, off-white floral pattern into the light blue. The dress had an unusually high, starched collar that would no doubt stand straight up like wings on either collarbone. This, too, was trimmed with soft, floral lace accented with gold and silver threads. The boning along the V-shaped bodice would no doubt thrust my chest upward and choke me with what little boob-flesh I had. This was a genuine rococo court dress for a lady; I felt completely unequal to the task of wearing it. How would I pull it off with my black braids shot through with a turquoise stripe? Would it be long enough to hide my red berry Keds? Without a fashion intervention, I was going to look ridiculous. Harry started laying out pieces of the dress like a puzzle on the bed.
He practically giggled as he began sifting pieces of the dress into piles. “Now, let’s see if I remember how this all goes together… so many layers. I do hope the stays fit well. These ties are so delicate, I’d hate to pull too hard and snap one.”
“Whose dress was this, Harry?” Who is Carole Jeanne, and why am I wearing her dress?
His hand only paused over a bit of lace on an undersleeve for a split second, and if I’d blinked, I’d have missed the flicker of sadness across his brow. “That should in no way concern you.”
“It does. Harry, you know that even after all this time, there could be emotional remnants from the past owner on this garment. If I put it on next to my skin, I could psychometrically Feel her. I’d like to be prepared for what that might entail, that’s all.” I looked at the style, the cut, the fabric. I put the clues together. “It’s… is it French?”
“Please do not press the matter. I think you shall find there are no emotional remnants attached to this particular article. I has been stored for a very long time.”
“It’s not from Mary-Perry?”
“I have asked you not
to call her by that ludicrous sobriquet,” Harry reminded me gently. He had, many times, asked me not to call his first DaySitter, Marie-Pierrette D’Elissalde, by anything other than her name, but I found it difficult to do so; maybe it made her too real to me.
“And it didn’t belong to your mother, because your parents were simple people and would not have had a need for so extravagant a garment.” I studied the velvet, the intricate embroidery. “Even still, you kept it, so the owner must have been important to you.”
“You must allow, this is one mystery that shall go unsolved, my pet,” he insisted gently but firmly, whisking the dress away in a clumsy shuffle that was not at all like him. My jealousy had him flustered, but he was not prepared to discuss Carole Jeanne. He flicked a piece of velvet upside down, squinted at it, then turned it the other way and fastened a button.
Tara returned with Jane, who had a tea tray. I smelled the rich scent of coffee and was suddenly more tired than I’d been in a long time. Tara had changed into a navy sheath dress and pearls for dinner, looking fresh and elegant.
“Boy, these Felstein DaySitters have it made,” I said. “This is their life? Dressing pretty and hanging around? Do they get Netflix up here? I could get used to this.”
Harry’s gaze was inscrutable. “Oh, dear, is that what you think? Bless.”
“So, what have you guys got to eat around here?” I asked Tara. “They do feed you, yes?”
“Of course. We eat nutrimatrix every single day, as much as we like.”
I shot Harry a questioning look and saw his lips twitch upward in a miniscule smirk. “Did she just say she ate The Matrix? Because I really hope that’s what she said. Just not the pureed-baby part of it; the imaginary Filet Mignon, I could probably deal with, though.”