Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  The three-headed outline melted before our eyes as Asmodeus moved fully into our reality, softening once more into the lean, dark-haired fallen angel with the glittering eyes, flaunting His magnificent King of Lust form, radiating sensuality with every confident step, whetting thirsts, waking libidos, the fountainhead of the immortal and infernal grace I saw daily in my own revenant. He raised the Stonecaller’s obsidian mace and placed it gently on one of my shoulders and then the other. His head darted forward to impart a secret on a whisper. He repeated this act with Declan. Having performed His theatrics for all to see, He announced, “Sound the hunts up. Our knights are now fair game. You have seven days. Let all the Earth become a hunting ground!”

  I glared at the demon king as He vanished, struggling to my feet with the help of Declan’s extended arm. “I gotta get out of these duds if I’m going to have free motion, and you need out of the knickerbockers and lederhosen. Let’s get our asses to Felstein, super-quick.”

  “Right behind you, Dr. B.,” Declan vowed, waving Batten over.

  For a moment, from the way his arms were crossed stubbornly and his feet were planted wide, it looked like Batten was considering staying right where he was, standing sentinel over Harry’s statue. I didn’t dare get close to House Dreppenstedt’s banner. The upset from that side of the throne room was choking, even more so than the slow burn all around me from others. Only Carole Jeanne was composed. She peered at me from around the stone covered shoulder of the master of our house; the look she sent me was concern without condemnation, but it was tempered with something else, too. Carole Jeanne would protect Harry in my absence with the same devotion she showed her Wilhelm. I didn’t doubt that one bit. She would step smoothly into my place, the very place she had vacated years ago.

  Seven days. Fair game. I tried to send confidence through the Bond to Harry, but what I got back was a muddled mixture of worry, warning, and distress. I moved so that I was directly in front of Harry’s frozen eyes, flashed him thumbs up, and the number seven, and crossed my heart then blew him a kiss. I could have sworn I saw his lips twitch disapprovingly, and would have given anything to hear him explode with his “Odd’s Splutter!” and “Shruff and Cinders!” or, depending on his degree of aggravation, his furious French whispering, slightly sibilant around extended fangs. I shot my Cold Company finger-guns anyway and started a confident march to the exit, where my new buddy Netta of House Buryshkin stood to say farewell. She had something to offer guests on the way out; it looked like a bowl of fortune cookies. Made sense to me. Who doesn’t like a fortune cookie?

  Netta didn’t say farewell, though. She looked stunned, eyes wide, and mouthed, “Heads up, incoming.”

  My eyes darted to both sides and caught a body strutting to my left. Sayomi intercepted me before I could reach Netta, falling into step beside me. “Think you can roll up in here and fuck everything up?”

  “Fucking everything up is kind of my deal,” I said. “Ask around. You’ll see.”

  “Smart lip. It’s gonna get you in trouble.”

  I couldn’t really deny that, so I didn’t bother. Declan hurried forward to make sure he was right at my shoulder, maybe in case fists started flying.

  “You’re going to need a lot more help,” Sayomi said.

  “You cross me,” I warned, “and you’re gonna need a lot more plastic surgery.”

  “I intend to put my master on the throne,” she said. “Our Infernal Father has made it clear that the only way to do that is to destroy your attempts with Remy, and destroy Guy Harrick as well. You’re the key to both of those acts. You’re mine, doctor. I’ll see you in the Olmdalur.”

  “Oooookay, then.” I gave her a what-the-fuck-ever eye roll. “Sounds like a date. See ya there, sugartits!”

  She tossed her head back to fake-laugh, and fell away to attend her white fox, while bodies began to drift away from their house banners to trace my steps. I felt like any second, the crowd was going to break and rush me; once one started, it would be a free-for-all, with me as the juicy target.

  “I think she likes me,” I said to Declan. “What do you think? Should I send her a Valentine?”

  “Might try a poison one,” he advised. From deep in my belly, another odd horf-horf laugh bubbled up. Declan noted it with a lopsided smile. “Dig the new chortle, Dr. B.”

  “I missed having an assistant,” I confessed to Batten. “I like having a minion.”

  Batten just glared at me. At least he was joining me for the moment. I wondered if this meant he was on board with the quests. I wasn’t ready to hear him confirm or deny it.

  We hurried back to Felstein through the dark and bitter cold as fast as we could, looking over our shoulders the entire way. It was only a matter of time before DaySitters from other houses began their mission to stop us. Did “stop” mean “kill?” I felt like a target had been painted on the back of my head. Were any of these people armed with guns? Once we were safely in Harry’s suite, we grabbed our go-bags and began sorting out what we’d need to take with us.

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad,” I said.

  Declan stared at me agog and stage-whispered, “I nominated against House Nazaire. I was made a knight. I’m going on a quest!”

  “Three quests,” I corrected, though that didn’t seem to help.

  “How did this happen, Dr. B? We were just going to say her name and that was that!”

  I nodded sadly. “Well, demons, am I right?” I offered, as if that explained everything. When he shook his head in horrified confusion, I elaborated. “You know how He is. Nothing is free. Nothing comes without monkey business. Plus, the Overlord loves treasures. Everyone knows that. Hey, at least we got titles.”

  Declan’s grimace soured further. “Yeah, I’m Sir Declan Edgar the Abominable.”

  “Wanna trade?” Asmodeus had dubbed me Sir Marnie of Toots. I didn’t know if “toots” bothered me more or less than “sir.”

  “Dr. B., all the other houses have been disqualified. Those DaySitters are pissed off. Not to mention that a few of the DaySitters in your own house didn’t look too pleased.”

  This had not escaped my notice. “Yeah.”

  “He said all bets are off. We’re fair game.” Declan traded his old-timey clothing for some of Harry’s fine grey trousers and an off-white, cable knit sweater. “Some of them will come for us.”

  Some? I expected most would. Sayomi had all but promised. I shed my pale blue court dress quickly and shoved my legs into jeans, hauling a plain black t-shirt over my head and layering it with a grey sweatshirt. I chopped a good four inches off my ghost hair and tied the remaining into two tight braids. As always, the turquoise lock at my temple flopped out across my left eye disobediently. Passing on my puffy pink parka, I chose Harry’s wool coat with all the hidden pockets inside. I shook the pockets to make sure I had jiekngasaldi coins for the Lord High Treasurer of the Bitter Pass and heard the reassuring jingle. A quick count with gloved fingers tallied seven. Seven coins should do it. I was about to ditch his rumpled pack of menthol cigarettes and lighter, but decided against that. I added two extra pairs of leather gloves to the pockets and stole Harry’s grey vicuna scarf, wrapping it high around my throat.

  I glanced at Kill-Notch to judge the level of his pissed-offedness by the ripples in his jaw muscles. He had escaped the unexpected demon knighthood by virtue of being completely mortal and therefore unworthy of the attentions of Asmodeus; it was sort of amazing to me that ol’ Flesh Skirt had not once remarked up on the fact that he’d had a notorious vampire hunter in his court; then again, “notorious” wasn’t the right word from the perspective of Asmodeus. Maybe Kill-Notch wasn’t even a blip on the demon king’s radar, beneath notice or mention, a non-entity, not nearly the threat that I felt Mark was, and much less the threat Harry treated him as.

  A second glance at Kill-Notch revealed that possibility, and I saw him abruptly as a guy, some dude, and only human. It was a first, and it took me aback. Sure, he was physica
lly interesting, but he was just a man. When I blinked hard, I saw him again as Hotass Batten, that hard-bodied hunk I kept on a pedestal.

  “We’d better lay low and sneak out if we can,” Declan suggested.

  Batten glared at both of us. These three added tasks had not added a sense of adventure to his life, and the fact that I’d volunteered him for it was clearly not sitting well. I should have left him in Hammerfest. I should have brought Golden, I thought, but on the heels of that was, He followed us. We didn’t drag him here. I opened my mouth to apologize, regardless, and to suggest that he stay behind with Harry, but the ridiculous notion of leaving Batten unattended at Felstein stalled my tongue.

  “Let me see this so-called quest of yours,” Batten demanded. I handed it over without having looked at it.

  I turned to Declan. “Onward, Sancho Panza!”

  Declan squawked. “How come I have to be the sidekick?”

  “I can’t be the sidekick,” I said. “This was my idea.”

  “You blamed me!”

  I smirked. “Every hero knows you blame the bad ideas on the sidekick.”

  “Not to point out the obvious,” Batten said, “but is it safe to waltz out the way we came?”

  Nope. I said, “Tara said there was a back door.” And Harry said not to take the back door. “We might have to find that.” No, no, no.

  Declan gave an uncertain groan, though he followed me when I led a curious Batten back out into the wind. Felstein was close enough to Skulesdottir that we could see through a fine white blur of new snow slanting between the strongholds. I waited for a second, teeth chattering, until I was sure the snow was the only thing moving out there. Where were the rest of the DaySitters? Had they decided to have a meeting? Was it dubbed the Kill Marnie Convention? I motioned for the men to follow me and started stealthily zooming toward the entrance to Skulesdottir, fully prepared to change course if need be. I held a hand up to pause at the front door, peeked inside, and gave the hall a visual sweep. No motion, no bodies. I didn’t know if that was good or bad. We rushed past the court room and found ourselves in the kitchen, following Tara’s directions as best I could from memory. I figured I probably wouldn't be hopelessly lost for a good five, maybe even six minutes yet. We arrived at a set of stairs that went down, but they were deceiving; three steps in, they smoothed to a ramp. In the darkness that fell just beyond the ramp, the air was thick with smoke.

  “That’s not an exit, is it?” Batten crossed his considerably large arms and shook his head slowly back and forth. “I’m not going down there.”

  “The Brain Squad will scout ahead and check the terrain,” I said. “The Brawn Crew can watch our backs.”

  The shaft was hot, dry, and shadowy, leading along an angled slope into a cavern; below, I could hear a familiar sound, but it took me a minute to place it. Dinging, clicks, excited chittering. Casino slots. Asmodeus was the Banker at the Baccarat Table in Hell’s second circle; we’d found the quiet, dusty gambling house where living humans should be on the black book, and where I had no intention of anteing up any time soon.

  “At least it’s a dry heat?” I said.

  “This was not a good plan. I don’t think we should be here, Dr. B.”

  “Me neither.” I choked, and waved him in the direction we’d just come from.

  “This was a wrong turn. A very wrong turn.”

  “Can’t talk. My uvula is sweating.” I choke-coughed.

  Declan agreed, “My soul just threw up in my mouth a little.”

  “Why is it so dark down here?” I patted out with a gloved hand to find a wall. “I can barely see a thing.”

  “Uh, Dr. B, the things that live down here don’t need light.”

  “Oh. Right. But they don’t need money, either. Has anyone ever asked Three-Face why he bothers dealing cards in Hell? Also, are there third-card-rules down here?” Now I could hear little sounds, curious shiftings in the corners, a dry slither of something inching closer, an investigative snuffle. “Yeah, time to retreat.”

  Batten had remained firmly rooted to his spot in the kitchen, as if he’d known we’d come scrambling back to the relative safety of his company in a second. Either that, or he’d smelled danger and wasn’t chronically stupid. He pushed off the table he’d been leaning on and looked at us as if to say “done with your jaunt?”

  “Next door,” I suggested, and passed the pantry. “Come on, boys, we got this.”

  I rounded the corner just in time to see something grey and shiny coming directly at my face.

  Chapter 21

  I ducked, but not fast enough. The flat underside of a shovel clipped me in the forehead and glanced off my noggin to hit the wall with a ringing clang. I reeled back, blinded by pain. I felt Batten surge into motion as my own training kicked in; I jammed my right foot forward and connected with my assailant’s knee, then launched up and grabbed for the shovel blade, giving a hard twist. The Blue Sense roared to life strong enough to raise goosebumps; there were more angry bodies approaching.

  Whoever it was, their grip was too strong, so I shoved the blade edge as hard as I could. The shovel handle lurched sharply toward their mouth; I heard the wet crack of teeth breaking and the skittering noise of enamel chips hitting the floor. He howled and bolted back, stumbling away.

  Batten moved to give chase, but I grabbed his arm.

  “No time. Leave it. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.” I cupped my throbbing forehead. “While we can.”

  “That was Lyubomir Yordanov,” Declan said, leading us down the east-facing corridor. “Elana Vulvolak’s Second.”

  Vulvolak and Sarokhanian, sittin’ in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. “And that’s why it’s time to hit the ice, Irish. He won’t be the last.” And I don’t wanna kill anyone if I can avoid it.

  “Nice shot,” Batten admitted.

  “I’m a big fan of my work,” I agreed. “I’ll text Hood later. He’ll be so proud.”

  “Hit him with his own shovel,” he noted.

  “My take on a classic,” I said. “Next time, maybe he’ll think twice and come at me with a pillow.”

  We came to a small room jam packed with what first appeared to be junk; old brass cups piled on dusty tables, oil paintings and sketched portraits draped with drop cloths, shadow boxes with diplomas that had yellowed and strings of what appeared to be tarnished military medals on faded ribbons. There was pianola music on a punched metallic roll, but no player piano. Beside a basket of old dollies with scuffed porcelain faces and eyes missing paint, there was a bottle containing a preserved, three-headed lizard that might have been a baby albino dragon from a long-extinct species. In a clear Lucite box, there was a dented crown with missing stones. It may have at one time been gorgeous; here, forgotten, it looked like a flea market find.

  “Declan, what is this place?” I asked.

  “I heard my master refer to the ‘king’s collection’ once. Things he acquired. Things that had meaning for him. Perhaps this is it? Oh. Oh dear.”

  “You sound like Harry,” I commented, following him to a big metal cabinet with big hinges, standing upright in a corner. There was a small window in it like the slotted visor of a helmet. “What is it?”

  “The Silver Maiden. A torture device for revenants dating back to the twelfth century. This might be the only one still in existence. Most of the silver spikes were short, designed to go into the flesh and hurt, burn, but not kill. The one near the heart was replaceable with a longer one that would sink in deeply enough to kill if the door was cranked all the way closed.”

  “Like the Iron Maiden, but different?” I went to open the latch and swing the one half open to see, but Declan touched my gloved hand and shook his head.

  “Please. I don’t want to see this.”

  His green eyes showed trouble before he turned away and I let it go. He wandered to a heavy oak slab with a knob in the very center.

  “Back door?” Batten said.

  No way do I want a shovel shoved t
here. I didn’t want to nod, because I knew this was going to be a hard road; if it had been a good choice, Tara never would have suggested it, and Harry wouldn't have warned against it.

  Harry. I hesitated, torn. The pain in my temple faded as I let a wash of worry rush in from the Bond; I was leaving him in good hands, wasn’t I? Carole Jeanne and House Dreppenstedt had his back, right? Who would stay behind from the other houses? Would any of them try to mess with the revenants imprisoned in their statues?

  “He’ll be fine,” Batten predicted.

  “I know,” I said, but the look on his face said he wasn’t buying it. “Back door,” I repeated, pushing past the men.

  We weren’t half a mile outside of Skulesdottir when it became clear that someone or something was definitely ahead of us in the Olmdalur. I took both of my leather gloves off despite the cold and put them in the pockets of Harry’s wool coat, trying to summon psi under my palms. As it snapped to life in the frigid air, my clairempathy offered up resentment, apprehension, and a need for retribution coming from north of us, as well as behind us to the west, and misery, rejection, and appetite from directly ahead. More than one source. Declan cut his eyes at me, sensing the rise of power, and nodded once to agree with the dread on my face. The full extent of the dhampir’s powers was still a mystery to me but this was no time to sit down for an explorative chat on the topic.

  I elbowed Batten’s arm to alert him to the possible danger ahead, though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the trouble. Though mundane, Kill-Notch hadn’t missed anything; he’d noted the shift in our body language, spotted footprints where the ice wasn’t a bare plane, and was braced for confrontation. To be fair, he always expected confrontation. He didn’t break stride as he checked the clip in his Taurus and returned it to its holster. By habit, he double-patted his back pocket, where his tactical folding knife was normally tucked. Batten had laced his throat and wrist with holy water that he stored in glass Brut cologne bottles to deter the unruly mouths of revenants. Normally, he would also have had a hand-carved stake in an ankle sheath. I wondered if he felt naked without rowan wood, on this glacier-capped island of the undead.