by A. J. Aalto
A bark of alarm cut the air from ahead and to our left; a series of horrible, sharp sounds, like Old Scratch had caught his dick in his zipper. I spotted movement in the distance; a streak of something white and strappy skulking behind the jumbled snow and ice. The jingle of buckles echoed over rock. The straightjacket. The white-blond hair.
I muttered, “Folkenflik.”
A light skein of snow swept across our path, making a gritty sound as it flew along, scouring the ice before us. As the ground sloped upwards, walking became more difficult; though we stuck to the road, we slipped and skidded along. It had clearly been maintained at some point, and the snow drifts were light and easy to avoid, but the hard ice that glittered in the asphalt laid in wait to ambush an unwary heel. I was glad I’d chosen the Keds today; though my toes were frozen, my rubbery soles were at least somewhat grippy. We switched to walking single file. I took the lead, with Declan watching the rear. Batten tromped behind me despite grumbling about how he should take point.
Beyond us was a narrow passage between two jagged hills. The icy shelf became a sharp corner, and we shuffled cautiously around it as the Blue Sense swelled beneath my palms. The scent of burnt sugar on the wind alerted me to the awakening of revenants nearby. Not possible. They’re behind us, coated in stone, waiting for us to return. I tried not to think about my Harry being part of that museum-like display, guarded by the honor of the court at Skulesdottir and the Stonecaller’s watchful eye. There was revenant power here, all around us, sharp and ready. But where? My teeth started chattering again, while my heart picked up the pace to hammer in my chest.
The valley that opened over the rise before us was a jagged wasteland of untouched ice and snow; in the middle of this cold depression was a black wrought iron gate marked with Latin script. The iron fence enclosed a wide square filled with snow. To the south of the fenced-in area were corrugated metal shipping containers, their rust and paint flaking in the wind, and if they had once sat squarely on their bottoms, they had not done so for a while. Snow had gathered under the angles. Within the iron gates were snowcapped mausoleums, weathered stone houses raised to hold…what, exactly?
The curling wrought iron on the gate read Non misit umbra. When I paused to read it, Batten shot me a frustrated scowl. Declan paced nervously, eyes wide.
I translated, “Cast no shadow. This is where the undead keep their dead.” Above ground graves must house urns and ashes. The gate at the road was open, a lock and chain hanging from the rods, coldly clanging in the slight, icy breeze. I checked my watch: two in the afternoon. The novelty of not seeing the sun above the horizon had not yet worn off. I’d never get used to this polar night shit. It felt like dusk, with the anticipation of twilight pressed behind it.
“We should give this graveyard a wide berth,” Declan suggested, his voice low. “I don’t like the way it smells.”
“There can't be anything remotely alive in there,” I muttered.
“Not so sure,” Declan said.
Batten glanced behind us. “We’re in a hurry.”
Something drew me to the gate, and I craned up at the Latin script again. Within the small gated area was a wide swath of revenant history, and I knew Declan would have loved to spend ages exploring the names and family links even more than I would. Maybe another time, when we weren't running for our butts and on impossible quests. I pulled Harry’s cigarette-scented scarf up around my nose and wondered if House Rask was represented in the crowded rows of mausoleums. Crowned Prince of an empty house. The master of a bloodline that went nowhere. A cold soul forever at sea.
“Marnie,” Declan said softly, his tone agreeing with Batten. I knew they were right, and came away from the enclosed area with regret.
We circled outside the cemetery boundaries, though that meant our off road steps were less certain through ankle-deep, freshly fallen powder. Several times, I tried to get a look at the inscriptions and epitaphs carved in the stones. I caught sight of the name Cross more than once, and one of the mausoleums had a giant, three-headed dragon monument mounted atop it like a stone guardian that I would have bet money belonged to one or more of the Gold-Drake revenants. As we came to the opposite end of the high, black fence, I saw a fresh stone tomb with a door propped open. Inside, I could see a small bench and an empty cubby where an urn might sit; the name engraved in the stone outside was Gregorius, House Nazaire, Pannonia. The date read AD 449-2013. Shame hit me in the gut and I looked away, but not quickly enough. I felt my lips pull down into a grimace to hold back the unhappiness, and I remembered what Harry had said about Gregori, the Ostrogothic chieftain, a man serving Valamir, who had battled the sons of Attila the Hun. Malas had taken Gregori at the Dardanelles, what would have been called the Hellespont at the time. Gregori, whom I had met in a cellar and had helped to escape his insane DaySitter. Gregori, who had been draining Ruby Valli of blood by my dock as they thrashed in the water. Gregori, whom I had staked, and whose ashes now resided in a Kermit the Frog cookie jar on top of my fridge. He belonged here, I knew, in the final resting place the undead had made for their own kind.
Batten had seen the inscription, and I felt him move to walk beside me, putting his broad body between me and the fence, cutting off my view. “You had no choice,” he said, as though reading my mind.
“Is that what you tell yourself when you do it?” I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.
“I’m not making excuses to you,” he said. “You know what I am and what I do, and why. I’ve never hidden any of that.”
It was an old argument, and one that would likely never be settled between us. He knew I wished there had been another way with Gregori. He knew I had doubts and regrets. Batten didn’t share my regrets about Gregori’s end; I wonder if he had ever regretted one of his slayings, if there was a hash mark that he wished he’d never had to get. Immediately following that was the suspicion that the answer would be no. Killing monsters wasn’t just a job for Batten; it was all he knew.
I felt better once we’d moved past the cemetery, except for the creepy impression of being watched; the Blue Sense reported that there were still many conflicted emotions around us. We were not alone. I thought I heard a bang, and the rattle of chains from the south.
The shipping containers. One of them had the surname “Renault” punched into the metal; the only Renault I knew of was Reginald Davidoff Renault, the revenant who had first allowed science to test his immortal body, thereby proving the existence of “vampires” to the world at large. Had he been punished for this deed by being shut away in a shipping container to starve in the cold, his prison wrapped in silver chains with little crosses?
Thumping inside. Metal bulging outward. There were no living creatures in those containers; the yawning emptiness that was a signature of the undead gave it away.
Revenants.
“What is this?” Batten asked warily. “What is this place, Marnie?”
I wasn’t sure, but I knew instantly that Tara had wanted us to find it. Tara, who had lost her revenant. Tara, whose Talent, despite being supported by the house feeds, was slipping away. I’d met a psychic who had lost her revenant before; Danika Sherlock had been going mad, desperate to replace her companion, George, who had been staked by off-duty NYPD officers thinking they were doing the city a favor. Tara belonged at House Dreppenstedt, and there she would stay, but I had no doubt now that her excitement at seeing me was many layered. She’d wanted me to see this.
One of the containers rocked to one side with a noisy thump. I focused the Blue Sense empathetically and began pushing my Talent outward, probing. Was I misjudging Tara’s intentions? Was there something else here she wanted me to find? Her revenant was supposed to have died. But had he gone wild? Feral? Was he in one of these containers? Shame from the house would have kept that from being voiced; being unable to keep your revenant companion safe and sane was, in some circles, worse than not protecting him from a final demise.
These were not angry thumps. I
didn’t feel rage, though I did feel an unthinking, visceral level of frustration. Something wild and bestial. Something untamed.
And above all that, coming in like an unstoppable tide: hunger. Declan sensed it too. “They’ve been locked up out here.”
“What has?” Batten asked.
“Who,” I corrected. “Revenants that have lost their minds.” I didn’t have to remind him about the time Ruby Valli had forced Harry and Wes into a feral state, turning my elegant gentleman companion into a bloodthirsty monster before my eyes. I could see in Mark’s face that he was remembering as well as I was.
“How are those containers holding them?” Batten asked.
There were chains through the locks, and they’d have silver in them; the combination of the cold, the lack of feeding, and the complete lack of stimulation were also keeping them calm. Relatively speaking.
That was already changing. The Blue Sense jolted awake to report that the ferals in the shipping containers were stirring, catching our scent.
“Other than Harry and Wes,” I asked, “have you ever encountered a feral rev?”
Batten nodded, while Declan shook his head.
I said, “Without any self-control, a revenant is the apex predator.”
“To the feral vampire,” Batten added, “you are just food that fights back, nothing more.”
Speaking of fighting back, I checked my go-bag for anything that might help. I’d left most of my weapons at home, other than my beloved little hand cannon, the Beretta mini Cougar, as they’d never have passed inspection at the airport or with Konrad Rask and his crew. I mentally reviewed what I had on my back.
“Garlic?” It wouldn’t repel a feral revenant, but rubbed on our throats, it would sting their tongue if they got a mouthful of neck meat. It might give us an extra second to writhe away.
Declan shook his head. “None for me, thanks.”
Batten pulled a flask from his bag: his holy water/Brut. “How’d you get that past everyone?”
“It’s just cologne,” Batten lied, uncapping it and slapping more on. I offered him the nape of my neck, moving my hair aside and pulling down the scarf and the collar of Harry’s wool coat. His rough hands coated me liberally with holy water from chin to shoulder.
“Again, not for me,” Declan said, eyeing it uncertainly.
I asked, “Would it hurt you?”
“Crosses never bothered me,” he reminded me. “I’ve never tried holy water, but this doesn't feel like the best time to experiment, Dr. B.”
I felt the ridiculous urge to whisper, though if they were feral revenants, they’d have heard us coming, and picked up every word we'd already said. I glanced back the way we’d come; going back meant facing the hate-filled snarl of Elana Vulvolak’s more-than-capable-of-murdering-me Second, whose name I did not recall. Seemed like a little detail I should remember if the dude was going to bash my head in with a shovel.
“I guess we know why that Vulvolak broad and her Second didn’t follow us out the back door,” I said. “Risk encountering ferals? Guess they’re smarter than us.”
Declan nodded. “Master Malas warned me not to take the back door. He didn’t elaborate.”
The containers wouldn’t hold much longer. Not with Batten and I smelling so strongly of fresh, hot blood, and our human hearts beating a lively rhythm. Declan’s dhampir heart beat, too, endlessly on, but whether or not the ferals were drawn to him was a question mark.
“Can we sneak past them?” Batten hadn’t bothered dropping his voice.
Declan stared off in the distance, deep in thought.
I couldn’t imagine a way, scanning through all my knowledge, jumping among scientific, unnatural, and magical. Hide from the preternaturally enhanced senses of the undead? Not fucking likely. The things in those shipping containers could smell minor differences in our blood, our hormone levels, our sweat, our pheromones, the shampoo I used yesterday, and the holy water Batten wore that was stored in green glass Brut cologne bottles. Whether they were capable of clear thought or had been driven mad with bloodlust, the feral revenants could hear our pulses as they raced; they could have diagnosed a heart murmur. Sneak by them? No. Get by them? Maybe. I watched ideas flood Declan’s face and felt him vibrate on the edge of hope.
“They already know we’re here,” I said. “Possibly the chains will hold. To be safe, can they be made less interested in us?”
Declan nodded, following my train of thought. “I’m the only one of us that can outrun them if they escape.”
“I don’t like the idea of using you as bait,” I told him.
Batten reasoned, “Only way to get past this area, unless you want to go back.”
“You clobbered a servant of House Vulvolak in the face,” Declan reminded me, “with a shovel.”
“He shoveled me first!”
“You knocked out his front teeth, Dr. B.”
I tried to snort-laugh that away. “He doesn’t need teeth.”
“Vulvolak will be waiting for you,” Declan said. “We can’t go back. I’ll go hang on the south side of the shipping containers and distract them with a sea shanty while you hurry to the coastline.”
Something caught my eye, flicking behind the stark, black iron fence to duck behind the shipping containers: a white-haired blur. I heard the rattle of buckles again and a far more disturbing clank of chains. Folkenflik. How had that bastard loped around us from north to south so quickly? What the hell was he doing by the containers? A horrible possibility occurred to me. I shouted a wordless, garbled warning but Declan was already launching toward the fence. He’d never make it in time. Batten was at his heels, his gun cupped in both hands.
“This way, dummy,” I yelled at Batten, but Kill-Notch was rushing toward the danger of the shipping containers and probably to his death. I’d sign him up for a Darwin Award if I made it out of the Olmdalur alive.
The Blue Sense flared to report behind me: hate, revenge, hurt her, hurt her! I whirled to face whatever was barreling toward me.
Very human teeth snarled at me as their owner bolted across the ice. Pouty lips. Freckles. Red hair. I took off directly towards her, and in three quick steps, aimed a flying knee at her diaphragm. Georgina Harris of House Buryshkin grunted on impact and went down, but she recovered quickly, rolling to her feet in time to catch my fist in her mouth. I felt teeth graze my knuckles and split the skin. She stumbled back, wiped the back of one sleeve across her mouth as she regained her breath, and kicked at me without warning, leg flying to meet my chest. My training kicked in and I grabbed her foot, using her own momentum to pull her leg into my right armpit. Grabbing her knee, I twisted until she lost her balance, and then threw her back down to the bare ice.
I shouted a wordless cry at her, dropping my knee on her ribs and grinding my weight into them. I pulled her knee up and hooked it with my elbow, locking her in a ground hold. She squeaked and thrashed, slapping at me ineffectually with one flailing hand. Bucking, she rolled me off. I came back at her, cracked her one in the jaw with my elbow. She threw a right hook, but I ducked inside her swing to dodge it; I slipped on the ice and went down hard on one knee, and Georgina ended up swatting me upside the head with her coat sleeve.
I heard boots thumping hard snow behind us and over the sudden belting of Declan hollering the lyrics to Drunken Sailor, the jingle of crap in Batten’s pockets.
“Marnie!” he shouted. “Get up, get up, they were released!” His voice came in panting barks. “Ferals are loose!”
My brain went from throbbing with fresh pain to black with mad panic. My body wasn’t moving, while my alarm bells screamed, You’ll never outrun ferals. We’re dead. We’re all dead.
Declan was a bouncing distraction, waving his arms and yelling, “Weigh-hey an’ up she rises! Weigh-hey an’ up she rises, ear-lye in th’mornin’!” It might have been comical if I wasn’t seeing stars.
“Marnie,” Batten bellowed. “Go, go go!”
I snapped out of my frozen p
anic. Quickly abandoning the DaySitter, I sprang up and bolted after Batten like a gazelle, lunging over knee-high clods of snow instead of plowing through. I could hear a high, keening yowl of hungry revenant behind us and the hollow banging of corrugated metal. Another? How many? My heart hit high throttle as I urgently picked up speed. I saw Declan at our side for only a flash before he peeled away to the north. I was aware of the throbbing scrape across my knuckles and the hot beads of blood there. The scent of fresh blood on the air would draw the ferals. I tried not to flash back on the time Harry was driven feral by Ruby Valli’s black magic, the way his eyes had spiraled past chrome to pure white, all recognition fleeing as his ravenous, primal instinct to hunt took control. I hoped that Georgina's mouth was bleeding more freely than my fist was, and tried to stanch the flow with the cuff of my sleeve.
“Heads up!” Kill-Notch barked.
Batten broke away from my side and I saw why: he bodily intercepted the eye-blurring streak that flew in my direction. I gasped and skidded to a halt, turning to assist, raising one un-bloodied fist, as if it would help. Anyone else meeting Batten’s solid impact would have been knocked back, but this was an immortal, and a feral one at that. Short black hair sticking straight up like an electrified mad scientist, the feral plowed through Batten’s lunging tackle with barely a pause in his step, as if he was a butterfly trying to chop block a linebacker. Batten went flying in a mass of arms and legs, though he quickly got himself under control.
The feral stopped to train his hungry eyes on mine. I dropped my gaze to his chin and readied myself to take flight to one side or the other. Batten rolled to his feet behind the revenant as its fangs came out, glistening with saliva. It bayed, a long sound full of anticipation and delight. I’d never felt more like a fast food dinner in my life. Marnie McNuggets, hot and ready. Want fries with that?