Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  In a move of balls-out bravery and stunning disloyalty that I would remember for the rest of my life, Prost’s DaySitter made a gesture at me: Umayma slapped her cheek lightly, a gentle version of the slap I’d given her earlier, and nodded meaningfully at me. Was she trying to give me a helpful hint? Some way to break this standoff? Or was I misreading her? Could I risk acting on it if I was uncertain as to her meaning?

  Umayma did it again, and this time her eyes insisted. I knew what I had to do.

  “Declan…” I eyeballed the go-bags, turning my back on the vampire. Mindful of Prost’s preternatural hearing, I switched to hand signals. I pointed at my bag, cut my fingers like scissors, and mimed putting my hat on. Then I made a gagging face, and showed him two fingers dipping and scooping then popped those into my mouth. His head darted back in horror and he grimaced.

  I tried again. We moved around the first corner, because sinking into shadow wouldn’t shield us from Prost’s preternatural eyes. Digging out my silver scissors and the knit hat Schenk had made me, I started sawing away at my waist-length ghost hair, very close to my head, not letting any slip through my fingers but bundling it in one gloved fist. Declan watched me with round eyes. I slapped the hair on my head and Declan helped me hold it down like a slippery wig while I tied my knit hat on top tightly to hold the hairs on my head. When I was finished, the length of my hair wasn’t noticeably different. Declan swiped a few loose, giveaway hairs off my t-shirt. I indicated to my belly with my thumb, winked, tilted my head subtly in the direction of the vampire, made a motion like I was dragging him into the tomb, and flexed my bicep like a strongman showing off his muscles.

  Declan mouthed silently, Are you nuts?

  I nodded and touched my nose. Pointedly, I shot that finger over his shoulder in the direction of the room with the sarcophagus and, presumably, the angry tomb guardians. I walked my fingers and then made them flick quickly like my gloved hand was running, then mimed tossing something, and made witchy fingers at him.

  Declan shook his head at me like I was beyond hope and removed the canopic jar from my go-bag, lifting the three-headed lid. Stuffing my gun in my pants at my front hip and my silver scissors in my left pants pocket, I removed my right glove, dug two fingers into the honey, and held my nose with my left hand before plunging my sticky fingers in my mouth. I licked the fingers clear, far more afraid of Prost than of the taste of funky mummy. Presumably fortified by the elixir, I took my other glove off, laid both across my palm, took a deep, cleansing breath, and marched out into the dessert.

  My Keds slipped in the sand, making my stride less than the confident strut I wanted it to be. Umayma scrambled to her feet, her eyes widening, as I approached them. She checked in with her companion, studying the side of his face for clues. He ignored her. Prost let me come, looking at my gloves in my hand, my high chin, the dog whistle bouncing at my chest, the determination on my face; he tasted my fear and deception, heard the knocking of my heart, and my warm pulse called to him. Did he remember me the way I remembered him? He’d always seemed such a giant, looming terror from my past. Was that recognition in the curl of his lips? His mocking smile widened to show full, glistening fang.

  Our last meeting had seen him blurring both my and Batten’s mind before he shot me twice and escaped from an alley. He wasn’t going to hurt me this time. I had black market honey juju running in my veins and a telekinetic dhampir at my back. If I timed this just right, and if Umayma behaved, neither one of us would have to worry about Jeremiah Prost again.

  I suffered only a second of doubt: maybe the FBI had him all wrong? Maybe he wasn’t a child killer. Maybe--

  Prost tasted my doubt and his smile twisted into a cruel answer, wiping away my hesitation for good. I drew up close enough to smell the burnt molasses stink of him, calmed the sudden quiver of doubt in my belly, and used my gloves to swat him across his smirking face.

  Prost’s jaw dropped open in surprise.

  “You, sir, are a coward!” I announced. “Killing children and unarmed weaklings? You are incompetent, powerless... fangless. That’s right, I said it.”

  Umayma took a step away from us. The Blue Sense announced her secret delight mixed with the certainty that I was about to die.

  Prost was stunned immobile for a moment, and I stole my chance to slap him across the face with my bare palm and backhand him just as sharply. For good measure, I poked him in the left eye before bolting back toward the tomb.

  As I pelted toward Declan, the look on his face told me that Prost was coming. Wind stirred behind me and I thought must go faster, must go faster as I pumped my little legs and brought the whistle to my mouth. Certainly Prost knew there was danger inside the tomb but his pride demanded he finish me and finish me quickly.

  He grabbed me by the hair as I knew he would; it fell away uselessly in his hand. I got a bit further before he grabbed me again, this time pounding into my back full force, a hundred eighty pounds of preternatural strength. He turned my body as we hit the sand so he could get a nice, juicy shot at my jugular. I wriggled with him, using my left hand to get my gun out of my pants and shove it up under his ribs. I fired twice in rapid succession, pop pop, once for each time he’d shot me. Prost raged and spiraled up off me into the air, an eye-blurring streak of dark hair and pale hands and bared fangs against the shiny globe of the full moon. A mist of icy blue revenant nectar sprayed me in the face and my skin began to tingle. I lunged to my feet, feeling Prost right behind me. My gun slipped from my fingers and I thought he’s going to use that. The Blue Sense blasted me with his outrage and need to dominate this impudent mortal. At the same time, it reported the updraft of Declan’s power swelling, the crackle of telekinesis at the ready.

  I pounded past Declan and then drove my body to the ground, both bare hands slapped over the back of my neck. Prost sailed into the tomb behind me. Declan used the revenant’s preternatural speed and strength against him, taking his momentum and giving an extra shove, throwing him over my back, deep into the tomb.

  There was a dusty sound as Prost got up and that was my cue to blast the whistle for Folkenflik. An answering yip came from somewhere to the left. The werefox charged out of a dark corridor, growling, and lunged at Prost. Prost batted him aside easily and Folkenflik slammed the wall. I heard the wet snap of bone and a bark of agony.

  I stood and rushed behind Declan, who had summoned as much of his power as possible, so much so that it stirred his dark curly hair around his head. He faced Prost with both palms extended. Somewhere deep in the tomb, Duamutef crashed down a hallway and roared unhappily. Declan tried to hold Prost back the way he had the feral revenant in the Olmdalur, but Prost was freshly fed and much stronger. Declan made a noise in the back of his throat, and I cursed myself for dropping my gun, glancing over my shoulder to where it was lost in the night.

  Duamutef appeared from the corridor, giving an agitated wah-hunh! Declan’s arm shook from the strain of trying to slow Prost’s steady advance. His hold broke. Prost’s fang-filled grin was victorious. Declan whipped around and shot his hand at me and up. I felt my feet leave the ground as I was flung up, seconds before my back hit the ceiling with a thud. I smacked it hard enough for my breath to whoosh out and stars swirled in my vision.

  Prost was on Declan in an instant, and they grappled while Declan kept me pressed against the ceiling. Prost hissed around fully extended fangs. I dug my scissors out of my pocket as Duamutef thumped toward the two immortals. Ready for my chance, I tried to yelp at Declan but my voice wouldn’t come, my breath wouldn’t catch. Duamutef grabbed both immortals, one in each hand, and separated them.

  When he was directly beneath me, I wheezed, “Declan, let go!”

  Declan released his telekinetic hold on me and I came straight down on Prost, throwing my arms and legs around him. I swung my arm up under to slam the scissors into his left pectoral, driving hard.

  It wasn’t hard enough. Our jostling caused Duamutef to toss us aside and we all went tumb
ling into the dirt. Prost stood, ignoring the tomb guardian, ignoring the scissors jutting out of his chest, ignoring the inky revenant nectar jetting from his wounds.

  I log rolled to the wall near the shovel, shouting, “Declan, his arms!”

  Declan dodged the tomb guardian’s massive swinging arm and used his last bit of Talent to shove Prost’s arms in a wide starfish to either side. I jumped up with the shovel and swung it like a baseball bat at the glittering silver target in his chest. I hit it dead on, driving the silver deep into his heart.

  I had one last chance to see Jeremiah Prost’s face turned up at me, that pale, smug face that haunted my nightmares since the day he shot me in New York, and just like that, he was a cloud of dust coating my face.

  The tomb guardian roared at us and I felt Declan shove me with both hands in the back. We ran as fast as we could, hobbling as the sand got thick near the entrance. As we passed the stela, we flopped together, cramming our eyes shut against the sand spraying up on impact. Together, we shivered in the sand near Rasul’s body, waiting to see if Duamutef would exit the tomb after us.

  The silence stretched out long enough that Declan felt safe to turn his face to mine. “Dr. B?”

  I murmured something exhausted and affirmative against the sand, my lips tightly crammed together.

  “Dr. B.,” he repeated, and I looked up.

  Sayomi and Umayma were standing by the taxi. Umayma had my gun.

  Chapter 29

  In the sudden quiet, Declan belched; his poor nervous tummy was now churning as badly as mine was around mellified man. Umayma stood tall, pulled back her shoulders, shot her chin up proudly, and gave me a single nod. She threw the gun at my hands and I snatched it up. She had reclaimed her own.

  “Nicely executed,” Sayomi told me flatly. Seeing the uncertainty on my face, she reminded me, “You have a warrant. You carried out a legal execution.”

  Umayma's face appeared emotionless, but the fierce wave of psi flowing between us betrayed her stew of mixed emotions; she had been lying in wait, anxious for a shot at his back. I’d taken her chance away but she wasn’t upset. I wondered how long she’d been his unwilling advocate, how long she’d hated him? Had he claimed her as a child, as his predilections would suggest? How in the world had she been burying this hatred? Maybe she hadn’t. Maybe he never cared how his DaySitter felt about him. He had clearly underestimated her.

  Sayomi spat to clear her mouth, and pain rippled her brow. She was favoring her left arm and I thought she was getting a shiner; I wonder where she’d landed after Prost had thrown her off of his DaySitter. Now, the two women regarded each other with uncertainty, unsure how they felt about one another.

  Both of them looked to me to see how I’d react to all this. BugBelly’s words came back to me. He’d said all other “sun sentries” must back down, or something to that effect. Sun sentries. DaySitters. We all needed a moment to catch our breaths and adjust. How was I going to convince them to back off? Time to turn on the famous Baranuik charm. I went to retrieve my go-bag and opened the canopic jar, dabbing two fingers again into the clouded honey.

  Taking a knee next to Sayomi, I said, “Hold still. I’m not going to hurt you.” She did, and I smeared the mellified man-sap on her puffy, scraped cheek. “I should hurt you,” I continued, “considering all you’ve done since we met is attack me. But I’m going to be the bigger person for about sixty minutes. After I drop you at a hospital to have your arm looked at, it’s back on.” I regarded her with my face dialed to super-serious. “For reals. I’ve had enough of your shit. You come at me again, I’m gonna shoot you in the twat and ruin a perfectly good cat-suit that, by the way, I think I’d look really good in.”

  Declan stood, taking up a defensive stance near the mouth of the tomb, hearing something I hadn’t.

  I continued, “I’ve got really good aim, so I won’t miss. Do you want a bullet in the twat, Ms. Mochizuki?”

  Her right eye crinkled closed as the honey elixir did something to her wound that caused some discomfort. “My Master must be king.”

  “He really mustn’t,” I said. “Listen, do you know what Ninespine Stickleback trolls are?”

  Sayomi nodded. “The banished ones. Beyond the portal, the mare tenebrosum. The king has kept them exiled beyond the fog to protect the human race.”

  Did everybody know this shit but me? “Yeah, well, the king ain’t doin’ so hot. Captain Rask has been attempting to fill in the fog, but he’s not nearly strong enough to hold the fog and keep the trolls from attempting to return once the king completely loses his mind.” I shifted slightly so I could look at both DaySitters while Declan held the tomb’s entrance in his focus. “Could House Prost do anything about the fog?”

  Sayomi sneered. “House Prost is nothing but a rapidly replicating parasite feeding on the most vulnerable on the planet, and we have done the world a favor by ending this one.”

  I didn’t disagree with that, and from the look on her face, neither did Umayma. “And House Sarokhanian?” I asked Sayomi. “What could Aston do about the trolls, if he were made king?”

  “What could House Dreppenstedt do?” Sayomi retorted. “Wilhelm. Your beloved Guy. They Grope and Feel things. Ridiculous, useless Talents.”

  “Hey, I have never denied being useless,” I assured her. “Isn’t that right, Declan? What am I always saying?”

  “You’re useless, Dr. B.”

  “Thank you,” I said with a nod. “See? But don’t you get it? Remy has all nine Talents, including Stormbringing.”

  “You idiot,” Sayomi said. “Whoever becomes king will be granted all eight inheritable Talents by the Overlord. So will their DaySitter become nearly full-powered, through him.”

  I blinked with disbelief. Eight? Harry could have six extra Talents? I could have so many Talents available to me? No wonder Sayomi wanted her companion on the throne so badly. When I glanced at Umayma, she nodded; that must have been mentioned. I wonder how I'd missed it. I guessed that the ninth Talent, the one that was never mentioned, was not inheritable even through the court; if Remy had it, she still outranked every male but the king, Talent-wise.

  Sayomi continued, “Remy has been in a shipping container for centuries, starving and cold and weak. It’s only logical that she’s crazy. The old men, they must believe that about her. They are frightened of her power. They cannot allow her to be released. They would gladly choose Prince Sarokhanian. Even young Guy would be preferable. You’ve done no one any favors.”

  A shipping container in the Darkest Corner? Rask’s words came back to me. (“… await the Undertaker.... It’s the safest place for them. They can do no harm, and no harm can come to them.”)

  “I’m doing what I think is best,” I said. “An orc mystic said you should back down, sooo maybe you should.”

  “So what do you want us to do?” Sayomi asked.

  “Trust me,” I said simply. “I’ll make you a deal. If I can’t get my quests completed, if I can’t get Remy on the throne, then I will not return to fight you in the Olmdalur. I will not battle you to put Harry on the throne. I will let Aston win. You’ll release my Cold Company to come home to me, and we’ll never return to Skulesdottir again.”

  I could see her working it out in her head.

  “You and Umayma will return to Skulesdottir. Take Folkenflik with you. Explain to the court what happened to Jeremiah Prost. Make sure there is no indication whatsoever that Prost’s DaySitter was anything but the perfect advocate. That’s going to be important.”

  Umayma’s dark lips thinned but she nodded; she wasn’t accustomed to trusting others, and the tightness in her shoulders told me she was not the least bit comfortable relying on a stranger, especially one with a justified, if recently-fulfilled, grudge. She untied her tutu and offered me the bubblegum pink tulle swath in what I thought was an act of surrender. It was coated in sweat and ash. There were loops in the elastic and a small, soft holster with a Velcro strap. It was the first time I’d ev
er seen a pink ballet holster.

  She sighed and her teeth chattered, a stuttering reminder of the breaking of her metaphysical Bond. Until now, I hadn’t witnessed a moment of weakness, but I realized that psychically, she would be suffering greatly from Prost’s death. Amazingly, she had hidden this from us both outwardly and from the Blue Sense. She pointed at the bodies on either side of the taxi and then pointed at the dusty remains of Prost to indicate his blame.

  I wondered if, in time, she would be able to believe this story she was weaving between us, that it was all Prost’s fault. I nodded and repeated it back to her: Prost killed Pia and Rasul, I had stuck Prost in the heart with silver scissors in self-defense, Umayma was innocent on all counts, nothing more than a bystander. When I was done, Declan told Sayomi how it had happened, using almost the same words. Sayomi stared into the dark mouth of the tomb of Huxtahotep, nodding in agreement; she would back up this story exactly as we told it, blame Prost for as much of it as possible. A bruised and battered Folkenflik was slinking out of the shadows into the light of the moon, limping on a broken leg that was rapidly healing but must have caused him quite a bit of pain. His tongue lolled out as he panted, standing next to his DaySitter friend, and his very human eyes watched me.

  “Give me to the end of my time limit. Ol’ Three-Face said seven days. If I’m not punting trolls on the seventh day with our new queen, then the throne is all yours.”

  Umayma nodded and went south, presumably to whatever shadow-hidden vehicle she’d arrived in. In the distance to the east, I thought I saw a vaguely car-shaped lump, and it was in that direction that Folkenflik trotted, limping on his hind left leg. Sayomi shot me an unhappy look. “You have tonight. I’ll think it over.”