by A. J. Aalto
I tried to guess what was going on in Pfaffenzeller’s earbuds, but I couldn’t tell from his wiggles. There was a set of wireless iPhone speakers in the boathouse that Harry used so he could listen to his music while he was waxing his Ferrari. I unlocked the boathouse and brought the speaker stand out to the dock. I showed the spriggans how to set it on the charger. Queen blasted out of the little speakers.
Professor Pfaffenzeller pulled out a Freddy Mercury pout-and-point and informed me that he couldn’t handle this thing called love, while Captain Tuschoff and Doctor Von Nockelstein shook their little spriggan rear ends at me in the light of the boathouse halogen and went “Uh huh, mmhmm.”
I heard a rustle, and Mina, the female spriggan (which, I guess, made her the de facto spriggette) who lived in a honeysuckle vine at the eastern side of my yard, slipped out from behind my right butt cheek. Ever since she’d hitched a ride on Bat-Wes’s back, she had a wee crush on him, but now she was looking at the new gents with interest. She was thinking about pollination, I thought, and I warned, “Don’t do it, man. Love sucks. Save yourself.”
And then I knew: the funny poop arrow that had been smeared on my front door. It wasn’t an arrow, it was the symbol for male. It was an advertisement. It was Mina’s advertisement, that little pervbucket. She was lookin’ for nookin'. Is that how the male spriggans had decided where to settle after tracking me this far? Did spriggans mark their mating territory with dookie?
“Stop drawing on my doors, eh? It’s gross to humans. Look, you got three dudes to choose from. Want my advice?” I smiled sadly and exhaled long and hard. “Choose wisely.”
Mina plunked down on the back of my fist, her little legs swinging, her ankles tapping my knuckles. Mina patted my hand with one tiny green paw and looked up at me with her keen yellow eyes. I wondered if she still felt a connection, or if she was able to interpret my silence, or if she was just keeping time with the music. Captain Tuschoff played air guitar while “Crazy Little Thing Called Love” rocked from the iPhone speaker. The other spriggans fell into back-up singer mode, clapping and snapping and boogying, enthralled in the moonlight of a Colorado night. Mina conquered her shyness and abandoned me to dance with them.
I’d had a very long, very bad winter so far, the high point of which had been my visit with Declan, the staking of Jeremiah Prost, and snuggling Betty the Yeti. I hoped Batten had heard me in the court room when I said that Prost had been righteously dusted; I hoped he had been pleased, maybe even impressed. I didn’t get the chance to tell him that Colonel Jack might still be alive, Soul Leached into a different body, somewhere on the planet; if I had texted him that instead of waiting to say it in person, would he have changed his mind about attacking House Sarokhanian? I'd never know.
I also didn’t get a chance to guess Batten’s middle name, but I suppose I could pretend it was Bucky or Viggo or Ichabod or even Jazzhands, now that he wasn’t around to object. I mean, I could just ask Golden or de Cabrera or even Chapel to check his FBI file if I wanted the boring old truth, but where was the fun in that? If I had to write a eulogy, you better believe I was going to tell people his full name was Mark Jazzhands Batten; it would fucking serve him right for choosing his stupid vengeance over me. A lonely stab pricked my heart again and I wanted him badly, wanted him back, wanted to punch his stupid muscular chest right in the kill-notch tattoos. I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling the pull of Carole Jeanne’s coat sleeves, suddenly wanting my mommy, wondering if she’d comfort me despite her disapproval of my lifestyle.
No, I had my friends to lean on. I had my forever companion, Harry. I Felt him perk up through the Bond as he sensed me thinking of him, and knew that if I went inside, I’d find him baking up a storm of comfort cookies, whisking foam to top an espresso and brandy. My bed would be turned down, my pillows plumped, and my lights down low, my Cold Company waiting to comfort me.
The low point of my winter, I didn’t want to think about, at least not for the rest of the night; I still had ceramic dust on my jeans from the hail of mug shrapnel fired all over the kitchen. Damage done. Energy gone. I’d run tomorrow. I’d run a lot. I couldn’t outrun what had happened, but maybe I could outrun this ache, channel this anguish into something productive.
I’d run until I escaped my pain. Dark Lady knew, I might be running forever.
I took my phone out and looked at Batten’s last text. I’m out. My thumb hovered over the delete button, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it, as if erasing his words was accepting the truth. He was out, just as he promised. He hadn’t wanted me to save him. He was out, but I wasn’t. From this point on, I would be all-in.
I flipped over to Golden’s last text. Want company?
I texted back, Yes, please. And then: Save me from the impending spriggan orgy. Then: Bring coffee and that chocolate croissant with maple filling you owe me, ya cheap pair of bitchnipples.
She replied promptly, On it, broomhumper.
When I felt sure my tears were done for the night and my knees could hold me, I got to my feet, wished the spriggans a good night, and went back to the cabin to accept the offerings of warmth and comfort inside.
THE END
Revenants, Their Houses & Advocates Appearing in Wrath & Bones
Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, and his DaySitter, Dr. Marnie Baranuik; Her Seconds, Heather Golden & Mark Batten
Wesley Baranuik (Wasp Strickland)
Den, First Turned of the Falskaar Vouras, Blood King of Night, Death’s Adversary, Great Voice of the Fallen, Lord of the Undertide
Alastor Vulvolak, Crowned Prince of the Blood, and his DaySitter Elana Vulvolak; Her Second, Lyubomir Yordanov
Malas Nazaire, and his DaySitter Declan Edgar
Yulian Sergeyevich Buryshkin, and his DaySitter Georgina Harris
Tomas Duchoslav, The Undertaker, Crowned Prince of the Blood, and his DaySitter, Dr. Marek Rys; His Second, Roland de Hagh
Hendrik Van Solms, Crowned Prince of the Blood, and his DaySitter, Lisa Pivratsky-Churchill; Her Second, Sweyn Llewellyn
Aston Sarokhanian, Crowned Prince of the Blood, and his DaySitter, Sayomi Mochizuki; Her Second, Gunther Folkenflik
Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, Crowned Prince of the Blood, and his DaySitter, Carole Jeanne; His Younger, “Junior” Dreppenstedt
Remy Dreppenstedt, Duchess of the Darkest Corner, Mistress of the Eversea, Lady of Eternal Grace
Captain Konrad Rask, Crowned Prince of an Empty House, Captain of the Meita
Viktor Moldovan Domitrovich, the Organization
Jeremiah Prost, and his DaySitter Umayma Eyasi
Johannes Prost, Crowned Prince of the Blood
Asmodeus, The Overlord, and His Infernal Minion, Speaker Aristoxenus, The Stonecaller
Angus Yeats, Lord High Treasurer and Toll-Taker of the jiekngasaldi; his Guardian, Mithridates the Manticore
MORE GREAT READS BY A.J. AALTO
Touched by A.J. Aalto (Paranormal) The media has a nickname for Marnie Baranuik, though she’d rather they didn’t; they call her the Great White Shark. A forensic psychic twice-touched by the Blue Sense, which gives her the ability to feel the emotions of others and read impressions left behind on objects, Marnie is too mean to die young, backed up by friends in cold places, and has a mouth as demure as a cannon’s blast.
Death Rejoices (The Marnie Baranuik Files, Book Two) by A.J. Aalto (Paranormal) Marnie Baranuik teams with the FBI’s preternatural crimes unit to discover that vampire hunters aren't easily rescued, secrets don’t stay buried, and zombie hordes are a pain in the ass to kill.
Last Impressions (Book Three of The Marnie Baranuik Files) by A.J. Aalto (Paranormal) As subtle as a boot in the teeth, bumbling psychic detective Marnie Baranuik jets home to Canada to solve a ghastly disappearance in old Red Hook.
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