2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  There was no logic to my thoughts as they tumbled one over the other. I had to be sure. When I broke the surface, I craned for and found Harry rising. My panicked hand shoved strands of wet hair out of my eyes.

  Harry reached for me, laying one cool palm on my back. “It's been disturbed.”

  I gasped to catch my breath, hanging on the dock. “That's wrong, it's wrong!”

  “Then by all means, correct me.”

  “You used your World War One duffel bag? Don't you watch CSI? If they found him, they'd follow that bag to you instantly.”

  “There must be a him to find, love, before there can be any following,” Harry pointed out.

  “How could he be gone? And where? Where?”

  His arms caught me to him. “He may still be here. In the water. With us.”

  “Let me out of here,” I said, struggling and slipping in his tight, wet grasp. “Have you lost your mind? Let me go, I've got to get out.”

  When it was clear he wasn't about to let go of me, I drew my feet up, sure that any second I would feel Neil Dunnachie's cold, dead fingertips close in on my ankle, from beyond the grave. Or beyond the duffel bag, as the case may be. I wrapped my legs around my Cold Company, high on his chest, and begged, “Please, Harry, I need out of this water.”

  “Perhaps he is undead.” His pupils spiraled out until black lens ate up iris. Harry's voice dialed down to husky. “Shall we test this theory? Shall we call to him with blood, my pet?”

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, watching his fangs elongating with deliberate slowness in his open mouth, and I pleaded, shrinking back while my breath hitched in whisking sobs. “Please don't Harry, not here. Please.”

  He drove me up against the dock's piling, thrashing waves into a rocking storm around us. Forcing his lithe body against me, he reared back to strike and I cowered, stunned tears springing into my eyes. A ragged cry leaked from high in my throat.

  “That's enough, Harry.” Chapel's voice came from the dock behind me.

  I didn't want to look back, exposing more of my throat to Harry, but I had to see. For a dizzying second, I'd never been more glad to see a stake in my boss's hand.

  Harry growled; the sound of it made every hair on my body try to stand up despite being sodden. The Bond flared in my veins, a confused tug of war playing havoc with my equilibrium.

  Chapel stepped forward, raising the stake, and my eyes locked onto it.

  “Let her go right now, vampire. I don't want to kill you, but I will not allow you to hurt her.”

  There was an audible snap in my brain, and something else took over. Maybe the words kill you triggered me, maybe it was the threatening tone, maybe it was the V-word, maybe it was pure Bond action. I didn't even think. Whipping around, I slap-gripped the dock and drove up out of the water in a wet, naked rush. My feet thumped the planks. I launched in a ungainly tackle, took an astonished Chapel to the ground, knocking my own breath out and not caring a bit. Rearing back, I punched him hard, twice, three times, before he recovered from his surprise to block me. I drove my knee up between his legs then swung to plant that knee on his wrist, grinding it until his grip loosened on the stake. He yelped as I wrestled the stake out of his palm. Snatching it, I had no trouble this time snapping it in half. I pitched one piece to my right, the other to the left. I aimed my fist at Chapel's throat and felt my lips curl back from my teeth in a feral snarl.

  Chapel didn't flinch, but the smear of blood across his familiar mouth stalled my punch.

  “Please, ducky, some decorum,” Harry called placidly from the water, unseen beneath the dock. “Do forgive us, Agent Chapel. My pet is in quite a mood this evening. What I wouldn't give some days for a scold's bridle.”

  Confused, I jerked my chin over my shoulder at my Cold Company, blinking away sudden tears that fractured my view into prisms. My arm went instinctively up to cover my breasts as I stopped seeing red and started noticing the nip in the air brushing places it shouldn't.

  Harry splashed over to rest his arms on the shallow side of the dock, propping his chin on the nest of his strong forearms. He looked satisfied; I'd go so far as to say he looked tickled. Damp and smug, he said, “Now, Agent Chapel, what did you call me?”

  Chapel rubbed his jaw. “I— uh, I'm sorry, Lord Dreppenstedt, but…”

  “You called me ‘vampire’ as though it were my name, as though I were a stranger, a monster. The way you said it, too. Your tone. So uncaring. So hurtful.”

  Chapel and I were silent as Harry's oddly pleased crooning continued.

  “And you, MJ, brawling in the nude like a common harlot.” He actually tsk-ed me. “Given a proper weapon, you might have killed poor Agent Chapel.” Harry smiled benevolently. “So nice to be filled with pride and have somewhere to direct it for a change. I thank you both for your kind indulgence.”

  I had no words. I think I made myself clear with the flailing of my angry arms and the tilt of my scowl. I heaved my clothes in Harry's face. “You putz!” I glared down at him. “This was some sort of stupid test.”

  “Oh, not a test of you, my love. It was important for everyone concerned to make sure that your Agent Chapel would still be willing to protect you from me, despite our…special acquaintance.”

  “Are you serious? You manufactured this whole scene to make sure Chapel could kill you?”

  Gary's mouth worked wordlessly as he got to his feet. I don't think he realized that he was half-soaked from my sodden tackle.

  Harry filled the silence. “You take me to task, Agent Chapel, and choose the safety of my pet over your internal comfort. This pleases me, and I find myself perfectly satisfied. Do your best, sir, to see that I remain so.”

  I snarled, “You manipulative creep. Cram a bag of old, frostbitten O-neg in your face, cuz you are cut off, mister.”

  I stomped bare-assed back to the mudroom, fuming at the sound of Harry's soft laughter coming across the night yard.

  If Batten hadn't been standing in the kitchen staring gloomily at two blood-filmed wine glasses in the otherwise empty sink, my stormy, self-righteous exit might have been a proud moment. He turned, saw me buck-naked, and allowed his self-control to slip just enough for his mouth to pop open. The papers in his hand hit the floor. I shoved a finger in his face.

  “And you!” I huffed, as though that said it all. I retreated to my bedroom and slammed the door. It would have been a lot more satisfying if it hadn't rebounded off of one of my sneakers, and I had to move the offending shoe and slam it a second time.

  CHAPTER 22

  MARK BATTEN WAS GIFTED; he managed to make a simple knock on the door irritating, like he had developed his own brand of magic. Jerkomancy. He also didn't wait for my permission to come in, and he's lucky I wasn't holding anything I could have fired at his head. I had pulled on a dry white tank top and was still looking for my favorite pair of jeans, brimming with irritation and not in the mood to talk, for fear I'd fall into an old bad habit: blame the closest target and lay waste to face. I had fucking people skills now, dammit.

  Batten's eyes were trained to note details. “Water cold?”

  “You didn't give me time to get properly dressed, Cro-Mag,” I reminded him, crossing my arms over my chest.

  “Fighting with Harry?” He didn't add again, for which I was grateful, but he looked as though he'd scored a point in some unnamed contest. “Why were you in the lake?”

  Did he know what we'd found? Was the answer already on his face behind that careful cop mask? I felt my own face go warily blank. “That's between me and Harry.”

  “Playing bait for monsters,” he said. “You shouldn't have gone in, either of you, but especially not you.”

  “I wasn't playing bait. I'm not stupid.” I dared him to argue that point with a barbed look. When he didn't, I explained, “Harry had my back.” Sorta. “Besides, there's nothing in the lake.”

  “You don't have to participate in this investigation at all.”

  “This again?” The shift in
subjects made my brain stutter. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I'm afraid you're gonna drown in a squirrel suit.”

  “I wasn't wearing the squirrel suit.”

  “You weren't wearing a bathing suit, either.” The light in his eyes belied his carefully controlled expression.

  I chewed my bottom lip. “You know me too well. I see this becoming a problem.”

  “I don't like seeing you in that lake.” He slammed both hands on his hips, his legs spread wide with authority; it made me want to bust his kneecaps and then ride his body once it hit the floor. Batten was about to start in on me, and I didn't need my Talents to recognize what I was seeing: fear disguised as scorn. He wanted this solved, and I didn't blame him, but there wasn't much I could do about it that was going to fall under his idea of “safe”. I'm an all-or-nothing gal; I'm either hiding under my bed eating Cheez Doodles or launching into a full-tilt monster hunt. If he wanted this solved quickly, before anyone else got gobbled, I might have to put myself in harm's way. That realization was stirring in his face, making his square jaw muscles do the patented Jerkface Batten Clenching Dance.

  “If I catch you in the lake again…” He leveled his gaze at me. “I'm gonna chain you up until this thing is over.” Oh shit, has he seen Harry's bedside toy box? If my nipples hadn't already been standing at attention from the lake, they certainly would have been after the thoughts his words kindled had flitted across my mind. I tried to focus on the fact that we were talking about me not getting eviscerated.

  “The last time I retired, you and Chapel came to my house, shoved pictures of a dead kid in my face and pestered me until I caved. That also included someone trying to slice my guts open.” Memories of bleeding out on a hotel room floor threw a bucket of cold sand on my seething libido.

  “Learned my lesson,” he assured me, flipping out thick fingers as he made his points. “Last time, you got stabbed, raised a ghoul at a funeral, waltzed into a crazy old bat's house of horrors to play with demons, got poisoned, almost got shot, nearly got eaten by two vamps, and nearly blew up my Bugatti.”

  “The Bugatti wasn't yours yet,” I said, “and everything else was easily your fault, because you nagged me to help in the first place. Also, V-word, jackass. You should have known better.”

  “I do now, that's my point.”

  “Last time,” I reminded him, “you demanded I show some back-bone. Well, here comes Backbone Baranuik. How ya like me now?” I'm pretty sure the effect may have been undermined by the fact that I wasn't wearing pants. My backbone didn't need pants, dammit.

  “You need to be home. Wes is injured, and he needs you. Harry needs you. They both need you more than I ever will.”

  I didn't like that statement one bit. It was true, and lovely, and hateful, and insulting all wrapped in one, like being slapped with your own hand and smelling your favorite perfume.

  “Since when do you care about what Harry wants? Are you his butt-buddy now?”

  “Straight as an arrow. Need a reminder?” His voice had gone low and growly. Overcompensation, but still, it messed with my wiring.

  In a moment of weakness I pictured grabbing the front of his shirt and jerking it open hard enough to send the buttons flying across my bathroom like tiny missiles. “Knock that off, you lip-diddling ninny. You can't distract me with your boner.” Any more than usual. “I got it all figured out. I made a pro/con list.”

  His lips quirked but he controlled it. “What's on it?”

  “Pro: You have the body of a Greek god. Con: You're a fucking asshole.”

  “That all?” He crossed his arms over his chest, and I completely failed not to stare at the way his fists made his biceps bulge.

  “No. My list is substantial,” I informed him. “Pro: Your tongue could melt glaciers. Con: You use it to talk.”

  “Con: You're impossible.”

  I waited for the Pro. Apparently there wasn't one, because he just smirked. I grit my teeth. “We have work to do. You know, dead bodies? Monsters? Icky stuff?”

  His head did a slow crawl back and forth. “Can't give a man that kind of heat and expect him to forget it.” ‘That kind of heat?’ Jeez, maybe I should have made ‘You use it to talk’ two entries in the Con column.

  “You were just asking me how cold the lake was. Make up your mind. Besides, we've both had extensive training in Standards of Conduct. Doesn't it tell you not to do this? Your boss and mine, the patient and very not-stupid SSA Chapel might have turned a blind eye in Buffalo, but do you honestly think that'll last? That he'll be fine with us blowing fraternization rules to smithereens, like we did to…” Don't remember the door, don't remember the… shit.

  He read my mind. “I took full responsibility for that,” he damn near gloated, and I ignored it, though the thrumming in my core would not. That door never stood a chance. And neither would mine, even though it was solid wood and a lot sturdier than the flimsy, foam-core one in the hotel room. I needed to get him out of my bedroom. And I really needed to put some pants on, if only to stop letting him get an eyeful of my thighs. Batten was an unabashed ass man, and I'd had the handprints on my hips to prove it. I needed to get off that line of thought before I wrapped my legs around him, smart talk about fraternization rules be damned. And then I just needed to get off, once he was safely out of my house.

  “You know who won't turn a blind eye to us fooling around? Harry, de Cabrera, Dr. Edgar. Agent Golden, I'm sure, will go right over Chapel's head at the first whiff of something hinky going on. Still think nailing me is a bright idea?”

  He was suddenly way, way too close, his body dwarfing mine, his chest rising and falling heavily. “I think it's the most rash, half-baked, lame-brained idea to ever cross my mind. And I can't wait to do it.”

  Shut up and fuck me, Jerkface, my body reported. Somehow, miraculously, my people skills resurfaced. I could wait, which surprised me. Batten had hurt me once before. Even though it wasn't his fault, and the hurt was based on a lie, it was still a wake-up call: of all the people I blocked out on a regular basis, this man got through. He'd found a chink in my armor and that made him a source of vulnerability in my life. Maybe it was the fact that I couldn't feel him with my Talents; I had no advance warning of his feelings from moment to moment, no time to plan my response. Where everyone else showered me with hints, he was a blank wall, and his advances felt like being ambushed in a dark alley. He didn't mean harm, or I didn't think so, but he was capable of hurting me when most people were not, because with most people, I saw it coming a mile away. Kill-Notch blindsided me. The lust that I felt wasn't the surprise. Everything else was.

  To a woman who had no romantic future available, that made him dangerous. As preoccupied as I was with sex, and with Mark Batten's delectable and carnally talented bod, I was pretty sure I wasn't capable of keeping it casual. Already, a warm spot was being rubbed on the soft underbelly of my heart's guard dog. I hadn't forgotten those few precious minutes after our first romp, when he had returned to kissing me; instead of the previous bout of frenzied, hungry kisses, these were slow, sumptuous, sensual, like he was trying to download the taste of me deep into his long-term memory. I wish I could forget those leisurely post-coital kisses. It would help me sleep at night. Instead, they were fodder for a thousand rabid wolverines.

  “Dude, we don't react well after giving in to this craziness,” I said seriously, swallowing back no small amount of emotion. “We drop our shields, then we regret it, and we find reasons to be cruel to one another. I can't.”

  Oh yes I can, my privates cried. Right here, right now, and all fucking night.

  If he called my bluff and laid his hand on me, that big hand that hovered uncertainly in the space between us, I'd fall like Carthage under the siege of Rome. I hoped my poker face was holding. Wait, I sucked at poker. Fuckanut.

  Whether it was the rebuff or the desire to keep his career, Batten's face veiled over. The heat in his eyes banked. When he turned to leave, I thought it best to fol
low, if only to soften the rejection with my continued company. And not just stare at his ass.

  But he didn't leave the cabin. He stopped by the espresso machine and started toying with it, not looking like he had a clue what buttons to press or where anything came out. I let him fiddle, leaning in the doorway, one eyebrow arched in bemusement.

  “Lab reports,” he said. “And a heads-up. Hood will be here at dawn, but not for your little sweating-with-the-sheriff routine.” He shot me a look I couldn't interpret. “They're gonna be dragging the lake.”

  Dunnachie. While espresso started to hiss and sputter out of the machine, Batten watched my face.

  I was prepared for it. “For the other missing Furries?”

  “Hood hopes they'll find some clue about his missing deputy. They found the snowmobile on the other side of the lake, nose buried in mud.”

  The other side of the lake. Down that dappled pathway. That slick ginger fuck ran me right past the site to check my reaction, I realized, appreciating the technique. I wondered what I had been doing at that exact moment, when Hood had been analyzing me for clues. Clearly, the sheriff was a bit more clever than I'd given him credit for. “How far in was the snowmobile?” I asked.

  “Quarter mile. Looks like they're leaning towards calling it an accidental drowning, death by misadventure.”

  If pissing off two revenants by throwing a Molotov cocktail into their kitchen isn't a misadventure, I don't know what is. “They haven't found a body yet?” I said lightly. “Maybe he's alive. Maybe he took off after firebombing this place.”

  “You don't believe he's alive any more than I do.” Point: Batten.

  I watched him finish the espresso; the sight of lab reports on the kitchen table negated my urge to shove him away from my very expensive caffeine supplier. I spotted my jeans under the side of the bed, grabbed them, and pulled them on. When I came back into the kitchen, I took the bundle of file folders into my office and started sorting through them. I switched on the barrister's lamp and laid the reports under the pool of light. He set my Kermit mug down on the desk in front of me, mindful of the paperwork, and noticed me glaring at him. He'd doctored the cups for us his way: weak, milked-down nearly to a pasty ecru, and way too sweet for any reasonable human being. But that wasn't why I was giving him the stink-eye.