2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  At that, Harry grinned, and I could feel the warm rush of approval through our Bond, wrapping around me like a blanket fresh from the dryer. “Indeed, pride is remarkably absent in this home,” he assented. “The young sheriff has his work cut out for him.”

  “If he manages to train me well enough, I'm giving him the Hummer, and by that, I mean my truck.”

  Harry squawked like I'd pinched him, rolled the newspaper and used it to swat the table. “Fickle woman! I just bought you that hideous vehicle on your insistence, and so soon you are prepared to trade it away?”

  “You're the one who gave away a frigging two million dollar Bugatti. And I only wanted another Buick,” I reminded him.

  “You are not getting a Buick,” he enunciated crisply.

  I waggled the broom at him. “Fine. Maybe I should make like Harry Potter and fly.”

  “You may do no such thing!”

  I blinked, surprised. “I was joking, I can't fly. Holy shit… I could fly?”

  “Don't be daft,” he said, but he grabbed the broom, holding it at arm's length away from me. “Of course you cannot. Neither should you entertain the notion of attempting it; the last thing this world needs is an airborne Bara—” His eyes lit up, as though he had solved one of life's oldest riddles. “Of course,” he murmured, and drifted into the pantry with the broom. His Oxfords made light claps as he made his way down the basement stairs quickly.

  I scowled after him, waiting for him to come back and explain his behavior. “Fine. Keep being cryptic, but don't be surprised when you wake up with a garlic clove shoved down your pants.” When he didn't respond, beyond slipping a tendril of distracted amusement via Bond, I threw my hands up in the air and began a search for brownies. After folding a brownie around one Twix bar and eating it like the best sandwich ever, I took my little white not-vitamins, thinking I never needed to see Asmodeus in my mirror ever again, and got back to work.

  I went to my office bookshelves, avoiding the cabinet entirely. There was a soft rustling noise behind the cabinet's sliding door, like an open palm across plywood, a sickly drag. I tried not to picture Ruby Valli's Grimoire creeping like an inch worm, looking for attention; in the back of my mind, I heard the theme song from Jaws.

  The rest of the day was spent researching. In my entire library, there were only a few chapters about necromancy scattered sparingly in some of the shadier texts, the ones written by people who were at least tiptoeing on the left hand path, if not skipping gleefully down it. I'd already read The Serpent and the Rainbow by Wade Davis, and everything published on the subject by anthropologist Zora Hurston. Still, certain nuances eluded even those who had links to modern sorcery and preternatural biology. Necromancy was not the easiest subject to wrap my head around, mostly because it was damn scary and I'd seen its results up close and in my face. In Haiti, home of the Vodou, it is a criminal offense to concoct zombie-making potions, and it's against the law to raise the dead, a risk taken so seriously that the concrete tombs of the recently deceased are often chained and padlocked shut against snatching hands. The costs for such black magic are severe, and the laws forbidding such things are equally rigorous. Again, I wondered if there were discoveries to be made in Ruby's Big Book of Badness, but Harry's voice in my head prevented me from exploring that option.

  When I tried to sleep later that night, I had demon promises and Vodou threats making music in the auditorium of my skull. I'd have preferred a chorus line of male strippers, or even a zydeco AC/DC cover band.

  It was after midnight when I realized, after hours of tossing, that I wasn't going to fall asleep with the combination of caffeine, questions and stress soft-shoeing through my skull. I was sure if I read the files again, without interruption or distraction, and applied the weight of my intellect, something would pop out at me. Preferably not from under my bed.

  I pulled the chain on the bedside lamp but it didn't oblige with its usual warm halo of orange light. A quick dangle over the side of my bed with a fishing hand proved the lamp's cord was plugged in.

  “Oh, good,” I murmured, “power's out. I wonder what…” A spatter of goosebumps rushed up my arms and I bolted upright. “Oh, this is it. This is the moment in every horror movie where the next victim goes hunting for the source of the power outage down in the basement and gets their head chomped off. Well, screw that.” I shuffled in my sheets, hugging them tighter to my knees, and announced to the room, “I don't do power outages. I'm staying right here.”

  And sleeping? my brain taunted.

  “Well, maybe not sleeping.” My libido helpfully reminded me about Harry's amorous overtures from the night before, and my lack of battery-operated stress relief the other day, or daemonis interruptus as I'd taken to calling it. “But you can't stop me from relaxing, Multiverse.” I rummaged for a moment and came out with Mr. Buzz. “Battery operated, motherfuckers. Let's see your power outage ruin my good time.”

  Naturally, no sooner had things begun to get interesting than my cell phone buzzed on the nightstand and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Cell phones: also battery operated. I realized I was brandishing a purple glow-in-the-dark vibrator as a weapon, and lowered it as I answered.

  Batten's reduced volume reflected the late hour. “Power's out. You okay?”

  “Of course I'm okay, why wouldn't I be okay? You think you're the only one who can be okay?”

  “Sounding a little frazzled there, Snickerdoodle.”

  “It's after midnight. Don't you think you might be interrupting something?”

  His answer was a soft snort of derision. “What are you doing?”

  “I'm crooning ABBA songs to my vibrator. He likes a little romance while I use and abuse him.”

  He was quiet a beat; I used the opportunity to apologize. “I'm sorry, Agent Batten. ‘Romance’ is this thing two people do when they really like one another.” I was all set to elaborate when it occurred to me I wasn't equipped to describe any examples of romantic activity, and how fucking sad was that?

  Worse yet, Batten knew it. “You wouldn't know romance if it slapped you on the ass.”

  “Romance wouldn't slap me on the ass,” I parried. “It would stroke my ass and tell me I'm sweet.”

  “Romance would be lying.”

  “Romance often does,” I informed him seriously.

  I thought I heard him chuckle. “What song?”

  Leaning back against my headboard, I tried not to smile, tapping the vibe against my kneecaps. “The Day Before You Came.”

  “Don't know that one,” he said, “but it sounds appropriate.”

  “I could hum you a few bars, but you'll wish I hadn't.”

  “Pass.” I heard the rustle of papers. “Got a call on a body; we need to get motoring. Know where Glenwood Springs is? Near Aspen?”

  “Can we pretend I don't? At least for another six minutes?”

  “This comes first.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “I'll be over in three minutes,” he warned. “Be ready.”

  “Hmm, that's pretty quick, but I bet I've got time.”

  “Marnie.” His voice was a frustrated growl.

  “And don't interrupt me. Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually need you for this.”

  “Leave it to you to make me spiral out of control.”

  “Are you really spiraling, or just twirling around in your room?”

  He hung up with an aggravated, “Ugh.”

  I slammed Mr. Buzz in the drawer, wondering why Batten's voice had effectively turned me off when the rest of him usually made me weak in the knees. Maybe the prospect of driving to Glenwood Springs was a buzz-kill. I smirked at the pun and swung out of bed. Dressed, I padded out to find Harry in the living room, reading by candlelight; his affection for candelabras was occasionally practical. He looked up from a novel, peering over his pince nez to examine my jeans and Super Grover t-shirt, his lips pursed with disapproval.

  “Charming ensemble, mon petit bon vivante. ’Tis late
, and I thought you'd be, if not sleeping, at the very least — ahem — otherwise engaged.”

  I frowned. “You know when I'm doing stuff, huh?”

  He waved that away as though it were a ridiculous question. I supposed it was.

  I wondered if he'd felt the presence of Asmodeus earlier, too, and if so, why he didn't bring it up. “Batten's on his way over.”

  “Yes,” Harry murmured. “I gathered as much from the furrow in your brow. I shall leave you to your work, unless of course you require my assistance?”

  Harry's platinum gaze lit briefly, and his hunger trickled through the Bond; when I didn't jump at his offer, he gave a lazy shrug.

  “Very well,” he said, rising. “If you don't mind terribly, please hold off on your attempt to emasculate Agent Batten.”

  “My attempt to what?”

  He paused in the hallway, a pale slash of immortality against the darkness of the kitchen behind him. “You said the sheriff was teaching you how to dominate your hunter.” His lips curled into a savage bow. “I wholeheartedly desire to witness the denouement.”

  CHAPTER 38

  DECLAN ENDED UP INVADING MY KITCHEN before Batten arrived. Some nocturnal bird was cooing in the pre-dawn murk, and the noise seemed to make Declan look even more tired; his shoulders fell and he sighed. “Why are we up so late?” he asked. “Erm, early?”

  “I'm assuming it's more bad news. I mean, dead bodies aren't usually anything else.”

  “What can I do for you first, Dr. B?”

  I grumbled at him wordlessly, meaningfully.

  “I'll get you some coffee,” he murmured, “since you're extra-crabby.”

  “This is my happy face.” I lifted it to show him. “It's all downhill from here, dude.”

  When Batten finally showed, his tone was gruff and hurried. “Car,” he ordered.

  “Dude, what took so long?” I grumbled. “While you were over there jerking off, I could have been, you know, relaxing. Declan, can you pop upstairs and ask Chapel to come down?”

  Batten looked at me queerly. “What do you need him for?”

  “Three hours there, three hours back, plus who knows how long we'll be in Glenwood Springs. That's a long time to be away from the house. I can't take Harry to Glenwood Springs,” I said. “I can't take him anywhere near Ashcroft.”

  “That old silver mining town by Aspen?”

  “Not because of the silver. Because it's a ghost town. Kind of a nasty one, actually.”

  Batten squared off across the kitchen with me like he was expecting a full load of horseshit. “Tell me.”

  “Only the undead hear the dead. Makes sense, right?”

  “Not mediums?”

  “No such thing. So-called mediums are confused Empaths, Feelers. They feel the emotions of the departed imprinted on the scene, but not the person's ghost. They get the feelings messed up with their own desire to make the client happy, and poof. Magic message from beyond the grave.”

  “But vamps?”

  “All revenants see ghosts, and may interact with them. The old ones have a name for it.”

  “Of course they do.” He rolled his eyes sideways, instead of a full up-and-over, but it still irked me.

  I jammed my arms across my chest. “You wanna hear it or not? Best button that shit up.”

  He just smirked.

  “They call it Kinship of the Departed.”

  “Just saying, they have a fancy phrase for every fucking thing. Old vamps are self-absorbed, everything they do is a huge deal and needs a title,” he explained. I'd have argued with him, but he was right. “Ghost town doesn't necessarily mean haunted, you know.”

  “Duh. But Ashcroft has a guilty secret. Serial killer, 1885, the Castle Creek Slaughter; nasty name, nasty guy. Lots of death, lots of lost souls. As a result, I can't take Harry near Ashcroft without him climbing the walls and grinding his teeth, and it's no tiptoe through the tulips for me.”

  Batten jerked his chin at the pantry door. “Shouldn't you ask him?”

  “We have an understanding regarding Chapel.”

  He opened his mouth and I could see the sharp “tell me” form on his clenched teeth when Chapel came back in.

  “What's wrong?” Chapel asked. “Why haven't you left yet?”

  “Nothing's wrong. Gary Chapel …” I took a deep breath, knowing that if I got this even slightly off, Harry would have my ass. “As DaySitter of Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, I hereby implore you: will you do me the honor of standing in for me in the care and protection of my Companion while I am out of town?”

  “Careful,” Batten said gruffly to Gary. “That sounded official.”

  “I'm not asking for anything you haven't done before,” I said carefully, watching Gary's expression to make sure he got my undertone. “In fact, I'm asking for slightly less. Just… continue to hang here while I'm in Glenwood Springs. Viktor is here, too, but I'd feel better knowing I had you watching. Keep one eye on the dead guys, one eye out for Priors and John Spicer. You can delegate and juggle, right?”

  “Yes, of course. Whatever you need, Marnie.”

  I regarded Chapel with appreciation. This was Harry's doing, this fierce brand of loyalty.

  “Will you tell Lord Dreppenstedt or should I?” Chapel asked.

  “We can't interrupt him right now. I'll leave a note.”

  “He's not resting,” Chapel said. “It's after midnight.”

  “You don't hear it?” The cellar was soundproofed, but I could pick up the faintest prissy plunk-pling! I backhanded the pantry door open slightly and the rapid, crisp experimental notes of Harry's harpsichord tripped up the stairs. “You never, ever interrupt Harry when he's composing a fughetta. You've seen Harry rant? That's nothing. Try a full-blown artistic-diva meltdown.”

  “Duly noted,” Chapel said with a nod.

  “I cannot overstate this. Never. Ever.”

  “I got it.”

  I didn't think he did. “This is a man who has What is there left to do but play? carved on his headboard.” I didn't expect to blush when I said that, but Batten's sharp glance made my cheeks hot. “He'll be hours yet. Don't go down there if you hear the harpsichord. Or the cello. Or any instrument, really. Legend of Zelda on the surround sound? You're good.”

  Batten opened his mouth to make an observation, thought better of it, and settled on a cough into his fist. “Grab your overnight bag and your assistant and let's get the fuck out of here before Tall, Limp and Pasty blows a fuse.” He gave me less than a minute to swipe the bag Harry kept packed for me in my closet before hooking me by the back of my collar and starting toward the car.

  I pulled against the tyranny of his grasp, Keds squeaking in the damp grass as he hauled me across the front lawn. He let go so suddenly that I stumbled. We marched past all the cars in the driveway, my quick steps following his long-legged strides.

  “Jackass. Gonna wait for Declan?” I called, but Batten ignored this. The car at the very back, parked halfway onto the road, was one of Hood's department SUVs, SHERIFF in big lettering across the sides. Hood's keys were dangling from the ignition. Batten slammed the door, starting the car. Behind us, Declan nearly ran to his Buick to keep up with us.

  “Buckle in, gonna be a bumpy ride,” Batten told me, like he assumed I wouldn't. I didn't bother to point out that he was stealing a classy broad's line; he wouldn't know Bette Davis from Betty Crocker.

  He threw an arm over the back of the seat to watch as he jacked the car backward out of the driveway like it was a drag race in reverse.

  “You even drive like a dick,” I marveled. “Did Hood say you could take his car?”

  “Relax. Your boyfriend OK'd it.”

  “He's not my—” I sighed and looked out the window into the leafy darkness. “I need new friends.”

  “Is that what we are?”

  “Just barely, for obvious reasons.”

  “Honey, you'll never find another man like me.”

  “Thank the Dark Lady
for that,” I said. “You're the most irritating person I've ever met.”

  “Because we're so alike.”

  I sat bolt upright as he slowed for the police roadblock at the end of the street. “I am nothing like you.”

  “You're me with tits and poor judgment,” he said, waving his badge and my ID at the cops manning the perimeter at Shaw's Fist road.

  The cop peered in, across Batten, to inspect me. I tried to drum up a smile, but it felt sour and the cop withdrew, chucking our ID at Batten's lap and waving us away.

  Batten peeled out. “If you hated monsters the way I do and you had some balls, you'd almost qualify to be my partner.”

  I howled like he'd stabbed me, pointing across the front seat accusingly. “You cock-knob! I'm not scared of stuff because I don't have dangling fuzzbags. I'm scared of stuff because I know exactly what stuff can do to me!”

  “And I don't?” he roared back; the teasing fled his face all too fast. “You think I don't know what monsters can do to a body?”

  Tumbling into the familiar fight zone with Batten, eyes wide open, real smart, Marnie. But I couldn't stop my mouth. “What the hell has a revenant ever done to you?” I demanded.

  “You wanna see?” he shouted, and the car swerved, kicking gravel.

  “Watch the fucking road.” I cried, slapping the dashboard for balance. My cell phone started cheerfully piping up with “Drunken Sailor” by the Irish Rovers, the hopefully-insulting ringtone I'd picked for Declan. Driving behind Batten, he must have thought we were killing each other at the wheel. I pushed it through to voicemail and stuffed the phone back in my pocket. “Are you out of your mind?” I asked Batten. “What's gotten into you?”

  His jaw settled into the clench-unclench dance, as he knuckled the steering wheel into better control.

  After five long minutes of strained silence, I said, “Where are we going?”

  “Morgue.”

  “Dead body?”

  “So they thought.”

  I didn't think I liked the sound of that. I changed the subject back. “You asked me if I wanted to see. I do.”