by A. J. Aalto
Declan flipped on the overhead lights; they blinked a bit like they were not committed in the least to coming on. One of them gave a sizzling spit and he slapped at the switch to turn them back off.
“Let's go talk in my room,” he suggested, “it has working lights.”
“Try not to take this the wrong way, but I'd rather zonk out.”
“Could you sleep,” he asked, “after what we just saw?”
I considered that. Maybe a bit of small talk would make us both feel better about what happened at the hospital, about Anne's escape, about what might be lurching around Glenwood Springs in the dark. I had no idea where the hell Cosmo and Roger were, and who might be controlling them, and why. He was right; I'd never sleep if we didn't talk.
We ran down the puddled cement sidewalk to the very next room with our arms over our heads, which did nothing to keep the torrent of rain back. When we got inside, he picked up where we left off easily, shrugging out of his wet jacket.
“I quite like the history of the high seas,” he said. “One of my non-work-related interests.”
I flopped down on the bed on my back, and then rethought that position as too suggestive and sat with my back against the headboard. “Vikings? Pirates? Sea shanties? Swashbuckling?”
“Aye, all that. Pour you a drink?”
I eyed the bottle he took from his ever-present doctor's bag and shook in my direction. “You're not trying to get me all liquored-up and out of my panties, are you? Cuz I'm not that kind of girl.”
He gave me a shrewd glance. “You're exactly that kind of girl. And if I wanted you out of your panties, I wouldn't need a dram of this fine spirit.”
I scowled, my honor besmirched, and watched him use his toes to slide off the heels of his sensible black shoes and step out of them. Lightning flashed in the heavily curtained window and the overhead lights blinked as though they might not make it through the storm. I could have sworn, just for a second, that Declan Edgar, silhouetted in the lightning burst, was a heck of a lot shorter than he appeared in artificial light. When thunder rolled overhead, the lamp on the night table shook. I glanced to make sure it wasn't going to fall, and caught Declan closing the curtains hurriedly in my peripheral vision. Lightning flared again, a triple-shot, and the sight of him blurred and jolted up and down. I didn't have any sort of rational explanation for that, except the possibility that I was losing my mind. Or…
“Are you a leprechaun?” I asked him point blank.
He blinked rapidly. His left cheek dimpled deeply. “Because I'm Irish?”
“No, because your eyes look like raw emeralds, and no human being looks shorter in the natural flash of lightning than they do in incandescent light.”
“You're serious?” He laughed.
“I met a necrophiliac half-breed undead ogre this week. We just watched a hybrid zombie-revenant fly out a window. If you told me you're a leprechaun, you'd still be a distant third, boyo.”
“And if I was, would you still drink with me tonight, Dr. B?”
“There was an ogre licking my revenant,” I stressed. “I don't see why I shouldn't spend the night drinking with a leprechaun.”
He affected the thickest TV-commercial Irish accent possible. “Would ya wrestle me down for me pot o’ gold?”
“Absolutely, that and more,” I said, doing my best to imitate the soft, lyrical sounds of his mouth; I must have screwed it up badly, judging by the broad grin he gave me.
“Then I'm sorely disappointed that I'm just a man.” He dimpled again. “All human, with far more to lose to a woman like you than a bit of gold.”
“Awfully sure of yourself. And what do you mean ‘a woman like me’?” Apparently my competition knew I had a serious weakness for stiffies. “Ah, hell. One drink won't kill me.”
“I haven't got any mixer,” he warned.
“Whatcha got?”
“Single-malt whiskey.”
Gulp. “Ice?”
“I didn't see an ice machine, but I can add a splash of water to yours if you're hell-bent on ruining it.”
That sounded like he knew I couldn't handle my booze. It irked me that he knew so much about me, and had no business knowing it.
“Only if you need water in yours,” I challenged.
He turned to me with a questioning eye and handed me a plastic cup full to the brim. Hoo boy.
Declan Edgar tipped his cup and toasted, “Best while you have it, use your breath. There is no drinking after death.” Nobody knew that better than a couple of UnBio nerds.
We drank contemplatively for a few moments. Well, it was more sipping and wincing on my part. “You seem upset,” he said.
“A lot on my mind, and none of it makes sense. Wait!” I held up my hands in a warding-off gesture. “Do not make the obvious joke, please.”
“Never,” he said with a courtly half-bow. “Let's get your mind off things. Let's brainstorm.”
“Offer you a brain sprinkle?” I said. “I'm pretty tapped-out tonight. I feel like I did that one time I got lost in the weird part of YouTube for four hours.”
“There's a not-weird part?” He grinned impishly. “I'll say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind.”
“Cock.”
“Wait ’til I say the first word, Dr. B.”
“Guppy.”
He sat on the bed beside me. “Your own name makes you think ‘guppy’?”
“Fish bowl. I'm in a fish bowl. And everyone's goggling at me. What do they want from me? Make them stop!”
“Whoa. Let's try another direction,” he said, sitting forward, taking my whiskey-hand in his and urging my glass up to my mouth, “before you hyperventilate.”
I gulped, choked on the whiskey's burn. “Yes, please.”
“Okay. Crime?”
“Justice.”
He nodded. “Solution?”
“Night vision.”
A frown. “Interesting. Night vision?”
“Goggles,” I answered.
“Goggles?”
“Spaceman,” I snarled, getting tired of his game.
“Space,” he prompted.
“Rocketing into a dimension of pissed-off never before charted by mankind.”
“Marnie?”
“Yes, Declan?”
“Seek help.”
I cracked up, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now I feel better. Pour me another, Dr. E.”
“Sure thing, Dr. B.” He filled my glass again and I had to hold it very still and sip off the top for it not to spill.
Declan said, “People have been asking me questions about you and I don't know what to tell them.”
“What questions?”
“How old you are. If you're really a witch. If you're shagging Batten.”
I choked on my booze. “Twenty-seven, yes, and no.”
“Is that no as in ‘not currently’?”
I stared into my glass, wondering how it got so empty without me noticing.
Declan persisted, “Have you ever?”
I met his emerald gaze, unnerved. “Is that a ‘people wanna know’ or a ‘Dr. Edgar wants to know’?”
“That's an ‘Agent Golden wants to know’. I'm on a secret mission to uncover the truth.”
“You might have misunderstood the key term in ‘secret mission’.”
“Or I have loyalty issues.” That felt nice, and seemed sincere.
“Has she slept with Batten?” I asked.
“Quid pro quo.”
“Just between us? Off the record?” Declan nodded for me, and whether it was the cozy shelter of the small room while the rain drummed the windows, or the confidentiality agreement in his eyes, or the booze beginning to warm its way through my veins, I answered. “Unintentionally, many moons ago.”
“Accidental sex.” There was a gleam of understanding in his eyes. “Sometimes that's the best kind.”
“Oh fuck yeah,” I said, then slapped my hand over my mouth with a snort-laugh. “That was
loud. Am I loud?”
“The prostitutes heard it, but they've heard worse.” He laughed that warm melty caramel laugh. “To answer your question about Golden no, she hasn't. Nor can she.”
“Religious reasons? A deformity? …Oh! Oh!” I pointed with sudden excitement. “Is she a man?”
“She can't, because Batten's not interested in her.”
“How is that even possible? A couple more shots of whiskey and I'll be interested in her.”
“Because he's the type of guy who forgets other women even exist when he's in love. Batten's got blinders on.” He smiled and said, as though it weren't the most shocking news ever. “All he sees is you.”
I blinked rapidly at him, trying to decide if Batten had put him up to this joke. When it was clear he meant it, I groaned.
“Dude, you better get me another drink.”
CHAPTER 42
IF I HAD BEEN SOBER, I might have noticed that, after Declan's fourth belt of whiskey, the proper clip of his practiced English vanished, and his lilting Irish accent became quite strong. If I'd been listening to anything he said, I'm sure I'd have been enchanted; I was a sucker for a sexy tongue. But I was far too occupied working up the good sweat that rolled down my back.
By the time Batten crashed our party, it was nearly five A.M. and I was trying to Riverdance on the bed in my t-shirt and underwear. Pants or no pants, it's nearly impossible to Riverdance on a soft bed with bad springs. That might have explained why the good doctor was collapsed on the floor laughing so hard he could barely breathe. If Declan noticed he'd spilled his drink, he sure didn't care. His midnight hair was curled damp, and his green eyes sparkled bright as riot lights.
I pointed at Batten with a cheer. “Way-HEY and up she rises, ear-lye in the mornin’!”
“You're not going anywhere ear-lye in the morning,” Batten informed me gruffly, throwing my jeans up at my face. I batted them aside in mid-air. “And neither is anyone else in this motel if you don't pipe down.”
“Am I keeping the whores awake?” I stage-whispered. “Remind me to send a fruit basket.”
“If you don't get down from there,” Batten started, but left off the threat. “Just put your pants on.”
“Don't make me toss your salad, Kill-Notch,” I threatened far too cheerfully, setting Declan off again. I'd learned about an hour ago that Declan giggled, and it was like a chorus of applause as far as I was concerned; I could dance and sling bawdy insults all night.
Taking my hand to make sure I didn't fall while I hoofed it, Batten asked me to please come down. I ignored him. I thought I was doing some pretty nifty foot work, but that might have been the whiskey talking.
Batten repeated his request more sternly. “Come on down now, missy.”
“Wooo!” I exclaimed. “Missy? I'm in trouble now!”
“Awww,” Declan bawled, an audience disappointed, “she was just getting ‘ear-lye’ right!”
“I think Dr. Baranuik has had quite enough.”
“Let the lady decide!” Declan roared, clapping his hands from his position on the carpet.
“Okay, let me put it another way. I think we've had enough of Dr. Baranuik.”
“Bahhhhhh,” he scoffed, waving Batten off, “the lass is a fine singer!”
I'd never heard that before. Clearly there was something wrong with this man. I steadied myself in a wide-legged stance, aimed a finger down at him and watched, rather fascinated, as it weaved back and forth before my face.
“Dr. Edgar, you're blitzed.” I told him. Declan blinked at me once, then went off in a mutiny of giggles.
Batten took me by the shoulders and sat me down. “Pants.” I obeyed, not without difficulty. When I was suitably dressed, Batten turned me bodily and pushed me out the door.
I step-danced out the door and along the sidewalk, seeing only every other stride in my blurry path. “Blow the man down, bullies, blow the man down! To me, way-HEY, blow the man down! Blow him right ba-ack to Liverpool town…” I swayed hard against Batten, nearly knocking him off his feet, and he dragged me forward toward my room. From Declan's, I heard him chime in, “OH! Gimme some time to blow the man down!”
“What's with the pirate songs?” Batten wanted to know.
“Sea shanties,” I corrected. “Weird, or what, Shatner?”
Hot air streamed down from Batten's nostrils to bathe my forehead. “Don't call me that.” Batten took the key card from my back pocket, and I grinned because his hands were on my ass. He shook his head in amazement. “You're going to be in a fine state in the morning.”
“Pfffft!” I exclaimed, stumbling into the dark room to flop face first into the squeaky bed. It made bouncy sex noises, at which point I remembered the gross nubbly comforter, and turned my face so I wouldn't get strangers’ genital-germs all over it.
I felt Batten tugging at my Keds. “What was all that about?” he asked.
“Why I wasn't wearing pants is completely unimportant,” I announced grandly.
“I hardly agree.”
“Now you sound like fuddy-duddy Harry.”
Batten moved in the dark. “I'll thank you to take that back.”
“That's exactly what Harry would say. Word for word!” I turned to hands and knees on the bed to face him. “It's fucking creepy, dude. Knock it off.”
Batten sighed. “Are you going to be fine if I go, or are you going to choke to death on your own vomit?”
“I'm not gonna…” I belched, and it tasted like whiskey. A lot of whiskey. “You know, I kinda like my assistant. He assists me. In learning stuff. Like sea shanties, and dancing in my underpants, and fun with booze. That li'l leprechaun is all right.”
“Don't enjoy him too much.”
I grinned. “You mad, vamp hunter? Wanna show me on the dolly where the bad psychic touched you?”
“That's enough.” His jaw clenched and unclenched. “Just go to sleep.”
“See? I told everyone you were a jackass, and boy, was I right.”
“You told everyone I'm a jackass, huh?”
“Not everyone. Just all the people who work with us.” I chewed thoughtfully on my bottom lip. “And the people at Claire's Early Bird. And the grocery boy. My hairdresser. My sister. My mailman. My masseur. I might have told my gynecologist.”
“Does my name spring from your mouth every time your legs spread?”
“No,” I scoffed. “Only, like, half the time.”
Through the paper-thin walls I heard Declan cry, “To the sea!”
“To the sea!” I echoed, raising my invisible cup and toasting his general direction.
Batten snorted and pointed to the head of the bed. “Sleep.”
“I'm not tired,” I insisted, with a wink. “Very not tired. Know what I mean?”
Batten's lopsided smile was a bright flash in the dim, as he shook his head back and forth, and peeled my clutching hands off his arms.
“Yeah, I don't think so, Snickerdoodle. Have to take a rain check.”
“It is raining. It's fucking pouring. That's just a fact, and you can't argue with facts because then you're just being dense,” I slurred, pawing him, “so stop being dense and take off those pants, Special Agent!”
“Keep your voice down,” he said, trapping both of my small hands together in his large one, “these walls are as thin as your attempts to con me into bed.”
“I can be quieter!” I stage-whispered up at him, eying his belt and wriggling closer on my knees.
“Doubt that,” he said. “Know how loud you're whispering? The night manager turned off his porn to listen-in.”
“Then we'll have to be super-stealthy. Like sex ninjas.”
“That's not a thing.”
“It should be. There should be a class.”
“A sex ninja class,” he clarified.
“I'd take that class. Lesson one: Silent Seductions.” I lowered my voice to whisper: “Boink boink boink.”
Batten pinched his lips. “Aaaaaand this is why Marnie B
aranuik shouldn't drink.” He gave me one of his super-serious looks. Kill-Notch means business. “Sleep it off.”
“I'll sleep you off,” I threatened.
“Shhhh,” he insisted.
“I'll be more careful,” I swore, wetting my lips. “It'll be our little secret, just like you said.”
He pointed in my face sternly. “Behave.”
“Wouldn't you rather…” My tongue darted out to lick the tip of his finger.
Batten said, “Not fair.”
“And you texting me about your balls is fair?” I said.
“You said that had no effect whatsoever.”
I eyed him like he was crazy. “I lied. Duh.”
“So it gets you hot?”
“Does this answer your question?” I stood, wobbly on the bed, or maybe it was my legs that were unsteady. Incredibly, it only took a second to whip my shirt off over my head, but when I peeled my pants down to my ankles, the tangle of denim proved too much for my drunken balance and I flipped off the bed with a flailing whoop. I wrestled to liberate my ankles from the jeans, but they were caught fast.
“Wait!” I kicked free of my pants. “I'm still sexy! Hold on!”
Batten watched me with pinched eyebrows for a moment before he lost it completely. His shoulders shook with surrender, and, covering his laugh with one hand while offering me assistance with the other, he hauled me up. “On your feet, babe.” He gave me the head-to-toe inspection and shook his head sadly. “Jesus. You are one hot mess.”
“Stop fighting it.” I shoved my unruly hair back from my face. “You know you wanna.”
“Think about your pro/con list,” he reminded.
“Pro: I'm hotter when drunk,” I said.
“Sad but true,” he agreed, maneuvering me back onto the relative safety of the bed.
I stuck up a second finger. “Con: My hotness will destroy your eyes.”
“My career, my hopes, my dreams…” he added. “Just how drunk are you?”
“If I say ‘soooo drunk’, are you leaving your pants on?”
“Bet your ass.” Batten grinned. “Scale of one to ten, ten being hammer—”
“Negative eleventy-seventeen!” I hung upside down off the end of the bed and beckoned at his fly. “You know, from this angle, when you shake your head no it looks like yes.”