2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  I saw it then: the shared black curls, the bright eyes rimmed with gold, the soft, round face. The realization hit me like a boot in the solar plexus. Declan had been interviewing the wrong revenant. Kitty's last words to Harry came to me. (“The true abomination…I know who…I know who you…father—”) She hadn't been asking for her own father, she'd be accusing Harry of fathering an abomination.

  She'd guessed the wrong revenant. The wrong revenant lineage, as well. So had Declan. My preternatural biology training screamed at me, Revenants can't breed, this isn't right, this doesn't happen. I continued edging backward, now toward Golden, patting my sides and back for a weapon, realizing they were both in Declan's hands.

  “We didn't kill your mother outright,” Malas continued, “for she was fair and lithe and lovely. You have her green eyes, you know.”

  Declan looked like he wanted to make a move against Malas’ phantasm; his feet stayed, though he balled his fist and let out a frustrated keen of rage.

  “Wilhelm and I spent our last human moments enjoying her in every possible way, oh my, yes. It was the last thing we did as mortal men. And every man is good for one last drop, isn't that right, my boy? You come to us looking for your mother's maker, child, and you have instead found the immortal who may be your father.” He gave a shrug that could have meant anything. “Are you not pleased?”

  Malas continued forward, the filmy edges of his phantasm flowing ahead of him like a fog bank, ignoring the Taser in Declan's trembling hand. His kinetic power shoved three of the closest chairs back at an angle. “Mommy dearest left her boy long ago, did she not? Yes. So very long a time to walk alone.”

  That wasn't possible. Declan wasn't a revenant; I'd seen him in full sunlight. I'd seen him eat food. He ate stew, with carrots and onions and garlic… and choked. I frowned. I'd seen him drink booze, and never once had I seen him drink blood.

  “Look, DaySitter!” Malas said with something akin to glee, motioning grandly with one arm. “You were hunting my poor Anne, whilst far more sporting prey is right at hand. Gaze with mortal eyes upon the dhampir, the only one of his kind: son of a revenant and his grieving widow, created with one last vital drop of humanity. Half human, half revenant, and hated by both. Barren of power. Immortal without Grace. Homeless and hopeless and godless.”

  I should have felt something, but everything in me went numb. Declan's face crumpled, but his lips and fist clamped hard and tight.

  “What did they do to her?” Declan demanded.

  “If Mother wanted you to know, Mother would come for you.” Malas grinned at Declan's sharp intake of breath. “Oh yes, little monster, your mother walks the Earth. Mistress of the Eversea, the Lady of Nightfall, Duchess of the Darkest Corner. They kept her alive so that either Wilhelm or I could have our son. We had not expected her to survive as long or as well as she did, gaining strength with every week that passed, and when she turned and developed her full powers, she became a most bothersome creature. But even with their combined strengths, the Falskaar Vouras were unable to end her. How could you possibly kill something like that?”

  Declan's desperation splintered his voice. “Where is she?”

  “Tell me, little monster, do you even know your given name? Do you know hers? The king will only refer to her by sly names: Sister of Worms. Falsefeather. But I knew her alive, and her true name is a sweet stroke in my ear. You must have come across rumors about her, certainly. So very many questions you must have.”

  “Where. Is. She.” Declan repeated.

  “Release me, and I will take you to her,” Malas promised.

  I spoke up. “No, he won't. He's bluffing, Declan.”

  Malas ignored me. “Together, we will solve once and for all the mystery of your birth, and answer every question you've ever had.”

  “That's not going to happen,” I said.

  “You have received the same command as I have, DaySitter, from our Overlord. He wants my Anne. He has given you a ring like this.” He showed me his own, gold with a crescent moon: one moon, one Talent.

  I didn't see any reason to deny it, so I shrugged.

  “The Overlord must have my Anne,” Malas said. “She belongs to the grave, and to our Infernal Father. You must destroy John Spicer, claim Anne for the Overlord, and bring her back to me.”

  “I think that sounds like a bad idea. An extra-bad idea. Right, Declan?”

  His eyes were utterly haunted. His bottom lip hung open like he hadn't the strength to pull it up to cover his chattering teeth.

  “Right, Declan?” I repeated, elbowing him.

  He pulled it together enough to murmur something that might have been assent.

  I'd take what I could get. “Right,” I said, motioning at Malas. “This vampire has all the bad ideas.”

  Malas’ upper lip curled at my use of the V-word, but I didn't correct myself. “One-Fang going all Mr. Christian on Spicer's HMS Bounty. Why can Three-Face not take Anne Himself? Why does He need me? He's a demon king, and I'm just a Groper-Feeler. Come to think of it, why do you need me, Malas? Spicer's obviously no match for you. Oh, wait. Guess he was.”

  But the real answer wasn't the chained casket right in front of me, and it smacked me in the nose: a “pantheon of the dead,” Harry had said. A haunted place. A place no revenant would go. A place where the screams of tortured spirits, victims of the 1885 Castle Creek Slaughter, would drive any revenant mad. Ashcroft.

  “You can't go after Spicer, because Spicer's in a place you can't approach. That's why you need us.”

  “Improcerous woman—”

  “Improcerous?” I said to Declan. “Lord and Lady, I hate old revenants: babbling obscure words, bossing me around, and turning nice little girls into monsters.”

  “Nice little girls don't end up in my clutches,” Malas rasped, “only the naughty girls flock to me, and I delight in their company.”

  I promised him, “Not for long.”

  “Nothing can stand in my way. Not you. Not the paladin. Not anything.”

  “Sure about that?” I jerked a thumb at his casket, where the silver crosses tinkled softly.

  “Yes, woman,” he rasped. “I am sure.”

  Malas’ upper lip peeled off his long single fang and in a rush, his perfect phantasm reverted to reflect his actual self, with thinning hair and withered arm and yellowed fang. A full-fledged ugly, he hissed and spat, lifting his crippled arm as his boots rose from the ground ever so slightly. I heard the sizzle-snap of kinetics and all my hair stood on end.

  Well, fuck.

  CHAPTER 57

  “GET DOWN! Get down!” I shouted. I shoved Declan to the ground and dove behind the table, knocking the Taser out of his hand in the process. The candles rocked and swayed on the table, but only a couple of them fell over and went out, casting the room into deeper, swaying shadow. Golden gave a shout of alarm and de Cabrera darted in my direction.

  Malas drew both arms back as if he was shedding a heavy robe and both Feds went flying into the darkened corners on either side of him. I heard bones crunch but didn't have time to wonder whose, and the indistinct moaning from that end of the room could belong to either or both of the agents.

  In an instant, Malas was before me, a barely seen streak in the dimness, pulling back his withered arm, the useless hand a crippled fist. I had a shred of a moment to think, phantasm hand, that'll go right through me, but it wasn't his fist that hit me, it was the wave of kinetic power that rode before it. That psi-fist smacked me in the mouth, sending me backwards into the wall with a resounding thud. My impact dented the plaster and lathe and I tasted blood, and then shook my head to clear it.

  Malas’ growl played havoc with my wiring, and I felt his hunger and rage shred through me like a cheese grater. A shadow that was probably Declan stepped in front of me, but Malas was faster. The revenant's good hand snapped up, and Declan slammed to a stop like he'd hit an invisible wall. The high reek of burnt sugar filled the air, coupled with a surge of anise. Malas turne
d on me again.

  Not knowing what else to do, I shakily pulled out the crucifix from under my shirt and held it out in front of my bleeding lip, which throbbed and puffed against my teeth.

  I didn't even have to warn him away verbally. Malas hissed around his fang and threw both arms in front of his face, halted by the symbol of heaven as though archangels were staring him down with divine flamethrowers. If he'd been wearing an opera cape, it would have been a perfect Dracula-shies-from-Van-Helsing moment. For a heartbeat, I felt powerful, and wondered if this was what Batten felt like when he hunted.

  And then it all changed.

  A blazing rush of marrow-shaking energy pulled through the space around us; it felt like heat leaching from my bones. When he released it through the air, the first-failed experiment at the table ignited in a puff of white-hot flames, a fine demonstration of the phantasm's reach into the realm of the physical. Pyrokinetics. His boots lifted further from the ground, churning a whirlwind of ash and clumps of singed hair in a near-blinding maelstrom, his arms rising like the wings of a huge bird. I had a bad feeling I was about to become a flaming whirl of charred flesh when Viktor Domitrovich tumbled into our space with a translocated gush of air heavy with ogre stench. He was not alone.

  The second blur was impossible to follow with mortal eyes until it skidded to a full stop, Oxfords streaking the concrete floor, tweed overcoat flapping, pale hands immediately reaching to tidy his ascot, check his hair, smooth the front of his Turnbull & Asser shirt. Harry. The unexpected infusion of preternatural vigor he offered me through our Bond was a slap, but a welcome one.

  Harry tossed a frown at my crucifix. “Curtail your murlimews, my wonder-wench. You must forgive le vicomte.” The sound of his crisp London accent made me weak with relief. “Lies and gratuitous displays of power are second nature to the ancient ones. They know no other way.”

  “Dreppenstedt,” Malas said, while glaring at Viktor. “You dare come without invitation and with this mongrel at your side? Think you that this affair is any of your concern?”

  “Can you doubt it?” Harry folded his pale hands loosely in front of his stomach, and if he'd had a cane, I had no doubt they'd be perched atop it, a bemused Fred Astaire about to kick ass. He cocked his head to one side, gazing down on me. When he spoke, the tips of his fangs peeked out. “The blood on my DaySitter's sweet lip tells me that perhaps I should have come sooner. Flames and ether, my Lord, even her evening attire, while no doubt inappropriate to the occasion, is looking positively miscomfrumpled.”

  “Now you're in for it, Malas,” I agreed vehemently. “You miscomfrumpled my attire.”

  Harry looked me up and down, shaking his head critically. “Close your mouth, gobemouche. Good heavens, whatever would your agents say? Gather yourself up and please strive to be graceful whilst you do so.”

  “My agents? If you mean Jackass Batten and Plague-rat Chapel, they aren't here, which you already know. These agents are hurt, and should have an ambulance called.” I scrambled to my feet, Keds squeaking. Wiping blood from under my nose with the back of one hand, I caught Harry up on the situation.. “Malas might be Declan's dad, or maybe Prince Dreppenstedt is. It's a whole Maury Povich thing, but with dead guys. And Declan's a dhampir. And the Falskaar Vouras kidnapped baby Declan away from his mom. And that's why he was asking you all those history questions about the Dreppenstedts. Also: that phantasm can still punch really hard.”

  Harry's eyes spiraled through shades of silver to pure platinum. “Is that so?” he asked. “Oh, I am sympathetic to the sad history of our bookwright, but am most troubled by the assault upon my pet.”

  Harry knew, I thought, diagnosing a distinct lack of surprise on my Cold Company's face. He knew about Declan. Since when? And how? “I'm probably fine,” I assured him, “but if you could intervene here on our behalf, that'd be spiffy.”

  “There will be no intervention here,” Malas warned. “This is my home, and as such, my safe haven, my sanctuary. You will command your DaySitter to release me from the silver chains and crosses, you will explain to her that she must obey the wishes of our Infernal Father, and then you will leave my home.”

  “You never thought to put your home in your DaySitter's name, my Lord,” Harry pointed out. “An arrogant mistake.”

  The phantasm scowled its confusion.

  Harry continued smoothly, “You never did trust your advocates, did you? You never could invest in a mere mortal. You always wanted your companions to be more for you than with you.” From Harry's lips, the words were a contemptuous condemnation.

  “I see nothing wrong with longing for the company of my own kind.”

  “Yes, you are a lonely soul, Malas, but you do not learn. Youngers always leave, once turned. This is the way of it. A DaySitter will stay if treated with kindness and shown a measure of trust. Trusting Stuart, you might have placed your wealth and property in his name. If you had, I'd not have been able to enter your sanctuary without Stuart's invitation. I do not require your invitation, nor do I see any reason to respect your sanctuary when you have violated the oldest and most sacrosanct rules of the immortal ones. You have bent to the temptations offered by John Spicer and betrayed your own DaySitter, Malas, a precious mortal who bent to your wishes, fed you and protected you, kept you warm and safe, and trusted you with everything that he was.” Harry's sadness made his voice a mere breath. “You have repaid him with nothing. You cast Stuart's life to the paladin for his vile experiments, as well as the life of Anne Bennett-Dixon, a young lady who also trusted your gift.”

  “She was to be mine,” Malas said. “Mine.”

  “How many men and women have you turned,” Harry asked. “How many souls have you welcomed to the nectar of your heart, only to betray them? How could you watch them become rotting slaves to the bokor?”

  “It is not your place to judge me, young Dreppenstedt.”

  “No, it is not.” Harry's eyes glinted with cold steel. “That will be the job of the Falskaar Vouras, my Lord, for if the hunter does not come to act on his warrant to stake you, the primeval ones will exact retribution as a warning to others who might be tempted to abandon their Bond and their advocate.”

  “The primeval ones know better than to threaten me.”

  “Prince Dreppenstedt assures me that your clutch has long been emptied; since all your Youngers have been given over to the bokor's Vodou, the Nazaire bloodline ends with you. You will cast no shadow on this Earth any longer. The Falskaar Vouras will show you no mercy.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, Declan jerked somewhat guiltily and hid his face from me. I kept him in my peripheral vision as he began to move. He had recovered my modified Taser, held it in one hand. The other held a stake of hand-carved rowan. I hadn't ever seen him with one, in his bag or in his hand, and the sight was jarring. In that moment, I wasn't sure whom he wanted to use it on. When he did move, I tensed, but he crept from checking Golden's stirring form to examine de Cabrera, who was favoring his left knee.

  “If there is no mercy to be had, then there is no reason I shouldn't destroy you now,” the phantasm snarled, peeling his upper lip back off his single, yellowed fang.

  Harry bowed deeply, letting his coat sweep back. Cool poise tilted his smile when he straightened. “If you wish to test my full strength against the power of your phantasm, I invite you to do so. At this point, Malas, you really have nothing left to lose, and I do admit to some curiosity as to the outcome.”

  “Let's just get out of here,” I advised, and tossed the Waterloo tooth shard at the cross-wrapped casket. “I don't think I'll be calling on you again.”

  “If ever you did, mademoiselle, I do not think you would enjoy what came for you. And you, Dreppenstedt. My fate is not your concern, nor is the destiny of the little creature.”

  “Creature?” Harry said, and his lips formed a sarcastic little O of surprise as he spotted Declan. “Ah, yes, the babe you stole from his mother's care. My maker's widow. My Master did tell me this s
ad tale.” He tsked around his fangs. “If you had any decency left, you would at the very least tell the lad his name.”

  The phantasm swept backward a step and seemed to be considering this, as if he had something to gain from being nice at this point, one last trump card.

  “Not only have you broken mortal law, Malas,” Harry continued, “but you have betrayed secrets of the Falskaar Vouras to human ears, thereby breaking the laws of our king. You have betrayed your own advocate and defiled revenant Youngers. You have stirred Prince Dreppenstedt into a right tizzy by revealing this shameful history to the dhampir.” Harry motioned to the chained casket. “You are in no position to deny such a small request, my Lord.”

  “This one,” Malas’ shade pointed at Declan. “Will not allow you to destroy me before he has all of his answers.”

  “Your son,” Harry agreed, “deserves his answers, and Prince Dreppenstedt will supply them if you will not. Earlier this evening, I was assured of this.”

  Malas seemed to shrink. He said to Declan, “She called you Jean-Etienne Auguste Dufort, with no small amount of human sentimentality, after her father.”

  “There you are, Dr. Edgar,” Harry said brightly, flashing fang. The tension in the room seemed to pop when he clapped once, loudly. “Time for you to go. I am quite certain you are sorely needed elsewhere.”

  I took the hint, grabbed Declan's elbow tightly, and yanked. My assistant did not budge. “That's it? That's all?”

  “All? You just heard truth, lad, truth from the mouth of an ancient revenant. You of all people should know how rare a gift that is.” Harry's grim smile held a warning. “Best be on your way while you may.” He turned his attention down on me, flashing me Chapel's cell phone. I love you Harry blazing from the screen in a bright green chat bubble. “At long last, you permit me the opportunity to assist you. Ah, but you never fail to ecstasiate me, my starry-eyed sparrow. I am flush with satisfaction.”

  “Oh, you got that, huh?” I said.

  “Never have you said such sweet words to me.”