2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  “Why did that work?” Batten wanted to know.

  “Dissolved by the chemical horror of diet soft drinks?” I suggested. “Maybe Monsanto really is the greater of two evils.”

  Chapel whipped out his cuffs and began to read John Spicer his rights. The sound of it meant this whole mess was almost over, and I couldn't have been happier. I pumped my fist in the air and let out a victory cry as Chapel fastened Spicer's hands behind his back.

  “That's right!” I said with satisfaction. “That's what you get!”

  Batten slumped against the table, looking worn out, but we weren't quite finished yet.

  “We're fucking awesome!” I cried. “Let's go!”

  “Where?” Batten shouted, alarm straightening his spine.

  “Seven-Eleven!”

  “Why?” he demanded.

  “Diet Dr. Pepper!” I cried, turning to run up the ramp. “Gotta kill that last berserker!”

  “Marnie, wait!”

  On a win-high, I bolted for the exit and pelted up the ramp, my Keds slapping the slippery, damp railroad ties. Chapel bellowed something behind me, too, but I didn't hear it.

  “Dudes, hustle your rumps! Last one there doesn't get to Pepper the dead guy!” I cried. Halfway up, at about the fiftieth tie, my left knee decided to buckle, but I threw both arms out to the side, caught the wall, and used my gloves to give me traction, hoisting myself until my knee could work itself out. Puffing, I reached the top… and remembered the trap I'd had Declan dig a split second too late.

  My feet went out from under me and my brain shouted shitfire as I performed a textbook face-plant into the hole. I ate dirt, spat, rolled over with a frantic bleh to see that I was alone. No berserker. Panting, I squinted up at the night sky through a rusty, kicked-up film of dust.

  The moon was eclipsed by Batten's outline, standing at the edge of the hole. He'd freed himself from his handcuffs and they swelled the pocket of his jeans. His ripped t-shirt showed a big bruise on his left pectoral and a dirty scuff underneath. He leaned against the mine shaft's entrance, slinging one ankle in front of the other.

  “Hey,” he greeted. “Whatcha doing down there?”

  “Just working on my bruise collection,” I said, holding up my hand so he could help me out.

  He made no move to do so. “Let me get this straight, whiz kid.” He made a valiant attempt to remain straight-faced. “You set up this trap.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “And then charged face-first into it yourself.”

  “Hmm, interesting,” I said, nodding. “I see what you're saying.”

  “I'm saying you trapped yourself, Geek Squad.”

  “I did. Now, could you— what the hell are you doing?”

  Batten held up his cell phone.

  I said, “I'll give you the world's most awesome BJ if you don't take that picture.”

  “Too late.” He checked his texts, then pointed off into the dark distance. “De Cabrera and Golden were waiting on the hill when they spotted Spicer's arrival. There was some exchange of fire. Golden called Hood and Chapel, de Cabrera called the CDC.”

  “Oh.”

  “Looks like they took care of our last zombie.”

  “Oh.”

  “Looks like you went kamikaze into that hole for nothing.”

  “Well, that's a relief.” I tried to haul myself up and out, Keds desperately pedaling into the side of the hole, but my hands slipped on the dirt, which sifted down into my face. Embarrassment flushed my cheeks. Batten's widening smile compounded the problem.

  Chapel came to the top of the steps, frowned into the hole at me. He was still speckled with corpsepox, and slightly sweaty, but the sparkle was back in his hazel eyes. “Spicer had ten other zombies in an elevator shaft. Hybrids. I'll get the CDC in here.”

  I grunted in response, trying again to haul up. “Where's Declan? Where the hell is my assistant when I need him?”

  “I'm sure there's a good reason that Mark isn't helping you up, Marnie?” Chapel said.

  Batten shook his head. “If we leave her, she'll be out of trouble for a while.”

  They shared a moment of contemplation that did not amuse me. I told them flatly, “I quit, you flaming bozos.”

  Chapel waved that away as nonsense with a Harry-style gesture that was all too familiar. “I'll text Lord Dreppenstedt and let him know you're fine, Marnie.”

  “Fine is a stretch,” Batten said. “Contained is the word I'd use.”

  Chapel paced away, his phone to his ear; Batten crossed his arms over his chest. He assumed that wide-legged stance he enjoyed at the bank of the hole, and stared down at me pensively.

  “Going to behave if I get you out of there?” he asked.

  Behave? “Suck my left tit, you sweaty prick.”

  “Ladylike,” he observed.

  “I saved your ass back there, in case you've forgotten, Kill-Notch,” I reminded him. “You know, zombies, hybrids, a necromancer, a real live dhampir? I took care of all that business.” I shot up one proud, gloved finger. “And killed the female zombie-revenant super-beast with one move. One move.”

  “Pretty sure that move is called ‘tripping’.”

  I clenched my teeth. “I did that on purpose. It was a dive. A dive, I say!”

  “Of course it was,” he drawled. His smile increased until it dug smile lines in the corners of his eyes.

  “Should have let her gnaw your brains out.”

  His lips curled into a broad grin. “Be nice, or you'll be spending the night down there.”

  “I'm warning you,” I said. “I'm giving you one more chance not to be a total ass-clown.”

  “Well, when you put it like that,” he yielded, bending to crouch with a tired, noisy exhale, holding down both of his big, capable hands. “All right, I'm sorry. Ya done good, kiddo, come on up.”

  I used one foot to brace against the wall of the hole, and yanked myself up using the support of his arms. He dragged me the last half of the way, making a big show out of how difficult I was to manage. The second I was sturdy on my feet, I darted forward at him. He let out a playful laugh and danced back easily, joints loose, his body always ready for action. My swift kick caught air.

  “Bad Snickerdoodle,” he scolded like I was a misbehaving puppy, but his smile and the set of his arms dared me to try again. He looked ready to snatch me off my feet if I got too close, and my body reported that, tired or not, full-contact wrestling with a hot vampire hunter was long overdue. I guess Batten figured I'd back off, because when I surged forward again, his eyebrow did its upward dance.

  I heard Hood's voice carry across the moonlit distance. “Wrong!”

  My training came back in a rush, and I took two running steps to Batten's weak side, feinted strong to prompt a block attempt, and came back to the weak side with a solid leg sweep. I'm pretty sure he could have dodged it if he'd expected me to know how to do shit like that. Surprise, and Hood's tenacity for teaching, can be credited with the takedown.

  I propped my foot on his chest while he went limp, sprawled spread-eagle in the tramped-down grass with a not-unhappy groan.

  “Aha!” I crowed. “How you like them people skills, Kill-Notch?”

  His reply was lost to laughter.

  “Admit it,” I said, “I saved your ass.”

  “Oh, fuck, no,” he said.

  “I saved you. Say it!” I pressed harder with my foot on his chest.

  Batten laughed harder under my Ked. “I surrender!”

  “Say it!”

  “You saved me, you saved me,” he cried, and rolled away when I lifted the foot. He popped to his feet, surprisingly agile; his eyes were bright with some emotion I couldn't taste with my Talents, and couldn't guess with my limited experience. He dropped his chin to look at me through his lashes, and when he winked, my heart damn near melted. “You absolutely saved me, Snickerdoodle. I owe you one.”

  CHAPTER 61

  HARRY'S KAWASAKI WAS GONE, and my helmet lay aband
oned in the grass. Declan was nowhere to be found, and I had a bad feeling about that, one I wasn't ready to put into words. One glance at the broken window of the Bugatti told me I'd better hitch a ride back to Shaw's Fist with anyone but Batten. Hood's truck had heavy plastic and duct tape for a back window, so I avoided him, too. I bobbed and weaved my way through the throngs of HAZMAT-clad scientists, cops, FBI and PCU agents, and thanked the Dark Lady for my lack of height as I ducked the media, to dive into Goon Squad's SUV behind de Cabrera before he and Golden could take off without me.

  Golden looked into the rearview mirror. Her wig had slipped a little, but the glow in her cheeks made her beautiful. “Are you going to be okay now?”

  “That's highly unlikely,” I said. “Probably, I won't die. That's the best I can say.”

  “You might want to consider another profession,” she said.

  “I do! On an hourly basis! Pretty sure I quit four times today.”

  “Hey,” de Cabrera said. “Positivity, lady.”

  Exhaustion, and the fading of adrenalin, made my response sleepy, and I slumped to a barely-sitting half-swoon in the back seat. “You win, Cuban. I love this job. I love this team. I love you. I want to marry you and have your babies.”

  “Whoa, whoa, a little less positivity, yeah?” He chuckled.

  “I love your coffee and your shoes. Especially when you drink the former and apply the latter to the gas pedal to take me the fuck home. How's that?”

  An hour into the ride back to Shaw's Fist, I got two texts, which I read from a horizontal position with my feet curled up and my cheek pressing the leather of the seat.

  Chapel: Declan and Malas are gone.

  Batten: What the fuck did you do to my car?

  CHAPTER 62

  THE TEAM RECONVENED in my living room to watch Harry build a fire in the wood stove despite deep August heat. Not one of them complained. None of them mentioned that my yard was still strewn with pink webbing. The CDC had finished their sweeps and tests and taken away their samples from Shaw's Fist. Three hours away, in Ashcroft, they would still be busy with high-powered lights and beeping machines and hissing ventilators. But here, in my living room, everything was quiet again. There were no zombies. There were no half-breeds of any kind: no zombie-revenants, no undead ogres, no dhampir. There was a squishy-faced bat nestled in one of my bunny slippers beside the couch, but I was getting used to that, and they were his slippers now.

  Declan Edgar was, by Chapel's report, gone. They had recovered Harry's Kawasaki at Malas’ mansion. We could only guess that the lure of finally getting answers was too much for Declan to ignore, and he'd released Malas from his casket with the hopes that the master revenant would make good on his promise to take him to Remy Dreppenstedt. I doubted very much that would happen, but couldn't hazard a guess what the alternatives might be. Wondering where my assistant was, and whether or not he was okay, put a tired sort of hole in my heart that I knew would not go away.

  Agent de Cabrera stood beside the couch, where Agent Golden perched on the arm. He nudged her. “We gonna do it now, or wait?”

  “Now's fine,” Golden said, eying me.

  I squinted. “What?”

  “So I should get it?” de Cabrera asked.

  “Get what?” I demanded, and Harry chuckled. I curled further in his chair. “Do you know something I don't know, dead guy?”

  “Oh hush, you silly bird, you are quite impossible to surprise. Please, Agents, do not keep her in suspense, ’ere she fly into a right tizzy.”

  De Cabrera snorted and went into the kitchen while Golden aimed in my direction a steady, smug smile. Batten looked mildly intrigued, so I figured he wasn't in on it. Chapel was texting back and forth with Dr. Varney, whom I had successfully dodged for the entire zombie case. Granted, Varney was in Namibia and limited by Skype, but I was pretty proud of my ability to completely avoid him.

  De Cabrera came back with a cardboard box with the top cut off.

  Golden warned me, “You asked for it.”

  I craned over the rim as he lowered the box onto my lap; inside was a tiny ball of orange and white fluff and my first thought was, oh no, not another monster. The kitten flopped over and stuck all four legs in the air, spreading wide and exposing her bits like a Tijuana hooker.

  De Cabrera grinned at me. “Now you have an excuse to keep kitty litter in the house. I hear you got, like, special Geek Squad uses for it.”

  “You're smooth like that,” Golden added.

  I laughed, startling the kitten into a reflexive jolt. It mewled at me, and Harry tsked.

  “The poor creature. Surrender your hold on him, woman. Baranuiks don't know how to take care of a bloody thing, I swear, not even their own selves. Hand him over to me this instant.”

  “Can I at least name him, Harry?”

  “Of course you may not, you'll only pick something silly or saccharine, like Biddles or Winky or Toodlepie,” Harry scolded.

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine, what are you going to name him?”

  “He shall have a dignified name.” Harry considered the ball of fluff in the box, and then nodded decisively. “I shall name him after the Bard of Ayrshire.”

  “Who?” Golden asked.

  Amazingly, I knew this one. “Robert Burns?”

  Harry smiled at me, impressed. “Indeed, my angel. The Ploughman Poet.”

  “So…” I smirked. “Bob the Cat? Gotcha. So much classier than what I would have picked.”

  Harry's smile disappeared, and he reached into the box to stroke the kitten. “Thank you ever so much, agents. Whilst I cannot imagine what follies led you to believe that my cantankerous chickadee could possibly care for one, the animal is now in good hands.”

  I rolled my eyes, handed Harry the box, stood to hug de Cabrera, and mouthed thank you at Golden over Elian's shoulder. She accepted with a nod and a smile.

  “We're hitting the local bar,” de Cabrera announced. “Check out the night life in the rockin’ town of Ten Springs. You coming?”

  “Pass, I need to zonk,” I said. “Next time.”

  “You sure? I'm buying,” Golden said, and then ducked out the door after de Cabrera. I followed to the hall to watch them cross the yard. The purr of an engine preceded a flood of headlights which hit the pink webs and caused them to sparkle obscenely.

  “You're going too?” I asked Chapel, who tucked his phone away and began putting on his shoes.

  “Paul Varney and I still have work to do,” he replied. “Assistant Director Johnston is waiting for my report.”

  “Uh, Gary? Not to sound like a cheese-ball but…” I imagined Spicer killing you and it horrified me.

  He looked at me expectantly, hazel eyes serious.

  I like having you in my life, I thought, blinking away a silly flood of tears. “I'll fix that dhaugir mix-up ASAP. Scout's honor.”

  “You weren't even a Brownie,” he said, studying my face with keen eyes, “but I'll take your word for it, Marnie. Is there anything else?”

  I'm glad you're alive. I think I need you. “Yeah. Just… thanks. You, uh, believed in me.”

  Chapel frowned and took off his tortoiseshell glasses to polish stray zombie ash off the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. “Never had a doubt, Marnie,” he said finally, sliding his glasses back on the bridge of his nose. After a quick wave goodbye to Harry, he showed himself to the door. “See you Monday.”

  I stared after him in open amazement and didn't notice Batten at my shoulder until he cleared his throat.

  “I had doubts,” he told me.

  I grimaced. “Yeah, no shit.”

  “A lot of doubts.”

  “Okay, shut up, would ya?”

  I turned to scowl at him, but the smile on his face stopped me; a genuine Mark Batten smile, just for me, reaching the corners of his eyes, carving deep laugh lines that mocked me. I was getting those smiles more and more often, and I wasn't sure it was a good thing, but my irritation melted to grudging warmth. For a moment
, I imaged the perfect ending to our case: him taking me in his strong arms, holding me tight, lowering that smiling mouth to mine, and saying something remarkably romantic and sexy before planting a long, lingering kiss so hot it could melt titanium. Not that we were allowed. But, man, would that be great.

  He looked like he knew exactly what was playing through my mind. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Dipping his chin nearer my face, he said in a low, sensual voice, “That picture on the mantel is your sister, right? She single?”

  My mouth dropped open. “I hate you so much.”

  “No, you don't.”

  “I can't even believe how much I fucking hate you. There aren't even words for how much I hate you right now.”

  Batten smothered his laughter so hard that when he finally breathed in, he snorted loud enough to make Harry exclaim in the other room, “Oh my!”

  That instantly dissolved me into a fit of giggles, and Batten and I spent a good five minutes lost in silly, stress-busting laughter. His big hand landed on my shoulder and he squeezed it. I sighed, called him a jackass, and we walked back into the living room.

  Harry let go of our new kitten long enough to fetch refreshments: espresso for me, a cold beer for Batten, and a goblet of warmed blood for himself to stave off the hunger pangs until Batten left and we could be alone. I curled beside Harry on the couch while Batten took the chair, and for a long time we sat in companionable silence, watching Harry's dancing fire through the open woodstove doors, Batten and I sweating silently so that Harry could be comfortable.

  “A toast,” I proposed. “To my assistant, whom I never wanted, probably needed, and am going to miss. To Jean-Etienne Auguste Dufort.”

  Harry cleared his throat. “That is Malas’ son you are toasting, are you not forgetting a surname?”

  “Oh, right. Jean-Etienne Auguste Dufort Nazaire,” I added.

  “And his mother's maker?” Harry said, and his single dimple showed. “After all, let us not forget, he is an immortal.”