by A. J. Aalto
“I understand Madam's position perfectly.”
“El Ghazarino owes me big time for this,” I muttered as I popped out of the car.
Harry whisked the door open as we hit the front steps, but remained tucked behind it in case the clouds weren’t entirely covering the setting sun. He swiftly shut it behind us and spun on his heel. “Heavens, you’ve rather a wild look in your eye, ducky,” he exclaimed.
I peeled off my parka and hat, and tossed him the bag of fudge and goodies. “Can’t imagine why.”
“Well, off with those clothes and into a hot bath with you, then straight to bed, where you may dine before an early shut-eye. My pet might be desirous of a restorative nightcap, Mr. Merritt,” he said, handing Combat Butler the bag and making a shooing motion.
I opened my mouth then closed it again. “Harry, what are you talking about? It’s barely five o’clock. We have an appointment with Mr. Merzyan this evening.”
“I have an appointment this evening,” he corrected, as though the issue was settled. “Would you like chicken or salmon for your repast?”
I hung up my coat and whisked off my scarf, tossing it alongside my hat on the hall table, then kicked my Keds into the corner. “I’m going with you.”
“Tonight, I thought you’d like my special roasted potatoes with thyme,” he continued, as though he hadn’t heard me, heading to the kitchen, tossing his voice back at me with his audiomancy. “I’ve already popped them in the oven to crisp up. Mmm. Your favorite.”
I stood my ground in the hallway, leaning one hip against the cherry side table, my arms crossed, until he circled back with an expectant smile.
“Roasted potatoes with thyme,” he repeated, as if it were an incantation that might magically change my mind. “I had hoped for a little more enthusiasm on your part, beloved.”
“Uh huh,” I said, unimpressed. “Think you’re going to distract me with balls of starch fried in duck fat? Again? You know that only works most of the time, Harry.”
Harry wilted. “Very well. Is that what you’re wearing tonight?” he asked, pursing his lips thoughtfully and giving me a critical head-to-toe examination.
“I was considering changing,” I said. “Thoughts?”
“It’s hardly my place to dictate what you wear, love.”
I let out a sharp ha! “Since when has that stopped you?”
“Really, darling.” He sniffed indignantly. “I am surprised.”
He followed on my heels as I went upstairs. I fully expected him to pick out some uncomfortable thing for me to wear and then insist it was necessary. He surprised me with patient silence, a trickle of amused indulgence slipping through the Bond as I rummaged through the dresser and my luggage. Having me home had settled his restlessness some, and he was trying to distract himself.
“Tell me of your meeting this morning,” he said. “Spare not one detail.”
I dug into my back pocket and pulled out Batten’s note from that morning, handed it to Harry, then stripped down to my undies and my second-favorite froggy-print bra before wrapping myself in an oversized orange sweater and soft jeans and shoving my feet into warm, angora socks.
He scanned Batten’s words, nodded approvingly without comment, and tucked it in the top drawer of my desk. “Well?” he prompted.
“Liv Malashock is….” I took a deep breath, held it while I considered my words, then exhaled noisily through pursed lips, making unhappy duck noises. I'm not sure what Harry picked up of my impressions of the FUSZ official beyond her brusque competence and my worry about her lack of first-hand experience with much paranormal action.
“Shruff and cinders,” Harry exclaimed with sympathy at my unspoken dismay. “A most galling experience, I’m sure. All this atop a sound rejection from Our Wayward Lad.” He motioned to the note in the drawer. “My poor pet. No wonder you feel so unsettled. Surely, you should just cancel the rest of your evening plans and tuck into bed early — ”
“No dice.” I shot him a chiding scowl. “I’m your DaySitter and I belong at your side tonight.”
“How splendidly attentive you are,” he said miserably, “to carry on DaySitting at night.”
“As for Malashock,” I straightened in front of the full length mirror and applied some bold red lipstick to distract from my missing hair. “I’m not saying she’s better than me at everything.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Harry said, sounding not sure at all.
“It only seems that way.”
“One had surmised as much,” he said.
“There’s probably lots of stuff I can do that she can’t.”
Harry made an uncertain noise. “Just as you say, dearheart.”
I stared hard at my reflection in the mirror, giving myself a stern once over. If only I felt as confident as I looked. “I’ll let you do the fancy old dead-guy yapping tonight, eh, Harry?”
He made another noise, this one speculative. “Perhaps that would be prudent, my toothsome filly. One might assume that calling around to a Sarokhanian home would afford one an opportunity to plumb the dark waters, but that would be unwise. I must insist you take care not to let your mind stray to former contacts, or their missing kin, with whom Prince Merzyan is no doubt acquainted.”
Batten and his grandfather. It would be reckless bordering on suicidal to be caught snooping or asking any fishy questions tonight. I'd have to put Batten and his note out of my mind somehow. That would have been a lot easier if Jerkface hadn't left the note in the first place. “I know, Harry.”
“I shall also change for the evening,” Harry said, standing and going to the bedroom door, where he paused. “No sign of our cold cook, then, besides the note?”
I half-smiled at Harry’s old nickname for Batten, and shook my head.
He nodded, and his voice softened a touch. “That’s for the best, you realize.”
Harry was right, of course, but my heart refused to agree with him, and my stubborn brain still needed to solve the mystery of the disappearing Jerkface. I was so fixated on the idea that I didn’t hear Harry leave the room or my brother enter. Wes immediately picked up the train of my thoughts and cautiously waved a hand to catch my attention. When I gave a jolt, he took a half-step back and leaned against the wall, thumbs hooked in his pockets.
“I talked to Carrie,” he offered. “She says she’ll let Mom know we’re coming for dinner on Thanksgiving. Claire should be there, too, and maybe Rowena if she’s not volunteering that night. Rena’s back in town but won’t be there because she’s not speaking to Mom or Dad. Or Claire. Or Carrie.”
Typical, I thought. I didn’t even ask why. When it came to the Baranuik clan and their rotating feuds, the reasons were usually petty and ridiculous, and I acknowledged this unspoken truth with a soft snort.
“No word on Margot,” Wes continued, unfazed. “Carrie said we should bring dessert and lots of it, because Mom’s on a no-sugar kick again and she’s only serving a cheese plate.”
That was a lot to digest, especially since my thoughts lingered stubbornly on Batten. “Cheese. Great. I’ll buy some. I know a place.”
“You’re barely listening. No cheese. Cheese blows. I’ll grab a German chocolate cake.” He plopped down at my desk and started snooping in the drawers, finding the note. “And maybe a pie. And some cookies. Are you allowed to eat those now?”
“Don’t read my mind, Wes.”
“Wanna talk about Butthead?”
“It’s Jerkface.”
“Close enough,” Wes said. “Go ahead and talk it out. I’ll do that active listening thing that Elian was tellin’ me about.”
I felt my eyebrows lift and I turned to watch him read Batten’s note. “De Cabrera was teaching you stuff?”
“I think so,” he said vaguely, “I wasn’t listening.”
“He’s got his work cut out for him,” I said. “Maybe I’d feel better if I knew where Jerkface was.”
Wes showed me the note in case I had forgotten what it said.
“Who left you this note, Harry Potter?”
I thought, HP is Hunkypants.
He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “Right. Gross. What are your options?”
“I either find him, or I respect his boundaries and leave him alone.” Alone. Out there in the dark, by himself. Vulnerable. Stalking the Sarokhanians. Getting himself killed again. Re-murdered. Double dead with no possibility of a second UnDeath. “Probably, I should respect his boundaries.”
Wes showed me an exaggerated, knowing blink. “Riiiiiiight. So you’re not going to do that.”
“Hey, I respect boundaries,” I said with a defensive sniff. “Sometimes. When they make sense.”
“Do I have to blink again or did you see it the first time?” When he didn’t get an answer, he hauled a deep breath into his undead lungs and let it out noisily to make his point. “How the fuck would you find him? Did you Grope anything?”
I hadn’t, but it was a sensible first step. I was concerned about drawing too much psi, especially this close to a full moon. I’d almost been forced by upset and injury to shapeshift once in this house. I wasn’t confident about the possible consequences, and hadn’t had any training or guidance from Finnegan Folkenflik or the skulk. Besides, my time was limited. Harry was almost dressed and ready to go — I could feel him becoming extremely satisfied with his sartorial choices and their expected results downstairs. I foresaw polite gushing about an antique silk ascot in my near future.
Wes read that as it crossed my mind and the scarred side of his mouth turned up in a wry twist. “How about you try what mundane mortals would do?” Wes suggested. “No powers, no magic, just common sense?” He paused, squinted with his one good eye as he second-thought that, and then nodded as though he decided I might be capable of it.
C’mon, Marnie, you can do this. Think like Batten. I rubbed my temples in circles. “If I were a hot, hard-assed hunter with a jerky handsome face, where would I be?”
An image of naked Kill-Notch in a hot, steamy shower popped into my mind unbidden, and I pursed my lips as I imagined soap sliding down glistening bronze biceps, tattoos on wet skin, and my eager mouth —
“Not helpful!” Wes yelped, clapping his hands over his ears as if he could block telepathic images like that.
“Right! Sorry. Okay, I’ve got a hundred and eight kill-notch tattoos on my left pectoral, I like leather jackets and impractical sports cars. Oh! Am I at the mall? Am I buying snug Wrangler jeans to accent my firm and shapely buttocks?”
Wes glared at me with his one good eye and slammed the desk drawer so I guessed the answer to that was a big fat no.
“Am I ordering blood or using a warm body? He wouldn’t use Shield, would he? Would he even know about them? Of course he would, he knows vampires.”
“V-word,” Wes warned. “Am I supposed to be offended by that? I never know.”
“So where is Jerkface getting blood? Is he — oh! I bet he’s luring snacks by dancing at a male strip club in the Falls. He'd be like Magic Mike, but with resting jerk face. Miserable Mark?”
Wes gave me a reprimanding look. “I doubt he's stripping anywhere but in your imagination,” he said. “And please, could you not? I don’t need to see Memories of Pipe You’ve Laid, thanks.”
“Technically, that was pipe that laid me. Anyways,” I thought hard, “he’s got great hip rhythm. Maybe he’s taking salsa lessons.”
“Undead Butthead is not salsa dancing. What else do you know?”
“His favorite board game is none of them, because he doesn’t see the point in winning small battles. He snacks on extra-sour gummy bears and almost never puckers. He can’t take cold and flu medications because he doesn’t like to lose control of his faculties and cough syrup makes him high as shit. Man,” I smiled goofily, “is that hilarious.”
Wes made a get-on-with-it motion with his hand. “Okay, what about locations?”
“He likes beer. Don’t know where I’d find that in Canada.” The sarcasm dripped heavily. “I’ll just stake out all the Beer Store locations.”
“Surely you know something meaningful about the man you slept with a thousand times.”
I made a wounded squawk. “I only got to sleep with him twenty-eight times!”
Wes sniggered. “You counted? Dork.”
“Look who’s talking, slipper-humper.” I paced. “I know plenty about Jerkface.”
“Like what? Preferred side of the bed, and whether or not he likes to play thumb-in-the-bum?”
I opened my mouth to answer that last one and thought better of it. “Okay, smartypants. He likes to crumble Saltines into his split pea soup. He enjoys lemon Danish but not cherry, because he’s clearly got bad taste.”
“Clearly,” Wes agreed, giving me a meaningful head-to-toe eye sweep.
I glared at him. “He’s never once said ‘YOLO,’ even though he could totally pull it off. When he shaves before seven in the morning, his five o’clock shadow starts showing at noon. It’s pretty hot. Mucho macho.”
Wes groaned, at a loss for words. The Blue Sense told me he wanted this conversation to be over yesterday, and was only continuing it to help me out.
“He listens to classic rock and sometimes country music,” I said. “Older stuff like Kenny Rogers. Y’know, ‘The Gambler.’”
“Maybe he’s doing online dating to find a blood supply,” Wes suggested. “We could check Plenty of Fish. Maybe there’s a Bleedr or Plenty of Fangs we don’t know about.”
“Of course there isn’t!” I cried. Then I considered the possibility with something akin to horror. “Besides, Batten isn’t thinking about women. He’s goal oriented and totally focused on revenge.”
Doubt showed in my brother’s eyes. “He may eventually think about a partner, Marnie.”
He was right, of course. Batten would need a DaySitter sooner or later, and furthermore, he deserved a companion. A living advocate. Someone to feed him. Someone to keep him warm. Someone to keep him safe. Someone to make him smile, to make life softer. It would happen, and it wouldn’t happen with me. The thought made me heartsick. “No,” I blurted. “Never. And I’ll thank you to keep your yap shut.”
“Sure. A toast,” Wes said, raising an imaginary goblet, “to Jerkface’s eternal loneliness, sipping Shield's finest through a curly straw.”
I blushed with shame. “Point taken. But I hope he at least waits until after I’m dead to hook up.”
“C’mon. Get those thoughts out of your system now, before you go to the Ghazaros meeting,” Wes advised. “You don’t know who might be there. If there’s a Telepath…”
“That House doesn’t have that Talent, they’re Soul Callers and precogs. Mostly just Seers. That whole leeching-of-the-souls business is pretty rare. As far as I know, only their Crowned Prince of the Blood can do it. The top guy. The big cheese.”
Something in my belly flipped over in warning, but I wasn’t sure what I’d said to stir my instincts. I noted the feeling and tucked it away for later. Then, because my brain is a traitor, I wondered what it felt like to have your soul torn out of your body and shoved into someone else, trapped in flesh and bones you didn’t control, with no voice and no outlet for your needs and wants. What if you wanted a cookie but the body-owner didn’t? What if you saw a friend or family member on the street but couldn’t say a word, could only watch from behind eyes that you didn’t direct, until those eyes moved on, no matter how hard you wanted to keep your loved one in sight? The horror of it repulsed me and I reeled in my thoughts.
“House Dreppenstedt aren’t Telepaths, either,” Wes said, doing a cute finger-wave, “but you have one. You never know who might be with them. I should come with. Dude Witch on duty!”
The thought of bringing my baby brother near any other revenants made me distinctly uncomfortable. I didn’t like that he’d met his maker, Mr. Strickland. I didn’t like that he’d met Viktor Domitrovic the undead ogre, I didn’t like that he’d messed around with dark witches and spriggans on my account, and I�
�d done a fairly good job of keeping him away from Gary Chapel’s Preternatural Crimes Unit and everything they did. I dreaded taking him home to Virgil to face our mother and all the drama and rejection that was sure to follow her discovery that he had effectively damned his soul to become a bloodsucking immortal. The least I could do was keep him relatively safe from the Sarokhanian mess.
Wes got up and crossed the room to envelop me in a tense hug, burying his cool face in my neck. “Okay,” he said against my shoulder. “Just be careful with your thoughts, please.”
“I will think about yak wang and peanut brittle,” I promised.
Eight
Colorado had followed me northeast to Ontario in the form of a low-pressure system pushing into the region, turning the October rain into sleet. The atmosphere inside the hearse wasn't much cozier. Harry hadn’t wanted to bring me to see Prince Ghazaros; despite that, I hoped my presence would temper his mood. I sat next to him in the hearse, glancing at the side of his expressionless face, and worried that might not be possible. Beneath the surface, Harry’s pride stung. Ghazaros Merzyan, through the convoluted contrivances and arcane nonsense of the Falskaar Vouras' rules of etiquette, technically had a station below Harry, but territorial politesse demanded Harry lower himself for their meeting. That was not sitting well with Lord Fancybritches.
My Cold Company had donned the familiar armor of high fashion for tonight’s meeting. A grey, patterned silk ascot was dimpled by a showy garnet pin like a big drop of blood. His crisp, bespoke shirt had a high collar that cupped the ascot under his Adam’s apple. A black vest and jacket kept him warm under his black wool trench coat. He’d gone through every hat box at North House to find a top hat that pleased him, humming and fussing. It had been an hour-plus ordeal, through which I examined my half-worn manicure and wondered if I should bother sprucing it up eventually. The roasted potatoes were a pretty good distraction while I waited.
I had changed into a warm sweater – bright hunters’ orange to celebrate both autumn and Halloween – and I liked the secret subtext that probably only Harry would appreciate: Kill-Notch Batten, hard-assed vampire hunter, was almost certainly lurking around House Sarokhanian, planning to take a shot. My choice of Keds had little cats printed on them. Cats were also excellent hunters, even the small ones. I had my own subtle armor on tonight. Harry had narrowed his eyes and clucked at me preemptively, assuming I was up to something, but I don’t think he had quite figured out my private intentions — he merely sensed the mischief.