Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  His bright hazel eyes showed a depth of innocence and uncertainty as they shot in Malashock’s direction for reassurance. Despite his deft passing as mundane, which did require deception, this guy was as green as the diner's fake ferns. Built like a willow branch, he gave off the impression of softness and pliability. Crime would blow right past this dude. Cryptobiology and cryptogeology were both technically law enforcement positions in Canada, but if he’d made it through actual police training, he’d done it by the skin of his teeth, and they’d probably tossed him a desk job in preternatural science research just to satisfy some influential relative or as repayment for a favor. His softness, not to mention his possible habit of wolfing out under pressure, might prove a serious liability — why would anyone work with him voluntarily?

  Suddenly, I realized what Batten’s first impression had been of me; it was thoroughly depressing. I decided to give the lycanthrope the benefit of the doubt, at least for tonight.

  “Look,” I said, “if we’re gonna stop, collaborate, and listen, Vanilla Ice here can be back with a brand new invention. That’ll help, right?”

  Malashock’s lip twitched slightly. The reference flew over Nyquist’s head, probably because he was both too young and didn’t live with an undead geezer who loved to play 90's music while doing the dishes.

  “Oh well, whatever. Never mind,” I said, shooting out one gloved hand to shake his. We did quick introductions and then got down to business. “Would you outline the current problem for me, Officer? Talk to me about what you’re looking for.”

  He slid a thick case file from his leather handbag and opened it, minding my coffee mug. I could almost see him put his imaginary Nerd Squad hat on. A subtle shift on his face from shy boy to time-to-shine, and suddenly I was no longer faced with a young me but a young Chapel, full of knowledge and likely underestimated by most around him. I wouldn’t make that mistake, especially since he was putting on camouflage to encourage exactly that sort of thinking.

  His enthusiasm was unmistakably authentic as he ripped into his exploratory ambitions. “We’re dealing with sinkholes in the breeding grounds of a protected species in the Niagara Escarpment, here.” He spoke with his chin tilted down, and the Blue Sense was only being moderately helpful by reporting that Nyquist was anxious, which covered way too much territory to be useful. “There are karst cave formations in areas of heavier dolomite, mostly unexplored, though several of my cryptobio buddies have reported creatures we expect to find in water regions in the karst fensters,” he said, his nostrils flaring.

  I made a quick sketch in my mini-Moleskine. “I’m guessing Karst Fenster is not the name of a B-movie villain. Should be.”

  “They’re areas where a subterranean stream running through this type of cavern is exposed because the rock above has caved in,” Nyquist said. “How deep the cavern runs, and whether or not it’s above the water table, matters a lot when you’re predicting what you might find. Blind Shale Boggles usually tunnel through unsaturated vadose zones. In phreatic zones, you might find Mud Goblins. Around here, cryptids are protected against hunting, and even study is highly restricted, especially in breeding areas, so there are a lot of grey areas and gaps in the research.”

  “And you’re investigating what, exactly? A change in the local cryptid ecosystem?”

  “There have been several cave-ins in populated areas, and one instance of a cave explorer being, quote, grabbed by something coming out of a wall, unquote. She didn’t get a good look at it, only that it had many hands, felt cold and hard, and made a noise at her.”

  “Is she all right?” Malashock asked.

  Nyquist’s face showed uncertainty. “Would you be, if a wall suddenly grew multiple hands and tried to pull you into it?”

  “I would pee my pants forever,” I said seriously.

  Nyquist was not terribly good at keeping his thoughts off his face, and he grimaced. “Physically, she has a few scrapes and bruises. But she was already suffering severe insomnia, and it’s only gotten worse. Says she’s afraid to close her eyes. It was too close to home. She thinks whatever it was is going to pop up through her kitchen floor.”

  “Wait,” I said, flipping pages. “How close to home?” I found the address in his case notes. The house was right down the street from my sister Rowena’s, and two blocks from Ghazaros Merzyan’s creepy cottage. We can’t go back there, not without making Ghaz nervous. Glen Strickland is at risk, therefore so is Wes. I looked at Malashock with suspicion. “You knew.”

  Malashock nodded. “She’s right in the phantasm disorder zone. There could be a connection. We have to run down all the possibilities, while respecting the protected wildlife areas.”

  The cave explorer’s name was Cordelia Abrams. Thirty-three, librarian, single, no kids, no criminal record, motorcycle license, owned a Suzuki GSX-R sport bike, and enjoyed vacationing with caving buddies, though she hadn’t been out of the country in over a year because of medical problems. She’d explained to the ER staff on her last visit that she hadn’t been sleeping well, and at first thought she was hallucinating in the cave, because she’d been awake for over forty hours before going for a mid-morning walk. When she spotted a new sliver in the rock face along her favorite walking path, she decided to investigate.

  Bet she wishes she hadn’t. “She’s got PTSD but doesn’t list a specific trauma.”

  Malashock offered, “That was from a psych eval during a recent hospital stay for severe depression. Other possible victims have had the same diagnosis, same situation. All the symptoms are there.”

  “Well, a single phantasm feed is absolutely traumatic, whether they remember it or not,” I said, accepting her file folder and opening it beside Nyquist’s. “It’s an invasive assault, emotionally and physically draining, but sudden enough and fierce enough to be terrifying. Repeated phantasm feeds become a horrific cycle. If our perp is primeval, he may be hitting several people at once to draw enough power to remain well-fed and in wraith state. How many suspected victims are on your list?”

  Malashock’s eyes darkened. “Fifty-seven.”

  I stared at her for a long time, shaking my head as if I could deny the number she'd dropped. It was unheard of. Phantasm feeds by a single revenant normally affected two or three unwilling neighbors, six or seven, tops.

  Nyquist's gaze got increasingly frantic as it bounced back between my horrified disbelief and Malashock's unhappy certainty. The scent of a frightened animal flared strongly enough to escape his pot-stink, at least to my sensitive DaySitter’s nostrils, and I had my suspicions confirmed even before spotting the glimmer in his eyes. Lycanthrope, for sure. Something furry.

  He asked, “Is fifty-seven a lot?”

  “Holy utter shitballs, yes,” I cried, drawing looks from the tables around us. I lowered my voice to a hiss. “That’s not one phantasm feeding. It can’t be. That's like, I don't know, a T. rex revenant level of suckage.”

  They exchanged surprised looks, though Malashock had hers under more control. Nyquist stammered, “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.” I started jotting names and addresses. The temptation to roll up that street and start kicking open doorways and searching cellars and garages was an insistent pull in my guts, but I knew I’d have to play it cool because of Glen Strickland; there was no way could I go myself. Malashock seemed capable. I’d have to work through her. “I’ll need copies of both of these files and all of the medical reports, if you have them. Whatever you can share.”

  “I have some,” Malashock said. “A couple of these people were so desperate for help, they gave me everything. They just threw their lives open.”

  “Because they’re not living lives anymore,” I said. “They’ve got nothing left to lose. They just want to be free.”

  “Can we do that for them?” Nyquist asked hopefully.

  It was a big fucking question with so many ifs in it that it sounded like it was fighting off hay fever, but when I looked at his face, seeing a tender thread o
f hope that could be snapped so easily, I couldn’t say no. He was faking a lot, but the Blue Sense assured me he wasn’t faking his concern. He cared about protecting boggle nesting zones, and that might hinder our investigation a little, but he also cared about the people. I didn’t want to weigh him down just yet with the ifs. I’d do that with Malashock later; she could take it, and wouldn’t buy my rosy outlook anyway.

  I gave him a hard look. “We can and we will. I’m not leaving this city until this is dealt with. And neither are you, Nyquist.”

  “Micky.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “That’s too cute, I’m not calling you that.”

  “Well, uh, my first name is Mitchel, but Mitch never suited me.”

  “Yeah, you’re not really a Mitchel,” I said.

  He pulled out his driver’s license. No dash-L beside his name, not a registered lycanthrope. An infiltrator and totally passing. He’d fooled the government. Nice. I gave him an extra Point: Nyquist for that. “Not anymore, Nyquist. Your code name is Indy.”

  “But I’m a geologist, not an archaeologist.”

  “And you don’t have a whip yet,” I pointed out, “but you have a tweed coat and a fedora, so, you know, baby steps.” I made a note in my book: buy whip.

  “Do you get a code name, too?” Malashock asked, staring me down.

  I waited until she’d finished her mouthful of coffee. “I suppose you have a suggestion?”

  “Diva,” she said, “since you’re so famous.”

  “I’ve got a code name for you, too,” I told her. “Wanna hear it?”

  “Hard pass.”

  “Good guess, but the P is silent.”

  Nyquist shifted in his chair. “I need to check out the new cave shaft where Cordelia Abrams was grabbed, but if she stirred boggle or goblin activity during the day, I think it might be best if I hit it at night.”

  I opened my mouth to object, but She-Batten beat me to it. “Absolutely not,” Malashock said with an astonished laugh. “We’ve apparently got a monstrously old revenant feeding in phantasm form. Do you think it's going to be unguarded? And, might I remind you, revenants are nocturnal, not to mention being underground and protected from the sun.”

  Okay, so Nyquist's thread of hope was going to get frayed and tied into knots whether or not I tried not to do it. Point: Malashock.

  I wondered how much I was free to say regarding Aston Sarokhanian, Ghazaros, and the rest of the undead asshole brigade, and whether or not Constable Schenk had yet mentioned our little run-in on the beach to Malashock. I also wondered, yet again, which faces Schenk was supposed to avoid, and if there were already-misbehaving revenants on Liv’s phantasm suspect list. I’d have to check with both of them, but for now, I played my cards close.

  “There are other concerns. Revenants are haunted by their debt vultures,” I said, and Malashock nodded at that. “How many have you spotted?”

  Malashock shook her head. “No idea.”

  I let it go. It was difficult to tell debt vultures apart if you didn’t know what to look for, especially if you weren’t a preternatural biologist or an avid birder. “And there are other creatures that are drawn to cadavers. Crypt beetles spread their oh-so-yummy brand of plague, plus they attract corpse spiders that feed on their larvae. Also, there is no way it’s one old revenant feeding as a phantasm,” I reminded them, thumping the table with my finger to make a point, “no matter how ancient this revenant is. Not with a victim pool that large. He’s got playmates.”

  “Are they one, uh, swarm? A clot of vampires?” Nyquist asked, taking his file back and making notes. “Would they be into what’s in my cave?”

  “A group of revenants is sometimes called a clutch, or a draught when unrelated but working together, or an audience when heading beyond the Bitter Pass en masse,” I told him, and he gave me the full weight of his attention. “They could also be members of a single bloodline, if they’re all part of one House. Same area, maybe they’re resting deep in the caves,” I said. “It’s possible they’re using the creatures as some form of early warning system or auxiliary guardians to their lair, like untrained guard dogs, but it's unlikely they're being preyed upon. What do Blind Shale Boggles normally eat?”

  “Insects and young Mud Goblins, mostly. Sometimes fish or opportunistic scavenging.” He made a face. “You definitely don't want to step in their guano.”

  “So the boggles in these caves are probably feeding on the beetles and spiders attracted to the undead, and whether by contact or ingestion, they could be carrying crypt plague.” I finished my coffee as Malashock put away her files, too.

  “Old dead guys will definitely have DaySitters. But if the revenants are feeding as phantasms, their DaySitters are not getting ms-lipotropin from a proper vein feeding, which means they're probably feeling like hammered ass, both physically and psychologically, so there are probably some regular human staff for security, too.” I started feeling lousy if Harry went more than a few days without a feed in his corporeal form; I couldn't imagine how awful it would get if I was supplying phantasm feeds without any sustenance in return.

  As Nyquist closed his messenger bag, he paused. “Is a phantasm like a ghost?”

  “Only in the sense that it's the semi-corporeal spirit of someone who isn't technically alive. A revenant, if he’s very old, needs long periods of rest; being in VK-Delta during the day just isn’t enough. Sometimes, a deep feed and a long nap in wraith state isn't sufficient. So the eldest develop the ability to throw half their soul out of their resting body to seek passive feeding.” I remembered Malas Nazaire’s phantasm accosting me in the cellar of his mountaintop mansion, and Wilhelm’s shade appearing in the forest to remind Harry how to properly care for his pet. “They can absolutely affect the physical realm and do great harm, but they're vulnerable — if either half of the revenant is ruined, it's lost for good. They’ll be half-souled until they're destroyed, running at significantly less power. This leaves their entire bloodline susceptible to destruction right along with them.”

  On that perky note, Malashock and Nyquist briefly fought over who was going to pay for my coffee, which was a nice moment. Malashock won. I had this sneaking suspicion that when it came to Liv Malashock, she always won. This was both troubling and comforting, depending on whether or not she was on my side.

  She cast a glance at the muted TV and zipped her motorcycle jacket, buttoning the snap at her left shoulder. Nyquist put his hat on but left his jacket open.

  As they stood, I asked, “How many deaths, Malashock?”

  She frowned. “None? I didn’t think they ever…”

  I shook my head slowly. “They do. Better look into every death in the hot zone.”

  “What am I looking for specifically?”

  “Unexplained wasting away. Weight loss. Hair loss. Sleep issues. Mental health issues. Suicide. Heart failure. Might look like acute anemia, jaundice, maybe even fucking scurvy.”

  “Sounds delightful. I’ll keep you updated.”

  I reiterated my request for copies of their files and they both agreed before exiting, heads bent together, and then heads bent against the wind outside on their journey across the rain-soaked street to the metered parking. I watched them through the window, then asked the waitress for a refill. I wondered if I should visit the morgue and the funeral homes to find out more. Schenk could probably get me past the front doors and loosen a few tongues.

  A deep voice behind me said, “You’re getting used to this cheap, caffeinated sludge. Not the finely-drawn brew that Lord Guy has you accustomed to.”

  I didn’t immediately turn around. The accent was pure Pacific Northwest, and the voice didn’t ring any bells except for my alarm ones. When I finally propped my elbow on the back of the booth and cranked my upper body around, the long, plain face wasn’t familiar at all. But he clearly knew me.

  Crapnoodles. “The coffee’s not so bad,” I said, managing an awkward, one-armed shrug. I did a quick, subtle detail-collecting swee
p: sandy hair, high forehead, pointy chin, black pen, pair of worn gloves tidily set aside, business casual off-the-rack outfit, sitting in a shaft of streetlight from the window, napkin folded neatly but not entirely hiding the notes he’d scribbled on the inside of it. Reporter? Some DaySitter from Gold-Drake & Cross in Seattle? “Are you not enjoying it, Mister…?” I left it open for him to fill in the gap.

  He didn’t.

  “Whomever brewed it should be in the Hague for crimes against humanity. It’s an assault on the senses, but it’s better than Tim Hortons' swill.”

  “Now, you look here,” I said, smile dropping as my brand loyalty heated briefly.

  “Still so devoted after all this time? I would have thought time apart would have lessened your attachment. Maybe that’s not how you work.”

  “My devotion never wanes,” I said. Who the fuck is this guy?

  “That could become uncomfortable for you.”

  He was studying me too intensely for that to be an innocent comment, so I brushed him off with a half-shrug. “It’s only coffee.”

  “Home visiting family?” he asked like it was the most innocent question in the world.

  “Won’t you join me at my table?” I asked. “My neck is getting a kink from all this turning around.”

  “Oh dear,” he said with gentle teasing, and collected his things to sweep into the booth across from me. “Can’t have that, now.” When he had settled his lanky frame into the chair, he commented, “Though you’re no stranger to discomfort. How did you lose your hair?”

  “Believed the promise of a chaos witch.”

  “Are you so trusting?”

  “Not always, but I do keep inviting mysterious assholes into my personal space.”

  He hid a smirk behind his coffee cup, but it crinkled the corners of his hazel eyes once more. After a sip, he said, “That’s quite the scar on your neck, too, Marnie.”

  “All the cool kids are wearing them,” I said, fighting the urge to adjust my scarf to hide it. “I’m sure you’re not without scars.”