Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  “Speaking of scars,” he said, “has your brother joined you on this trip?”

  Uh oh. “Which one?” I asked.

  “Your only brother,” he said, giving me a nice-try look. “Wesley.”

  “Is there a reason you need to know where he is?” I asked, wondering if he was Glen Strickland’s DaySitter. Or, worse, someone from Sarokhanian’s staff.

  “It’s my job to know things,” he replied. “And it’s your job to be forthcoming.”

  I cupped my hands around my coffee cup, resting my elbows on the table, and leaned forward. “Let’s get one thing straight here: I don’t care what your job is, or what information you feel entitled to. You’ll behave yourself, and you’ll be nice to me, or this tête-à-tête will end, and end badly. My job is my business, so unless you're paying the freight, you can hop up your own ass, you Venti-sized jack-off.”

  His eyes glittered, and I saw something new there: the greasy glimmer of viral lycanthropy. “You’re cute when you’re threatening me.”

  “Your opinion is noted but disregarded as inconsequential,” I said, leaning back in my chair, rapidly getting sick of lycanthropes. “Now, spill. Who the fuck are you?”

  He mirrored my body language. “How is Lord Guy these days? I know he’s in Niagara with you, as Byron Merritt’s natural gas usage at North House just shot through the roof — all that extra heating, yes? October is such a hard month on the cold old joints of the middle-aged revenant.”

  My DaySitter protectiveness rolled over in my belly. The Bond snapped to attention and I felt my cheeks burn. “Thin ice, pal.”

  “I see that.” He started pulling on black, fingerless gloves. Not a Groper. “I’m not your enemy, Marnie, despite what you may believe. I’m trying to help you. In fact, I’m trying to protect you, and I hope you see that before it’s too late. I’ve got a job to do, and my job routinely makes people uncomfortable. But trust me when I say, it’s important that I know what happens in this region.”

  “When you talk with me, information is only going to flow if it’s going both ways,” I advised. “You waited until my companions were gone before speaking to me. You know who I am but won’t share who you are. I’m sure you understand my position.”

  “But your job doesn’t end with people uncomfortable, does it, Marnie?” he asked, standing. “It ends with bodies hitting the floor.”

  I felt my cheeks burn. “Not every time.” Sometimes they turn to dust.

  “I’ll get my answers the hard way if I have to. Let’s get one thing straight: it doesn’t matter how many immortal friends you string along. Because you’re alone all day, aren’t you? All alone, and quite defenseless.” He laid down a business card and picked up his scribblings. “It would be in your best interest to keep me in the loop.”

  “The loop, huh?” I challenged, “As in loup garou?”

  He didn't take the bait. “One last question,” he said, staring past me to where Malashock and Nyquist had been parked behind the hearse. “You’re really going to work with that thing?”

  One lycanthrope insulting the other? Maybe their species or clans didn’t get along. I wasn’t sure how much he could tell about Nyquist, but I wasn’t in the habit of outing cryptids passing as mundane unless it was a matter of health or security, especially not to some tight-lipped, know-it-all like this clown.

  “I’m not afraid,” I assured my strange guest. “Are you?”

  He cut his gaze back to my face, scanning it for hints of threat. I let him see nothing at all, showing him the blank expression I’d been practicing, the one I’d learned from studying Agent Golden’s cop face.

  “Fear keeps us alive, Marnie.”

  “I’m still on this side of the grass, so I guess I’m doin’ okay.”

  He walked off while I pointedly did not look at the pen he’d left behind on the table. When he was out the door, I took it in my gloved hand and slipped it into my fanny pack.

  I took a few quick pictures of Mystery Man’s car and license plate, and waited until he had driven away before examining his business card. Just a name and phone number, no explanation, no website, no email address.

  Pascal.

  The name told me nothing, but the pen in my pack might.

  I texted Mr. Merritt that I was heading home, and let him know my exact route and an estimate of how long it would take.

  Combat Butler must have picked up my anxiety, and, living up to his name, texted back: W. and Lord D. are well and protected.

  Feeling extra nervous, I texted the same to Schenk, just in case, and his reply was: Need an escort? When I replied in the negative, he sent: Let me know when you’re home safe. All the way home, I wondered why the hell a lycanthrope wanted to keep tabs on me. Had word got out about my conversation with Dr. Delacovias? Was I being considered some sort of traitor to the lycanthrope community for even talking to that asshole? The PCU used secure lines. It couldn’t be the Folkenflik Skulk — if Finnegan Folkenflik wanted to chat, all he had to do is pick up the phone and call me. If it’s not my werefoxes, I wondered, growing increasingly uneasy, who or what is it? And why are they all up in my business? And then, with growing uneasiness: What do they want with my family?

  I got home ten minutes earlier than predicted to find Mr. Merritt standing still in the gloom of the darkened front hallway, just outside the door to the cellar, where the revenants were playing video games with the volume jacked high. There was a .357 in Mr. Merritt’s right hand. He put the safety on when I shut the door, nodded once, and put it away in a surprise holster under his black livery.

  “I'm afraid there’s something else you must attend to this evening, Madam,” he said.

  Twelve

  Mr. Merritt wasted no time directing me to the back door, though he was careful not to say anything aloud. His brow was creased and his step quicker than usual, but what I Felt coming off him was more anticipation than anxiety. I stress-sucked on another peppermint, adjusting my fanny pack as he motioned toward the corner of the yard, where the lawn disappeared abruptly into a deep, thickly-wooded area. I’d only been back in that part of the property a few times, where the trees were older than my grandfather, limb entwined with limb, shading everything. I could see why Harry declined to have that area tidied by the landscapers; the dense greenery – even in autumn when the leaves were rapidly losing their green and fluttered to the ground in their varied hues – still offered respite from the deadly sun, a safe zone for the just-in-case. This time of night, it was simply a deeper darkness. Mr. Merritt nodded encouragingly at me. I tugged at my gloves to reassure myself. At least my hands were protected.

  The late-evening hush was more than quiet, the only noise a slight rustling of nearly-leafless branches crisscrossed across a softening sky. Their motion cast skittering shadows on the stone patio, shifting in and out of the scant moonlight between the clouds as the evening's rain dissipated.

  I sensed the approaching void long before I heard him coming; not yet a master of the silent immortal glide, his step was panther-like, smooth, but jingled with the softest sound of chain mail. Unlike the dark company I’d seen lingering in the yard a few nights ago, this figure was familiar. Waaaaay too familiar.

  My composure evaporated when he came into the soft glow of the porch light; hopelessly happy and anxious at the same time, my heart twisted. New dead, he hadn’t yet learned how not to vamp out, as Wes called it. His lakewater blue eyes, slightly green now because of his maker’s influence, were bright with UnDeath’s sheen beneath the stern arch of his dark brows. His skin was too pale, and through House Dreppenstedt’s Bond, I could feel his ravenous hunger. If I’d ever been attractive to Kill-Notch, my warm-blooded body was doubly so tonight, and my DaySitter nature put me firmly in the submit-to-fang position, whether I thought that was wise or not.

  His own trepidation hit me hard in the chest. No longer an infuriating psychic null, Batten’s emotions ran terribly, painfully clear through the blood Bond of our shared House.
He’d been turned by the queen herself, made by Wilhelm, Harry’s maker. Our relationship had been thrust into a place more complicated than ever, unless we resolved to have no relationship at all. I thought I had gotten that through my thick skull, but the sight of him tossed me back into confusion.

  “Don’t say my name,” he warned.

  “Your name is the last thing I want in my mouth,” I assured him, then heard it and mentally kicked myself.

  “Why the fuck are you in Ontario, Marnie?” he whispered, then scowled at my baldness. “And what the hell happened to your head?”

  Hearing him say my name so overwhelmed me that all that came out of my mouth were some incoherent, vaguely word-shaped noises that must have looked ridiculous. For a minute, I couldn’t remember what the hell had happened to my hair, or where I was, or how to speak. Batten’s eyebrows knit in a pained expression and he smiled down at his shoes, shaking his head.

  Stubbornly, he tried again, attempting to remain serious and firm, “Babe, you shouldn’t be here.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” I said, self-consciously rubbing my peach fuzz.

  “I live here.”

  “If I was nineteen-ninety-nine Jerkface, I’d point out that you’re not alive, so technically you don’t live anywhere,” I retorted. “But I’m not an ass like you.”

  His jaw did a familiar clench-unclench under a thick layer of stubble, and I knew what the stubble meant — if his hair was growing, then he was feeding well, having moments where his body was able to function in many of the same ways as a living one. A splinter of concern went through me. Where was he getting his supply? Was he being careful? Was he being funded? Feeding meant someone knew he existed. But of course House Dreppenstedt knew, some of them at least. Who else might? Was he still with his ex-cop friend, Mitch Dunlop? Had Batten sent this Pascal character to find out why I was home? Is that how Pascal knew so much about me and my family? Could I still trust Batten? If I ever truly did…

  “I’m not here to endanger you or your mission,” I said. “I came here with a warning. I came here to have your back.”

  He nailed me with his dark blue gaze. “If I was nineteen-ninety-nine me, I’d say I don’t need you to have my back.”

  I swallowed hard. “And you’re an ass, so you’re gonna say it anyway?”

  After a pause, he blasted a helpless sigh, and my heart performed an excited tap dance. Holy tickledicks, does Kill-Notch actually trust me? It boggled my mind. Since when?

  “What’s the warning?” he asked.

  “There’s something fishy going on,” I said. “House, um, you know… Them, they emptied out beyond the Bitter Pass. It was rumored that As... hole was coming back to Niagara. He may have been, briefly, but he’s gone again.” I squinted at his total lack of surprise. “You already know all this.”

  Kill-Notch had his cop face on, only now it was pale and grim. He stared at me impassively and waited, which was my cue to keep spilling the beans.

  “His next-in-line confronted me on Municipal Beach about Harry not coming to visit when we arrived.”

  Batten made a soft, annoyed sound and scrubbed one hand over his face.

  I hurried on. “There’s more. A smuggling ring running cheese across the border from the States. It might have something to do with a revenant phantasm-feeding from a buttload of neighbors. Also, there’s a sinkhole, a smug mouse, and a whole boggle situation.”

  He did a double take. “Boggles?”

  “Which probably aren’t related to the smugglers or to Shakespeare, but I can’t rule anything out yet.”

  “Shakespeare?”

  “Erik Shakespeare runs the Blind Tiger and Wicked Whiskers,” I said, handing him my notebook. “Keep up, dude. You’re slower than the PUC n’ FUSZ.”

  He paused in the act of opening the notes. “Do I wanna know?”

  “Canadian PCU, sort of.” I shrugged. “There’s a Bizarro World Me, and a Baby Chapel who’s passing as all-mundane but totally isn’t.”

  “Is Bizarro World Marnie actually good at stuff?”

  “Yeah, she’s a nightmare for my ego, man.” I shuddered. “Imagine you were bad at anything, and then picture meeting the kickass version of you.”

  “Hard to imagine,” he said with a hint of a smile.

  “You’re the last person I would expect to understand.” I thought of Harry. “Second to last.”

  Batten’s smile turned rueful.

  “Listen, the big bad soul sucker dude isn’t here, so you shouldn’t be either. Ghaz is going to pick up your scent if he hasn’t already.”

  “I’m walling-off.”

  “You’re too new-turned for that skill,” I said, but then realized that, having been turned by Queen Remy, Little Miss Speedy Britches herself, Batten could be further along than anyone knew. Maybe he could do anything. He could have all nine Talents like his maker. Maybe he could do everything. That was a sobering thought.

  Batten squinted, then rubbed his fingertips over his forehead like he was clearing cobwebs. I’d seen Wesley do that when he was getting disturbing telepathic interference or too much input at once. Crap, can Kill-Notch read minds? That would not be in my best interests. I narrowed my eyes at him and thought: Can you hear this? The look on his face didn’t change and his examination of my notes didn’t pause. You should bend me over this picnic table and take me hard and fast like a wild animal. Nothing.

  When he finally looked up from reading, he didn’t look happy. “You can't do anything about the phantasm feedings. Just drop it.”

  “Um, how about no?” I laughed incredulously. “I’m not dropping it. People are sick. They’re dying.”

  “And nothing you do is going to change that.”

  “That’s crap,” I fumed. “You just want to crash in there like the undead Kool-Aid Man and go all stakety-stake-stake on them by yourself.”

  “About the boggles,” he continued as though my words were silent obedience, “Check the cave, just enough to satisfy that geology nerd, then cap that off, too.”

  “I’m sorry, are the problems of living human beings boring you?” I slap-chopped my notebook out of his hand. He looked at the book on the ground between us and then back at me. I pointed in his face. “You’re case-blocking me.”

  “You’re in my way.”

  “And you're not the boss of me, you undead jerk.” I opened my mouth to elaborate, but changed my mind, cooling off rapidly once my decision was made.

  He surprised me then, abruptly closing the distance between us, cutting me off with a long, lingering kiss. It may have landed on my lips but it snagged me in the chest, and my heart ached with a sad longing for the Batten I remembered. I glowed with warmth as his arm slipped around my waist, and a troublesome passion began to rekindle low in my core. I broke the kiss, cast my eyes down, and pushed his chest gently but firmly. There were no good words now, nothing I could reasonably offer, so I shook my head. We couldn’t do this. We couldn’t, no matter how much we both wanted to. The friction was every bit as bafflingly attractive between us as ever. That hadn’t changed one bit. I let my gaze creep up to check his face and found him calculating his next move like he was playing a game of goddamn chess. My temper flared.

  “When are you and the rest of the undead going to learn? You can’t just strut on up and send me home. You can’t wag your finger like I’m a misbehaving puppy who pissed on your rug. You can’t distract me with potatoes, and you can’t seduce me into giving you my case.”

  A dark light crossed his eyes. “Sure about that?”

  Uh oh. His voice had gone husky. Never challenge Kill-Notch, dummy, it’s his Hot Button. And he knows all yours. My willpower wavered as I remembered just how adept he was a pressing those buttons. “Well, no,” I admitted, eyes darting. “But… hey, don’t be staring at my rack, mister.”

  “Been so long,” he barely whispered.

  I tried not to look at his mouth. “You chose death over these fun-jugs, so you can just, um — �
��

  “You’re so warm.” He moved further into my personal space, smelling of spice and musk, those familiar hands reaching for me while my body woke to his nearness and my resistance weakened as it always did. My skin prickled all over in a rush of pleasure. The fingerless chain-mail gloves the hunter wore tinkled softly. His fingers drifted down my body, tracing curves. My breath hitched and I felt my lips part as his head dipped again closer to mine. All the memories of that mouth on my body flooded back, soft lips and hot tongue, eager and hungry on my skin. His forefinger and thumb had found a zipper, and he tugged.

  Hard peppermint candies spilled from my fanny pack, showering his boot tips in a noisy, crinkly, seemingly never-ending stream. I snuck a glance upwards, and smiled with a rueful lip-shrug. He blinked once. The last candy hit his boot and bounced loudly, spinning off across the patio stones. Batten’s jaw clenched and unclenched. When I couldn’t wait for his assessment a second longer, I asked, “Is there any chance that was endearing?”

  He shook his head slowly.

  “Your aim is off,” I told him.

  “A fanny pack?” he asked me, voice low. “Did we jet back to 1983?”

  “Well, where do you carry your delicious treats?” I said defensively. “You gonna try again?”

  Batten smirked. “Pass.”

  “I mean, the important zipper is…” I gestured grandly at my groin. “Right there.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What happened, dude?” I marveled. “You used to be so good at this.”

  That’s when we lost it. He cracked a smile, a real Mark Batten smile, bright and glorious, which set me off. We bent our heads together for a laugh that turned breathless. Batten gave up, his shoulders falling, his amusement fading. Seduction thwarted, his no-nonsense stare returned full force.

  I headed him off. “We need to keep our feelings out of this.”

  “Agreed.”

  I ignored a stab of disappointment, told my goofy-ass heart to shut up and do its job pumping blood and nothing else. “I can see we’re at an impasse. Be aware, I am in no way backing down. Me, She-Batten, Indy, and Longshanks are gonna fuck shit up. You’re in or you’re out. But either way, I’m going in.”