by A. J. Aalto
I pictured Wesley at dusk, a young immortal, sitting beside a little old lady, playing Scrabble or helping her with a puzzle. I felt my lips twitch but refused to smile at his distress. “And?”
“I just spent an hour with a lap full of Maine Coons, listening to her attempt to play Yellow Submarine on a hammered dulcimer.” Wes sneezed violently.
“Huh,” Carrie observed. “Dead guys can get allergies?”
“No,” Wes groaned. “I have cat hair up my nose.”
“Did she know you were, uh, you know?” Carrie gestured with her martini glass, careful not to spill any.
“She’s hard of hearing. Once we got through the task of having her formally invite me in, I told her I was a revenant and she thought I said Protestant, and it just got awkward trying to correct her.”
Carrie and I exchanged the kind of restrained, chewed-back smiles that we always did in church as kids when a certain hymn’s lyrics sounded like an ode to farts. “Did Margot forgive you?” I said through a smothered laugh.
“Forgive me? She didn’t give half a shit to begin with.”
“So you babysat for nothing?” Carrie asked. Her grin blossomed fully with delight. She sipped and let out a long, contented sigh. “That’s hilarious. I’m so happy right now. I can’t even tell you how happy.”
“What about Claire?” I asked, elbowing my sister to get herself under control.
Wes whimpered. “Claire wanted a workout buddy.”
“Well, that’s not so bad,” I said. “You’re a revenant. I’ve seen you do parkour against the boathouse, launch off, and back-flip into the woods. I’ve seen you practically tear the door off my Buick. Surely, you could keep up with Claire of all people. She’s fast over a short distance, but she’s got terrible knees.”
Wesley pouted, and it reminded me of Harry’s little moue. “We did something called burpees, then ran up and down the hill behind Taco Bliss. She wouldn’t even let me stop for a chalupa.”
“Oh, honey,” I cooed sympathetically. “Other than that, did it go okay?”
“I had to put up with her face.”
“Ugh,” I commiserated. Claire’s face was the worst.
“But she forgave me. I don’t think she gave the other half of Margot's shit, but she really enjoyed torturing me.” Wes nailed us both in turn with an accusing glare. “Why are all the Baranuik women so mean?”
I made a noncommittal noise but gave all kinds of side-eye to the house, where Mom was making a lot of noise inside; if I knew her, she was probably re-cleaning things that were already spotless.
Wes squinted at me. “You’re a biologist. Can you catch cold sores if you stare at one too long?”
“How long did you stare?”
“The whole time. I couldn’t look away.”
“Yeah, you’re going to get eye herpes.”
“What?”
“Just kidding. You’re undead, you can’t catch the viruses of the living anymore. Also, you can’t catch anything from staring too long, ‘cept maybe a swift kick to the yams. That’ll hurt whether you’re dead or not.” I smirked. “I mean, I’m guessing. But in the name of scientific research, I could nail you in the junk to see what happens.”
My sister went to sit in an old white Muskoka chair, swinging her feet up on the stool and opening a copy of Cosmopolitan. She took out rimless glasses I’d never seen her wear before and put them on. Despite her smooth, bright skin, she was beginning to show her age in expression lines around her eyes and forehead, but so was I. At least she was leaning into it with grace, not something I could claim. She put her martini glass on the table beside her and took a chocolate bar out of her pocket, laying it in her lap. I checked the pockets of my coat in case I, too, had a chocolate bar, but nothing magically appeared. I considered putting my parka on, feeling a nip in the October evening air. Carrie, as per her norm, seemed impervious to the chill. Or maybe the cold was afraid of her outfit.
“It’s my turn for Wes to suck up to.” She flipped a page without looking up. “You’ll find your task in my room, kid. Shoo.”
Wes growled, but went back into the house.
Carrie asked me, “Why are you still here, Marnie-Jean?”
“I'm not about to abandon Wes with you assholes.” I grimaced and sat in the chair next to her. “Besides, you always make me feel welcome.”
“You and I both know you didn’t come home for this.” She waved her hand at the bullshit inside the house. “Why are you really in Niagara? Let me guess. Hoity-Toity Dead Guy and Rock Hard FBI Jerk trying to make you inspect goopy dead bodies and wrestle monsters?”
“Oh, it’s worse than that,” I lamented. “You have no idea.”
Carrie lowered her copy of Cosmo and raised her eyebrows at the same pace. Her dramatic, jet-black lash extensions fluttered. “Trouble in Crypto-Paradise?”
“Rock Hard said…” I took a deep, calming breath, but it still came out seething hot, each word crisply enunciated and propelled by barely contained fury. “Butt out and let the men handle it.”
Carrie’s jaw lowered slowly into a carefully measured gape. The motion caused her glasses to slide down her nose. Her blue eyes bored into mine. “Fuck a whole bucket of that.”
“A crate.” I leaned forward and she leaned forward, too. “A vat! Fuck a vat of it.”
Carrie rocked back into her seat unhappily. “What are you going to do?”
“Oh, moi? Little old me? What am I gonna do? Why, the only things I’m capable of. I’m going to do dainty, delicate things, like flounce about in lace and silks. Play with my dollies. Drink sangria and diddle my clit. But gentle-like, so I don’t break a fucking fingernail.”
“Dude,” she sympathized. “But what are you really gonna do?”
“Oh, I am gonna drink sangria and diddle my clit. It’s Wednesday. Wednesday is wine-n’-writhe day.”
“I know,” Carrie said, “but what are you doing after that?”
I glared up at the dark October sky like it was the offending parties. “Everything.”
Satisfied with my answer and the raw determination that was surely carved on my face, Carrie adjusted her glasses and picked up her magazine again. Another astonished laugh bubbled up again. “Let the men handle it. Wow.”
“You know I have to beat them now, right?”
Carrie raised a finger in the air forcefully, like she was poking the glass ceiling. “Whilst making it look effortless!” She enunciated sharply, whilst! “You must. No choice. How dare they?”
“How dare they?” I agreed.
“I share your outrage.” She slapped her midsection. “My left ovary shares your outrage!”
I cocked my head. “Just the left one?”
“Meh. The right one’s ambivalent. Baranuiks are pretty lazy at our core.”
“Word.”
“So, what are your thoughts on the case so far?”
“Which one? There might be a few cases. Or there might be one big one. Too early to tell.”
“Is a big one worse than many little ones?”
I didn’t know the answer to that, so I made a flurf noise. When she waved her hand in circular hurry-the-fuck-up-and-spill-it flap, I said, “See, there’s this one guy. I can’t use his name.”
“Mr. Big.” She tapped her chocolate bar with a perfectly manicured fingernail.
I sat up. “I wouldn’t call him Mr. Big.”
“Look, I’m three choco-tinis deep and I’m not following.”
“Not Mr. Big. Let’s call him Kit Kat Chunky.”
“Sure. What’s Mr. Chunky up to?”
“Vampire shenanigans of the slippery variety.”
“You must be upset,” she said. “You used the V-word. You told me never to do that.”
“But it’s entirely possible that Mr. Chunky didn’t do super-slippery shenanigans, or worse yet, that he can’t undo the shenanigans, and that’s my worry. We’re chasing him around looking for something we can’t find, and someone risked everything for nothing.”
“If Mr. Chunky didn’t do or can’t undo the shenanigans, why would he claim to?”
“Because it keeps everyone in line. Fear leads to power. Power leads to control, money, blood, respect.”
“Like how I make people think I’m mean so they don’t fuck with me.” She nodded, licking the tip of her finger and using it to flip another magazine page. “Really cuts down on the work I have to do. My ex-boyfriend Sam is coming over tomorrow to rake my lawn.”
“Euphemism?”
“Not this time.” She thought about it, seeming to reconsider, then let it go.
“There’s only one problem. I’m not sure how I’m gonna get close enough to Chunkmeister to test my theory.”
Carrie lowered her glasses, and I was staring into a pair of eyes the exact same shade of blue as my own. Hers were prettier, due to expensive cosmetics, the best age-defying lotions, make-up skills, and the type of dramatic pauses taught on stage. When she finally diagnosed the problem, she laid it out for me. “You’re as dim as a bag of crickets.”
“Oh.” I snorted. “And I suppose you’ve got it alllll figured out.”
“What’s a revenant’s weakness?”
“Sunlight. Stakes. A nice, thorough beheading.”
Carrie smacked me on the forehead with her Cosmo. “No, dipshit, that's their enemy. What do they crave?”
“Blood. Using the bodies of the living.”
Carrie grunted. “Power.”
“Power,” I agreed. “Security. Submission.”
“You’re forgetting a biggie.”
I thought of the things Harry craved. Comfort. Devotion. Heat. “Sex.”
Carrie tapped a fingernail against her martini glass, making it chime softly. “There ya go.”
“Where I go?”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Marnie. You have a pussy. Use it.”
I bolted upright in the chair. “I can’t just solve problems with magic vagina. That doesn’t work.”
“Magic vagina solves all problems.”
“If it did, I would never have problems!”
She pouted sympathetically. “Clearly, you’re terrible at vagina-ing.”
I exploded with laughter and threw my coat at her. She caught the end of it, gave a sharp tug, and whisked it away from me.
“What do you want me to do? Distract Ghazaros Merzyan with the power of boinking? Root out Aston Sarokhanian, fling my legs open, and toss him some hot, wet bahookie?”
Carrie looked at me as though I’d missed the last exit.
Wesley shouted from her bedroom window, “Don’t do that!”
“You give bad advice, Carrie.” I thought about it. “I can’t.” I thought about it some more. What would Harry say? What would Batten say? I winced. “Way too dangerous. Besides, I’d have to shave again. And also, ew, I don’t wanna.”
“Don’t you, Marnie?” She smirked. “Don’t you, though?”
Somewhere, deep in the undercurrent of the Bond, I thought I could hear Asmodeus whisper, Make with the humpity-humpity, toots. I could feel my throat constrict. Much closer, I could definitely hear Wes trying not to retch.
“No!” I went flurf again in frustration. “I’m not even going to humor you by considering that.”
“Because you know I’m right.”
“You’ve never been more wrong,” I informed her seriously.
“Wham, bam, use that clam.”
I rolled my head against the back of the chair so I could face her. “I love you, you giant pervert.”
Wesley shouted again, “What about me? Where’s my sugar?”
“Are you done with my laundry?” Carried called out. “You get sugar after you’re done washing my delicates.”
“You made him wash your Underoos?” I asked.
“Just the Wonder Woman ones. Gotta remind the kid who he’s dealing with, here.”
“Holy hell, you’re such a Baranuik.”
“You take that back.” She watched me stand up. “Where are you going? Gonna go vag it up like a pro?”
“Carrie, there are two undead jerks who think I’m not good at my job. What message would it send if I succeeded at my job by using my lady bits and not my very clever brain?”
“Your very clever brain led you to seek my counsel — smart! — where we came to the conclusion — smart! — using our clever brains, that male vampires are weak for lady bits, so personally, I believe that counts that as a brain-win.”
“Your logic isn’t entirely off,” I allowed, “but still. I think I’ll go the non-crotch route to start with and use the private parts as plan B.”
“Don’t you mean…” She lowered her glasses and peered over them mischievously. “Plan V?”
I threw my coat at her again, because she deserved it. She slapped it out of the air and it landed in the damp grass. “May I remind you that you’re actually the worst?”
“You’re my big sister,” she said. “I expect nothing but the truth from you.”
I rubbed my forehead hard where it was beginning to throb. “Oh boy, are you in for some disappointment.” I raised my voice out of habit, forgetting I was projecting my voice at a creature who could hear a pin drop half a mile down the road. “Let’s go Wesley, wrap it up!”
Carrie reached down, grabbed my coat, and chucked it at me. “You still haven’t showed me those dick pics from that fucking hot-ass snarly FBI dude. Break ‘em out, man.” Her grin grew. “Throw me a bone. Get it?”
“I told you,” I said with a sigh, “I never took any. He never sent any.”
“Wesley, is she lying?” Carrie called.
Wesley strolled out the front door, closing it securely behind him. “If I ever say a word about Wannabe White Blade, I get The Look, so…”
Carrie expelled a sharp, delighted ha! and hid the rest of her amusement behind her glossy magazine, but the wheezing sound of her stifled mirth was not at all covered. “All finished with my laundry, baby brother?”
“Dark load is in the dryer,” he reported. “Everything else is folded on your bed.”
“Splendid. Pleasure doing business with you. You have my official blessing!” She smiled up at him. “Please piss Mom off again so she plays this pointless, emotionally-manipulative game a second time. It totally works for me.”
Wesley stuck his tongue out at her playfully then leaned over her chair. “Give me my sugar now.”
She kissed his cheek and patted the scarred bit. Her thumb traced a deep welt across the side of his nose and she lowered her voice. “I’m not going to ask. Just… Please be more careful. I love you.”
Wesley scrunched his nose. “Gross. Shut up.”
“You shut up.” Carrie pointed at the hearse. “And get my sister out of here, she’s creepy and weird and talks about undead penis too much.”
I gaped. “But I didn’t even — ugh.”
My sister stood and gave me that smile she always did, the one full of determination and mischief, that said she was going to hug me now whether I liked it or not. Most of the Baranuiks were not touchy-feely people. Carrie was, but respected that with everyone but me. I sighed, my shoulders falling.
“Fine. Do it. Get it over with quickly.” I stiffened and tolerated her bear hug, and we both ended with a chuckle. “Weirdo.”
“Sure, the huggy theater girl is weird, according to the bald psychic who lives with vampires.”
“Revenants.”
“And fucks hot, angry FBI guys all day.”
“One! One FBI guy. And not all day, it's usually over in, like, sixteen minutes.”
“And comes home only to chase monsters and eat all my cake.”
“I have no regrets about that fucking cake.”
“I know you don’t, you carb-whore.” She aimed a finger at me. “Dad’s not the only addict in this family, Marnie-Jean.”
I blinked with surprise and then hid my blush of surprise with a wave good-bye and turned quickly away to join Wes at the lightly scuffed hearse. “Good night, Care.�
�
“Bye!” she called after us. Then, louder, “Remember, if you’re gonna be a fang-ho, be a good one!”
I got in the driver’s seat and buckled up. “I said not a word about penis. At all.”
Wes slid me a telepath-hears-everything look that said he knew I hadn’t. Aloud, however, he teased, “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”
“One of these days,” I protested, leaving it hanging but shaking one fist in the air. “I oughta…”
“Don’t worry,” Wes said lightly as we pulled out of the driveway. “I dumped a half bottle of bleach in with her dark wash. See how much she likes Mom’s game-playing after she discovers that every pair of jeans she owns is spotted like a blue palomino.”
I felt a slow grin spread across my lips and glanced over to see a matching one growing across my baby brother’s face. We threw our heads back and performed loud, dramatic super-villain laughs, upping our volume and depth to out-do one another. By the time we hit the main strip, we were hoarse, happy, and Wes had just about nailed a Vincent-Price-at-the-End-of-Thriller laugh. For a moment, it almost made me forget the real monsters. But not the dent in the fender.
“So, what the shit happened to the hearse, slipper-humper?”
Wes shot me an inscrutable look.
“What?” I demanded.
“I saw Dad. He was driving with Grampa Matts. I got so distracted seeing them that I veered off the road and glanced off someone’s mailbox and through a bush. And then…”
I read the look on his face. “Dammit, Wes, if something’s wrong, you’re just telling me this now? Spit it out.”
He wriggled his nose like a bunny. “I think it would be better to find them.”
“Gonna sniff the city, Lassie?”
Wes wilted. “Well, not like a puppy.”
“More like a Roomba with nostrils?”
I could almost see the mad inventor lightbulb go on behind his eyes, but he shuffled whatever contraption he had in mind to the side for the moment. “I think I know where he is.”
He looked up through his lashes uncertainly. The vulnerability in his eyes made me feel ferociously protective. Wes’s eyes went softly over to wilted violet. “Down, Marnie-Jean.” He and I exchanged glances full of that brand of dread and inevitability felt often by the children of long-term alcoholics.