by A. J. Aalto
“Halt!” Harry bellowed from the hall, placing himself between me and the front door. I skidded to a stop, my socks sliding on the polished floor. “Stand your ground, woman.”
“Have mercy,” I begged them. “After the night I’ve had? Now this?”
“Have some balls!” Wes demanded. “I’m the one who has to face her.”
“Rena hates me,” I said.
“If we tried to avoid everyone who hates you…” Wes reasoned, leaving it hanging.
“That might not be a helpful avenue to stroll, lad,” Harry said, taking my arms in his hands. “Let’s have some nice, soothing chamomile tea, my pet, shall we?”
“She can’t come here! Tell her I have the green apple trots and I’m stuck in the can,” I suggested hopefully. “Tell her I have rabies! Tell her I’m possessed!”
“Oh, my poor dear,” Harry faux-sympathized with a flutter of his dark lashes.
“What does she want?” I cried. “Why does she need to be here and not anywhere else?”
“Before she’ll forgive me,” Wes explained, “she wants a good old fashioned drink-off.”
“Absolutely not!” I said, horrified. “You’re not drinking on my watch.”
“Not with me.”
“I…” I blinked rapidly. “I can’t out-drink Rena. I can’t out-anything Rena. Have you seen her? She’s like Godzilla with boobs. She used to eat football players for breakfast.”
“Not with you, either.”
Wes and I craned slowly to look at Harry.
Harry blinked slowly once and then threw his head back and roared merrily with laughter.
“Rena wants to try to out-booze a centuries-old dead guy?” I asked slowly, trying to wrap my head around that. Rena, like most of my family, wanted nothing to do with the undead, so this was a curious change — peculiar challenges were pure Baranuik style, though, so a part of me bought it.
“She’s gonna give it the good ole Pitchaboom try, she says,” Wes explained. When we gave him matching double-takes, he added, “That’s the mining town she was doing disaster relief in, up Yukon way. Pitchaboom. She’s thinking of moving there. No mountain trolls for miles.”
“Oh, Dark Lady,” I groaned. “Drunk Rena is the worst. She’s going to trounce you, Harry.”
“Dearheart,” Harry admonished. “No mortal could best me in any contest.”
“Uh, I think she’s got you on this one. But if all she wants is the thrill of facing off against an immortal, and then she’ll forgive Wes, I guess it’s worth tossing your slobbering, drunken butt back in your coffin early just this once.” I gave him a long look. “We’d better get you fed and as close to living as possible, Harry. Couch or chair?”
“Neither,” he announced, drawing himself up to full height. He whisked his top hat off the hat stand and placed it gently and purposefully atop his receding hairline, tapping it once as if to signal he meant business. “I do not intend to feed.”
“Uhhh…” I Felt a waft of stubbornness through the Bond and faced it with a sigh. “Harry, if you don’t feed, your liver won’t be working. You won’t be able to process alcohol.”
“How I do enjoy when you clarify the inner workings of my own immortal body for me, my Own.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I pointed hard at my carotid artery. “Get on my neck!”
“Forgive me, my precious thing, but I will not. Never let it be said that Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt needed to gird his loins before battle!”
“I said nothing about your loins, pervert.”
“Fetch my slippers, lad,” Harry said, “and my finest robe de chambre.”
Wes sighed helplessly at me. “His what?”
“His blabbity-blabbity yammerty-hammerty.”
“That’s what I heard, too.”
“The brown velvet housecoat, armoire, left hand side,” I directed. When Wes toddled off to retrieve Harry’s stuff, I had a second to think, and then it hit me. “Wait a minute. You won’t be able to process alcohol. And you won’t have a pulse.”
Harry’s questioning look was full of feigned innocence. “Hrm?”
“The alcohol will just sit in your belly going nowhere.”
“What’s this, now? I’m not sure I follow.”
“Drop the act, devil man. You could out-drink everyone until your stomach split open. You’re not going to get drunk. You’re not going to be affected in the least. Rena, on the other hand…”
“Is she a terribly stubborn woman, your sister? Will she take it the distance? Will she surrender once she sees she is truly and rightly beaten?” He heard his own words and let out a coarse ha! “Of course she will not, she’s a Baranuik. Very well. It falls upon me once again to teach a member of your family a valuable lesson.”
“Is that what you call getting my sister plowed?”
Wesley rushed back into the room with a bright smile, holding an armful of stuff, none of it remotely what Harry had asked for. “Hey, it’s a trick!”
“She won’t be happy, especially if she suspects.” Of all the other Baranuiks, Rena was more intimately familiar with cryptid biology as part of her job, though she always got the dirty end of it. She cleaned up after mountain trolls, orcs, and goblins laid waste to northern towns. It was a secure government job with benefits and hazard pay, and the risk of attack was much lower by the time her crew got called in. But she was educated on the physiology of various non-humans. How much she knew about revenant physiology was unclear. “Don’t give her alcohol poisoning, Harry.”
His eyes widened, this time with genuine distress. “Of course not, petal. I’m not a monster. I seek only to vanquish her ego, not destroy her liver. Or, truth be told, any of my carpets, should she undertake some gastric distress at the excesses of the evening.”
I knew through the Bond that this was true — Harry would be careful with her health. “All right. Do we have enough wine in the house for someone like Rena?”
“No house has that much wine,” Wes said.
“We have gin and Dubonnet,” Harry said. “If it’s good enough for Our Good Queen Liz, why then it’s good enough for the likes of us. Mr. Merritt?” Harry tilted his head slightly over his shoulder. “Are you hovering back there in your cloud of disapproval so as to sway my decisions, or are you awaiting instruction?”
“Forgive me, my lord. I’ll set out the glasses presently,” Mr. Merritt said from the hall, and I heard him withdraw.
“That was Combat Butler for, ‘Both,’” Wes pointed out. Harry chuckled.
I hadn’t seen my sister Rena since I'd moved to Seattle. She’d always been the biggest, strongest, and most physically powerful Baranuik sister, and the years had made her resemble my mother in the tightness around her eyes and the silver at her temples. Time hadn’t softened her demeanor or her attitude towards me. Though five years my junior, she’d always had a charming way of treating me like a child. When she handed me her jacket, she informed me, “That goes on the hook, there.”
“Oh, is that what you do with these?” I snapped. “I usually drape them across the toilet or stuff them in the freezer.”
“Make better choices, Marnie,” she suggested. Then she sniffed the air. “I think I’ve finally figured out what that smell is that lingers around you. You know when a pie bubbles over and you get those black crusty bits clinging to the bottom of the oven?”
“I think I’ve figured out what’s up your butt, Rena-Leanne. And it’s a pickle. A dill pickle. Not a baby dill,” I told her. “A big one. Big ol' butt-pickle.”
“Always a lady,” Harry commented, sweeping around me to greet Rena. “How do you do, Ms. Baranuik. What a delight it is to be in your company once more. It’s been many years.”
I wasn't done. “Or one of those prickly pears with all the spines on it. Maybe you sat on a pineapple. At least you're getting some fresh fruit in your diet.”
“You haven’t aged a day,” Rena deadpanned at Harry, pretending to ignore me. The Blue Sense told me otherwise, but it wasn't
my fruit-based assault on her backside she was focusing on.
Harry beamed, ignoring the dig like a gentleman. “I’m given to understand that you’ve come for a tipple.”
Rena took him in from head to toe, sizing up her opponent. “Uh huh.”
“Splendid. This way, if you like,” Harry said, indicating with the graceful sweep of his pale hand at the Winter Room. Rena strode past him, swishing her colorful skirt. For a moment, she looked very much like Carrie on stage, brandishing bravery like a mask and family pride like a shield. I suspected, and confirmed with a tiny surge of the Blue Sense, that Rena wasn’t terribly upset about Wesley’s choices, or by Harry’s UnDeath, at all. Her problem was with me.
I still haven't figured out how to roll my eyes through the Bond, but thought about doing it as loudly as I could. I heard Wes snort-laugh from wherever he was hiding, so it would have to do.
It soon became clear that drinking with Harry wasn’t about a contest of livers or wills. It was about speaking the unvarnished truth to me under the safe, deniable cover of intoxication. Her eyes darted to me, slower and droopier with each drink after her fourth. “You wear the mantle of Satan,” she told me, dropping the pretense of small talk with the dead guys. “You are clothed in his works.”
I looked down at my legs. “Satan makes yoga pants?”
“Hush, witch.”
“Does He stitch them by hand,” I asked, “or does He run a big demon sweatshop down there?”
“Stop,” she growled.
I drummed my fingers on the table. “Where does he source this stretchy, crotch-hugging material, Lu-Lucifer-Lemon?”
“Marnie-Jean!” she barked, sounding a lot like Mom.
“The tag says Proudly Made in Canada,” I told her, “but for this price? I was always a tad suspicious.”
“Ugh.”
“Bonus, the back makes my ass look devilishly good,” I said from the corner of my mouth at Harry, knowing he was sitting in silent appreciation of my backside.
Rena’s eyes burned into mine. “How dare you?”
“Sorry, ass is crude,” I agreed. “Tushie. Behind. Rear end. Caboose. Satan's juicy booty.”
“I’m warning you,” Rena slurred.
“And I’m super inclined to heed the words of a drunk Baranuik wearing a Christmas tree skirt,” I drawled. “I'm over here putting Dat Ass in Asmodeus. No, wait, he'd like that.”
She fidgeted, took another shot, and belched juniper gin in my face.
“You okay, Rena?” I asked. “Wedgie? Nervous bowels?”
“Please stop talking.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not going to barf, are you?”
“Shut it.”
“Do you need to pause the Inquisition for a pee break? I’m sure they had to do that during the Salem Witch Trials, too, don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Are you finished?”
“I’m gonna be honest with you, sweetie,” I said softly. “I don’t think you can hold it much longer. Your thighs are clenched pretty tight, there.”
“Demon-fucker.”
“Go pee, Rena,” I urged. “You’re making me uncomfortable now.”
“Demon. Fucker.”
“Harry, are you secretly a demon? Or do I need to actually put out for ol' Three-Heads hizzownself to get that merit badge?”
“I'm sure that would be quite an experience, ducky, but that's a topic for another time. Your sister is the guest of the moment, after all.”
I looked back over at her. “Your back teeth must be swimming.”
Rena shoved her chair back and stormed off to the half-bath off the hall. She only bounced off the wall once.
“Don’t forget to wash your hands!” I shouted after my sister, dropping my voice back to a grumble. “I’d hate to be strangled to death with pee-stained hands.”
Harry poured two more shots. “This is going splendidly.”
I swung my glare at him. “For you. I thought you were supposed to have my back.”
“I’m sure I can soothe your ruffled feathers later, my love.”
I saw the opening and took it. “You seem to be doing a lot of that lately with the Baranuiks. Something you wanna tell me?”
Harry’s eyes widened only for a second then became guarded. “Perhaps I am merely contrite.”
Kinship of the Departed, tickled my brain. Glen Strickland. Mr. Merritt. My sisters. Kill-Notch. Too much thin ice. “You are taking personal risks to humble yourself. Why?”
Harry lowered his voice. “Your sister returns, my Only Love.”
“You’re playing a long game. I just want to know if I’m on the winning side, and if I'm just one of the chips being wagered, I'll rip your dick off, shove it in your ear, and staple it there with your eyebrow rings, capisce?”
He reached out a cool, pale hand and brushed the back of mine fondly. “My pet, you are ever under my wing. Can you doubt it?”
It’s the same thing he said when he was using Mr. Merritt as bait in the back yard, and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit. “I love you, my Harry,” I told him, but even to my ears, it sounded like a warning. Don’t fuck with me. Don’t fuck with us.
He had the grace to look away. He could say the words in return, but they would be hollow without the true ability to feel the same. His long lashes cast a shadow on his pale cheeks. I was under his wing, it was true, but it was the wing cast by the Raven of Night, a shadow given power by Asmodeus, the Overlord of the Undead. His departed DaySitters would be drawn to my Harry, and so would any restless soul lingering in the grave. And so would I, forever linked. A different sort of Kinship.
Another moth of discovery fluttered in the front of my mind, and I wished I could see the clue it was trying to throw at me. Rena stomped back to the table but all the fight had gone out of me. She was gritting her jaw with determination, and it made me tired.
“You win,” I told her, raising from the table. “I can’t do this anymore.”
“But, ducky — ” Harry objected.
“I have more important things to tend to. Listen, Rena, enjoy the boozefest. I’m tapping out, so stay and antagonize Harry, if you like. He enjoys drama and conflict. Forgive Wes or don’t. I’m not sure why he even cares, or why I do.”
I expected her to glare, but she didn’t. She was looking at me with what I assumed was her troll-hunting assessment, her Pitchaboom Eyes, the strong stare that told the miners she worked with that she’d seen much worse than them and could hold her own.
“If you don’t like my life,” I continued, “stay out of it. That’s your choice. We’re sisters. We’re kin. We’re blood. You’re supposed to be on my side. It’s supposed to be us against the world no matter what. If this family can’t do that, then fuck this family. Fuck it.” I thumped the table with an angry finger. “And fuck you, too. I have work to do.”
Nineteen
I spent the night scanning the copies of Malashock and Nyquist’s case notes, and there was a lot to digest. I picked out the salient bits to scribble in my Moleskine, then reviewed everything I knew for sure. I studied the map of the shoreline of Lake Ontario from the canal to the cheese shop and all the little neighborhoods in between. Then I went through the real estate listings around Ghazaros' house, and the area of phantasm feeding, checking prices and pictures of the interiors.
The entire lakefront along Municipal Beach had risen in price in the early nineteen-eighties, but had since plummeted, despite the housing market being strong. Retirees were selling in Toronto and buying in Niagara, and the house prices were riding high everywhere but Municipal Beach. That didn’t make sense, as lakefront property always sold well everywhere else. The last thing I needed to add to the current repertoire of fuckery was some kind of conspiracy of realtors. Leave that shit for Scooby Doo and the gang to find out it was Old Man Jenkins all along, I thought sourly.
I shot Malashock several texts; I needed to know who was selling these houses, and who was buying them. The new
owners would be victims of phantasm feeds and suffer the attendant symptoms. Was House Sarokhanian keeping prices low so the houses filled quickly, to support a house member feeding in phantasm form? Was Aston the one feeding as a phantasm? If so, why did both Batten and Harry say that Aston was no longer in the area? I didn't think he was ancient enough to pull that off, but maybe Soul Calling fast-tracked him to the phantom snack aisle.
The night passed quickly, with Mr. Merritt slipping into the living room to deliver espresso. Harry was avoiding me, lurking downstairs in his chambers. Rena had left in a huff (and a cab), but I sensed my talk had gotten to her. I hoped so. Wesley didn’t deserve the snubbing that I’d always gotten. He made a choice of questionable brightness, and ended up undead. It wasn’t the worst thing Wesley had ever done.
Morning saw me still wide awake, running on fumes and the wide hyperactivity afforded by no sleep and too much caffeine. I waited until Wes and Harry had fallen into full VK-Delta, tucked them safely into their caskets, and locked them away before I went to the front hall table. I shuffled past Mr. Merritt’s gun, several pairs of my back-up gloves, papers and pens, a phone charger, and found Harry’s checkbook. I flipped through the past receipts, not exactly sure what I was looking for, scanning for anything out of the ordinary.
My cell phone rang while I was flipping pages. Malashock. “Got that info for you. Real estate along Municipal Beach. Same buyer each time. Some guy named Kristof Pascal.”
Fucking cold pen guy. “Registered DaySitter?”
“Not on any records I have. You think he is?”
Of course she’d checked. Good little vampire hunter. “Unsure.” I made a note in my lime green Moleskine: Kristof Pascal, ice pen, houses at the beach. “Think you can track this Pascal guy?”
“Way ahead of you. His passport pinged at the Rainbow Bridge, then Buffalo Airport. He’s on a five-thirty flight to Colorado.”
Shit. “Okay. Gimme a minute.” I texted Chapel: Heads up, possible trouble incoming. Kristof Pascal, intentions unknown. Keep an eye on Umayma for me?
“Heard from Schenk lately?” Malashock asked.