by A. J. Aalto
I thought about all the smuggling that I knew about, and how much of it had been done by immortals. The undead held onto old habits, occasionally to the point of obsession. Afraid of change, they adhered to ancient customs, expected forms of interaction, and predictable methods of making money. Shakespeare owned both Wicked Whiskers and the Blind Tiger, and Mr. Merritt's tales of rum running in the area swirling around the latter. I remembered Shakespeare’s confusion about the name Sarokhanian, even though he knew about the soul calling and Kinship of the Departed and my grandmother's name. And Rotten Roy, the Nautical Guy; what House was he? Was he working with Ghazaros or Zorovar? Both? Neither?
“The same reason anyone else would: money. I think it’s entirely possible that the revenants are smuggling other things, too.” I didn’t need to elaborate for someone like Schenk. “Where there's value, there's crime, they say, right?”
“Malashock has a suspect in her phantasm case. This name ring any bells?”
Schenk showed me a pink slip, a copy of a warrant to stake. I expected to see Milosc Borodian, but the name Zorovar Borodian was entered into a blank space, and so were Liv Malashock’s name and a badge number. Beneath that, the judge had signed his name but also wrote in a unique instruction: FTS, industry for “free to stake,” after which he’d written “to include any and all conspirators as so deemed by investigating officer, LM-14789.”
The air felt heavy in my lungs. Malashock had a blank slate to kill any revenant she decided was involved in her phantasm case. She could claim the need to wipe clean the entire region, and all she’d have to do is tell a small tribunal a vague story about how they were all “in on it.” Since Canadian law afforded rights and freedoms to revenants but still frowned upon criminal activity, they wouldn’t do much more than glance at her reports and accept her explanation at face value. She could dust a dozen of them and there would be no investigation, no questions, and almost certainly no official consequences. I’d run into this before with Kill-Notch — no oversight, just a green light to stake as he pleased.
It was the Canadian version of the American laissez-faire regarding the destruction of immortals, and it woke my protective urges. She could stir up Ghaz. She could get to Glen Strickland. Wes. My stomach rolled over miserably. She could show up at North House. I glowered at the name on the pink slip, wondering what the fuck I could do about any of it.
“Longshanks, do you value my opinion?”
Schenk’s brows rocketed up. “Absolutely, I do.”
“Then listen to me on this. Zorovar Borodian is an associate of Ghazaros Merzyan. I’ve met Borodian. Harry says the Borodians are harmless, a minor house of mediocre seers. Precognatives. They can sorta-kinda-sometimes see the future, that’s all. In the industry, they’re barely known. There are no Borodian DaySitters with Gold-Drake & Cross because their Talent is so weak it's next to useless for law enforcement purposes. There’s no reason to stake these guys.” I looked him dead in the eye so he could see how serious I was. “Furthermore, I have no reason to believe the phantasm feeding is being done by a Borodian; none of them are anywhere near that level of ancient as far as I can tell, especially not Zorovar. There’s no proof that they’re a threat. This is a clear abuse of power on Malashock’s part if you guys go traipsing in there and play Rambo.”
“Thought one of them was giving you trouble?”
“He was only being sassy to Harry,” I explained, omitting the fact that Zorovar and Ghazaros had used Strickland to threaten my brother. “That’s all. I’m sassy to Harry all the fucking time and nobody is driving a sharpened piece of rowan wood into my chest cavity.”
He wanted to object to that, I saw it in his face. I cut him off.
“We can’t get information out of a pile of dust, Schenk. And when the dust piles up, other revenants, who may have been open to talking before, will clam up or fuck off.” I put more force into my voice. “Patrick, I mean it. This requires a deft touch, not doors kicked down and stakes driven. Mediation, not violence.”
“Hold on.” A brief smile turned his lips up. “When did you become the voice of restraint? You just assaulted a guy in a cheese cave.”
Point: Longshanks. “Cheese smuggling isn't a capital offense, where it's stake first and ask questions never. Just let me have a crack at Borodian. I know this isn’t your call, but Malashock trusts you. She listens to you.”
“Apparently, she trusts you, too,” he reminded me.
“And more stunned, I could not be. Look, Borodian knows who I am, so maybe he’ll be reasonable.” I waved a hand at the cave with its flapping police tape. “Maybe he’s the cheese connection. If so, he may give up any other human smugglers he’s got working for him in exchange for letting him slink off to the revenant homeland. If we’re lucky, he may have the name and location of the phantasm, too. I’ll have a cautious, friendly face-to-face with him and tell him how things are on my end. I’ll advise him to close up shop and move on. I’ll be much more delicate than Malashock will be.”
“Oh?”
“Well, yeah, I can’t even kick a door down.” I splayed my legs out in the sand. “Have you seen these things?”
I expected to get a no on my plan, considering I wasn’t law enforcement, but Longshanks surprised me. “You should be the one to speak to Borodian first. At least give him a chance to change course before Malashock gets to him.”
Not for the first time that night, I felt a warm, fuzzy feeling. “Huh. So, wait, you have faith in me, too?”
“Sure.”
“Weird.”
“Agreed,” he said easily, nodding. “But you’re taking me with you.”
I flashed back to Schenk and the frozen overflow pond and the ectoplasm and the ghostly spirits haunting him still. “I’m sorry, but no. I’m going in alone.”
“Like hell.”
“He won’t talk openly to me if I bring the law.”
“How many times have you done something alone and it turned out badly?” he wondered aloud, not expecting an answer. He did, however, give me a fresh handkerchief for my head wound.
I counted on my fingers for him. “I went to the Ten Springs Inn by myself to see Danika Sherlock, got a belly full of steel for my troubles. I saw Ruby Valli on my own, nearly got fed to a lust demon in her basement. I fed Gregori Nazaire on my own, accidentally formed a one-sided metaphysical Bond with him, and let him loose. I walked home alone, got attacked by Zombie Dunnachie. I checked on my neighbor alone during that outbreak, and nearly got eaten by her zombie labradoodles.”
Schenk opened his mouth to comment but then saw I wasn’t finished, dropped his upraised finger and shook his head.
I continued, “I went alone to a pawn shop against a sheriff’s orders and that turned out just fine… except for the plague and the stalker and being gang-banged by a scarf rack.”
Schenk’s eyes narrowed at me. “Why do I trust you, again?”
“To be fair, things go ass-over-teakettle when I bring a team, too. I took an Irish dhampir into a tomb in Egypt, got attacked by a werefox and a tomb guardian, and had to eat honey-coated man-jerky. Come to think of it, I took that same dhampir to Kathmandu and wound up in an underground fight club with a yeti, too. Don’t even get me started on the clurichaun and the spriggans, cuz that poor dhampir was also there for that. Maybe all of it was Declan’s fault. That would be great news for me, to be honest.”
“What the hell is a dhampir?”
I just smiled up at him. “Let me worry about the monsters, Longshanks. Go book your cheese smuggler.”
He groaned as he lifted from his crouch, then dropped a hand in my face to help me up. I took it gladly, hauling myself out of the sand. “Can you take Harry with you?”
“I can,” I said, nodding. I won’t, though… Zorovar won’t receive me if I bring the guy who stole his girl and his ship full of silks.
I watched Longshanks stride over to the patrol car, then scanned the warrant again. Zorovar Borodian had a house two doors down
from the Blind Tiger. That couldn’t be a coincidence.
I texted Malashock: Cheese smuggler down. No sign of Nyquist yet. Schenk’s made the arrest. Where are you?
She didn’t answer. I texted Harry: Can you tell where Zorovar is?
Harry’s reply was immediate and annoying. Do try not to be absurd, my darling. Of course I can.
“That’s not an answer,” I sang at my phone as though he could hear it. Then I thumbed in: Mind sharing the secret?
The reply was the last thing in the world I would have expected. Prince Borodian is sitting in our Winter Room, enjoying the fire and a cup of ginger tea with Wesley and our dear Mr. Strickland. Please do hurry home and pay your respects.
My heart leapt into my throat and I nearly gagged on my tongue. “No. No, no, no. All the no.”
I pictured Liv Malashock tracking Borodian to North House and busting in, stakes bared. She wouldn’t dare. She couldn’t face four revenants alone, could she? At least two of them were old enough to turn Youngers. Harry was certainly old enough to defend himself. It was past dusk, and Wes would be awake. He and Glen, telepaths both, would have read her mind and seen her intentions long before she got up the driveway. Borodian might have Seen her coming with precognition. Malashock wouldn’t try it. Would she?
What if she had a crew? What if the FUSZ had an entire revenant-busting team? My head swam and I felt faint.
I texted back just in case: Code Rowan, dead guy, and after a second though, added, I love you, Harry. I love you so, so much. Then I struggled to get moving, Keds shifting in the sand, and hurried to the hearse.
I was halfway back to North House when my phone dinged once more. Harry texted: All is well, my pipistrelle. Such a fuss you make.
Twenty-One
I didn’t know whether to be glad or worried that Harry’s guests were gone by the time I got to North House. Wes couldn’t hide his mixed emotions from me, and chose to lurk in the basement instead of talking about them — he’d seen Glen Strickland, made nice with meeting Zorovar Borodian, and resisted the lure of the very willing veins of Steve the DaySitter, which had reminded him very much of feeding on Gary Chapel. It had squicked Wes right out, all of it, the threat of becoming ash at Zorovar’s discretion, the arousal caused by the unspoken offer of hot, mortal blood, ready and keen, but most of all, I Felt his disappointment.
It was extremely hard for Wes to see Harry vulnerable and humbled. Wesley had always seen Harry as larger than life and even stronger in UnDeath, a master of the shadows, the unstoppable force moving through the night. Wesley aspired to be as suave, elegant, and powerful as Harry, and it was only now dawning on him that there were levels of revenant power he hadn’t yet encountered, let alone imagined. This was his first time learning, first-hand, that Harry was indeed a Younger, and not a master. Harry had been bumped from the pedestal Wesley had placed him on. It had not been a fun night for my brother.
I sought out Harry first in the Winter Room. He stood by the fire with a snifter of brandy that he wouldn’t bother drinking, swirling the glass and sniffing it. I knew it would snag under the skin for my Cold Company to be viewed by my brother as having flaws and weaknesses.
“Good evening, my pet. You smell of sand and cheese, are you quite well?” He did not turn from the fire, and seemed to be waiting for me to lie, so I didn’t.
“Got kicked around a bit but I helped arrest a smuggler.”
“Well, then,” Harry murmured quietly, sticking his nose in his glass. “Success was had by all. Huzzah.” He didn’t feel happy about all the purported success through the Bond.
“You invited Borodian here. And Glen Strickland.” I came up behind him, wanting to wrap my arms about him and unsure that he wanted me to. “You thought it would be safer to have them here. I think that was a mistake.”
“Your concern is noted,” he said to placate me. “Perhaps, DaySitter, you should trust that your companion knows what he’s about.”
I hesitated, then told him, “Liv Malashock has a warrant to stake Zorovar.”
Finally, Harry turned to face me, his eyes soft and grey and smiling. “My, my. Isn’t she quite the going concern? Does she remind you of anyone?”
“She reminds me very much of our dear, departed friend Mark Batten, Harry, who would have gladly staked you any number of times.”
“And I do hope our intrepid Ms. Malashock does not meet the same fate as Our Lad,” Harry said with a helpless shrug. “You and I both know it’s highly likely. Vampire hunters have short and brutal lives. You cannot make her decisions for her, no more than you could control Mark’s behavior. Sometimes, it’s wiser to take a step back and watch life unfold as it will.”
“I don’t want Liv to die, and I don’t want Zorovar Borodian staked for no reason.”
“How certain you are that there is no reason for his warrant,” Harry noted. He put his glass aside on the mantle and stroked my bruised, swollen eyebrow gently and fondly with one cool thumb. His protective concern washed through the Bond. “You can’t save everyone, love.”
“But I can save some people sometimes,” I insisted. “They don’t have to be important to me for me to want a peaceful resolution. Harry, no one has to die.” I didn’t know where all the puzzle pieces fit yet, but I had to have hope. “Maybe we can get the bad guys to a place they won’t hurt anyone, and the good guys can walk away. Maybe we can resolve everything peacefully.”
“Not this time, my pet,” Harry said softly, his smile sad.
“What does that mean?”
Harry placed a chaste kiss on my forehead, atop the clotted scrape on my temple and let his hand linger gently on the shoulder where Shakespeare had kicked me. “You need your rest, my Own. We will skip tonight’s feed. Off with you, now. Mr. Merritt will bring you some aspirin and chamomile tea.”
I turned to leave the room, lingering in the doorway one last moment. When I glanced back, I caught Harry studying me suspiciously before his smile returned. “Harry, were you luring Malashock here where you could manage the outcome? Is that why you brought Zorovar to North House?”
Harry pretended to look mildly insulted and drew himself up to full height, and that’s when Mr. Merritt appeared, clearing his throat behind me.
“Madam, your tea will be ready presently.”
“Swell, thanks,” I said, not taking my eyes off Harry’s pale, imperturbable face.
“And the emptying of the chest freezer has been completed, my lord,” Mr. Merritt announced, sending a cold shock through my belly. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll retire now.”
My jaw dropped slowly open, and I could imagine Liv’s drained body folded up in the freezer in the basement all too easily. “Guy. Harrick. Dreppenstedt,” I said, my voice heavy with accusation.
“One needs one’s space for a respectable supply of sustenance, dearest,” Harry said, dismissing Mr. Merritt with a wave of his hand. “And your brother’s old frozen pizzas wanted clearing. He shouldn’t eat such things, you know.”
Those two things were true, but there was an uglier truth beneath them. “I’ll keep the hunter in check.”
“I am unreservedly confident that you will try. Good night, my love. Dream only of the sweetest things,” Harry said lightly, and his docile smile returned.
My sleep that night was disturbed by images of Grandma Vi and what I imagined Batten’s grandfather might have looked like, drawing from the few fuzzy old photographs I’d seen of him from when Batten was just a cocky teenager riding a flashy, barely-street-legal motorcycle. Jack Batten was a hard man, grey and angular, with a strong jaw very much like Batten’s, and though the pictures had been washed out by age, I imagined he shared Mark’s deep, lake water blue eyes. I dreamed Vi and the colonel were dancing in the cemetery, singing a low song of longing to be returned to peace. A shadow fell over her grave, obscuring them both, swirling around them until they were gone, just gone. I could smell the night-dew on the grass, and wet fallen leaves, that sharp autumn perf
ume. And then something had me, too, and I felt pulled apart, torn into halves, and the fragrance of autumn leaves gave way to the snap-spark of burnt sugar, and I knew what had me, and who. The Soul Caller was there, the leech was sucking, and then I was covered in leeches, sinking into my flesh and draining me dry. I woke coughing and choking, thrashing in sweaty sheets, to the late morning sun streaming through a slim gap in the curtains.
“Next time Jerkface tells you to fuck off,” I whispered to myself, “make with the fucking-offness, Marnie.”
I took a long shower, reducing the temperature until the coolness both settled and woke me. My phone dinged several times while I was drying off and I glanced at it, toweling my hair.
Malashock. Good job on the cheese bust, all illegal imports.
Where are you, you trickass hunter? I resisted typing. Instead, I went with: Real estate angle next?
Her reply unsettled me. Muni Beach or Castle St?
Schenk must have told her about showing me the pink slip, and how he’d advised me to seek out Borodian before she could stake him. I shook my head, respecting his honesty but wishing he’d given me at least one free night to handle it.
Beach. When she replied in the affirmative, I resolved to keep my focus on the case and not on my personal worries. Surely, Malashock wouldn’t stake Harry for no reason. I would make sure she didn’t, of course, but I wasn’t going to panic. Panic made people sloppy. Panic got people killed.
But I left a note for Mr. Merritt not to let her in, just in case.
The street was loaded with trash cans and recycling bins ready for pick-up, piles of raked leaves in curbside drifts under broad, half-bare maples. The day's breeze had a hostile bite to it, streaming off the lake and hitting us through the side yards, making our trek uncomfortable. Malashock and I took opposite sides of the street to go door to door. I knocked on the first, the most important one, belonging to the initial cave explorer, Cordelia Abrams, who had been grabbed by… something.