by A. J. Aalto
When she opened her door, I got right to it. “I’d like to speak to you regarding this neighborhood and the various health conditions experienced here.”
She pursed her lips and checked out my frayed denim and faded Keds. “I don’t need a water filter, thanks.”
I handed her my business card. “I’m talking about your recent brush with something in the cave?”
“Are you from the government?”
Kinda-sorta. “I’m working with the FUSZ and the police to find the source of the problem and — ”
“No thank you.” The door started shutting in my face.
“Wait!”
There was just a sliver of her face showing, looking wan and dubious.
“Don’t you want to know what might be making you ill?” I boggled.
“I’m fine.”
“But you’re clearly not fine,” I told her, “and maybe I can help.”
Her lips tightened. “It’s fine. You can go.”
“Ms. Abrams, I read your report — ”
“I don’t need help.” She said it with the shrug of one shoulder. The Blue Sense stirred but offered me a surprising amount of no-fucks-given. She meant it. She wanted me gone.
“So… you’re fine,” I repeated slowly to clarify.
“Totally fine.”
“You want us to go.”
“You’re wasting your time,” she said. “No one on this street will talk to you.”
They talked to Malashock before. “What’s changed?”
“Have a nice day.” It was the closest to a Canadian “fuck off” I'd ever heard, and then the door shut in my face.
Is it me? “Would you talk to Detective Malashock instead?” I shouted.
Nothing.
Malashock herself came jogging over. “Something’s different.”
“Cordelia Abrams didn’t seem intimidated into silence,” I told her, wiggling my fingers at her to remind her of my psychic Talents. “She looked weak, frail, but seemed content with the situation.”
“They weren’t content before.” Malashock was back in her black-on-black, her hair stuffed under a dark cap, and her gaze dialed to determined. “So why the shift? Bribery?”
I shrugged helplessly. We went to the next house together.
A gangly, disheveled teenager answered the door, looking far too haggard for a Fortnite binge to be the culprit. “You want my dad. He’s out cold, man.” He looked concerned.
“Has he been sleeping a lot more than usual?” I asked.
“Days on end. I woke him the other day to eat because I got worried.”
“Did he eat?”
“A ton, like he was starving,” the kid said. “I ordered two pizzas, and he ate them both. I got one piece. Thought he was gonna bite my hand off, so I didn’t even try for a second. Then he fell asleep again.”
“I’m not a doctor, but I do have some experience with this,” I told him carefully, skirting several legal complications. “Would you mind if I came in for just a minute, took a quick peek at him? I won’t touch him or anything in your home.”
He led us down a darkened hallway, where the stink of burnt sugar was high and harsh, strong enough to make my eyes water. A phantasm had been here, and recently. The bedroom was dark with shade from the pines outside, even though the window blinds were open. The man in the bed looked like he’d once been pleasantly plump, but had lost so much weight that his flesh was sagging, pale and dry, nearly transparent. Beneath the skin of his neck, his veins and arteries thrummed visibly, the pulse erratic. I drew a tiny bit of psi, enough to stay beneath the radar of any metaphysical awareness in the area, and probed the gentleman in the bed.
He felt amazing. For a moment, I let the euphoria swallow me whole, rolling under its familiar spell, and then my shoulders fell. “Dammit.”
The teen said, “Should I, like, call someone?”
Malashock was already on it, speaking firm orders into her phone.
“We’ll put him in an ambulance to be sure,” I told the kid, “and have the doctors check him. If nothing else, the rest in a hospital will do him good. And so will a bunch of vitamins in an IV, too.” I followed Liv back through the house to the front door.
“It’s getting worse,” Malashock said, low so the kid didn’t hear. “They look more than simply drained.”
Narcosis. “It’s Rapture of the Blood.” I turned away from the teen and whispered the rest. “When the phantasms have fewer victims to draw on, they’ll draw harder and deeper. These victims will be strongly hooked to the feeding process now. They won’t want anything to break this, not even if it’s killing them. If they’re conscious like Cordelia Abrams, they’ll fight the EMTs. I’m going to speak to the kid in the driveway and recommend sedation for transport.”
“I don’t understand. If these victims aren’t enough to sustain the phantasms, why don’t the revenants just move on to a richer victim pool?”
“The only thing I can think of? They must be stuck.”
“Stuck?”
“Trapped, maybe. Didn’t Nyquist say there have been cave-ins in the breeding grounds?”
“The last was a minor one,” Malashock confirmed. “By the cheese shop. Road guys cleared the rubble, repaved. No injuries. A nesting area for boggles, but it was undisturbed. No reports of any activity down there, either mortal or immortal. It’s near one of the caves.”
“I want to see the cave.”
“You can’t, it’s blocked off. Blind Shale Boggles are a protected species.”
“Cover of darkness it is!” I said, nodding enthusiastically. “Don’t tell Nyquist, okay?”
Malashock followed me out the front door, giving me an as-if look. “I can’t. He still hasn’t returned my call. Listen, Baranuik, let me go through the proper channels.”
I knew all about proper channels and governmental delays. “How long will that take?
“I don’t fucking know,” she said, looking defeated but determined. “But this is the way it has to be.”
“For you. Because you have rules to follow.”
“And I also have laws to enforce,” she parried. “Don’t make me arrest you. I don’t want to do that.”
“Don’t you, though?” I eyed her doubtfully.
“We’re on the same side.”
“Are we?” I smirked. “Don’t you kind of want to arrest me?”
“A little,” she admitted. “But come on. You need me.”
“I handled the cheese dude by myself. And you let me.” I studied her. “You knew I had it.”
“It was one dumpy little human in scrubs who sells cheese. But when it comes to phantasms, you need someone. You need a crew. You can’t solo this.”
She was probably right. But. “Sure,” I lied. “Okay. We’ll handle this together.” An idea began crystallizing in my mind. “But we do it my way.”
Malashock stared at me for a long beat. If she’d been Batten, she would have immediately told me to fuck off. This hunter, though, gave me a tiny bit of credit. “And what’s your way?”
“First, we stake out the casino.”
“What?” She laughed, incredulous. “Wanna tell me why?”
“There’s a rev who frequents the slots and is apparently a junkie for gossip, so, I think before we go any further, we should tap that keg.” I tapped my temple. “Listen, I know your style. Stake first, ask no questions later, because everyone’s toast.” I leveled a gotcha gaze at her. “Do you know what happens to hunters who go up against precognitive revs? You can’t surprise Seers. That’s going to catch up to you sooner or later. Trust me, I know. I’ve got the broken heart to prove it.”
She looked at me, nonplussed by my temper and the non sequitur, but I was on a roll.
“I cannot afford to have you flinging stakes and blowing through this city’s undead population like an avalanche through a stand of cedars,” I said firmly. “I need some of these crusty old bastards around to answer questions. So do you, Liv. We can't inte
rrogate dust.”
Malashock obviously didn’t like being unmasked unceremoniously in a random driveway with an ambulance pulling up behind her. The EMT guys rattled past with a stretcher. We both waited grimly until they were inside before speaking further. An exhausted moan drifted from the house.
“Fine, casino first,” she said tentatively, but it didn’t sound like she was on board, just repeating what I said with resignation. “What’s second?”
“Second, I do some poking around, real casual-like.” I dropped a broad, sassy wink to lighten the mood. To tighten that up, I added an eyebrow waggle. “Pour on the Baranuik charm, see what shakes out.”
She blinked at me rapidly. “Charm.”
“Yeah.” I smiled prettily to demonstrate. She didn’t seem charmed.
“What’s plan B?”
“Plan B is I sacrifice you and Nyquist to a bunch of dead guys in exchange for freeing this neighborhood, and you serve as a delicious offering.”
Her eyes narrowed. She didn't reach for her cuffs, precisely, but shifted her stance to make whipping them out easier.
“Or... something else,” I said. “I’ll think on it. You manage the really sick folks, the ones who are unconscious, and the ones who are willing to come away with you. Definitely want to do that during daylight. Interview as many as will talk to you. I’ll check back in tonight about our casino date.”
She-Batten glared at me the entire way to our cars, and even after I drove away, I could see her in the rear view mirror, scowling away. I couldn't tell if she was clenching her jaw repeatedly like Kill-Notch always did, but it wouldn't have surprised me.
I pulled onto Castle Street twenty minutes later, parked ten doors down from my target, and took Mr. Merritt’s handgun from the glove box, checking that the magazine was fully loaded. I pulled on my parka and stuck the gun in the right-hand pocket. I stuck a second magazine in my left. A copy of Malashock's pink warrant was in my back pocket in case I needed it. I had no intention of shooting anyone, and I hadn’t even brought a stake — murder was not my plan. All I wanted to do was to talk to Steve the DaySitter to suggest that Zorovar leave town quietly, and pass along any more information about smuggling that we might need. If I could get some dirt on Aston Sarokhanian while I was at it, great. If not, I wouldn’t push. Glen Strickland was still in danger, so that would temper my approach.
The house was a small Georgian with all the shutters closed up tightly. Steve did not answer the door, but I recognized the man who did. Zorovar smiled brightly, staying behind the shade of the door where the mild October sun didn’t penetrate. “Good afternoon, little DaySitter.”
I squinted at him. “Why are you not at rest? It’s late. Or early. Whichever.”
“Some of us sleep well, some of us have trouble resting. I’ve always been of the latter sort. It matters not. The house is dark and I am well protected. Come closer,” he invited, walking away from the open door and deeper into the shadowy house. “I’ve been expecting your return.”
Wut-oh. I stepped in cautiously, smelling only mild burnt sugar and something warmer. Honey. Beeswax. “I was, um, looking for Steve? I just had a few questions.”
He smiled, showing neither fang nor a trace of concern. “And I was looking for you.”
“You should probably have that urge checked out by a professional. I’m not good company.”
“You make men regret things,” he said, winking. “I remember. But it’s so cold outside for a little thing like you, is it not? Your bones are positively rattling.” His voice became a purr as he strolled into a sitting room, padding elegantly the way Harry was wont to do. “The fire is toasty, here. The brandy is warm. Won’t you join me?”
“Gee, gosh, that sure sounds spiffy, Zoro, but I’m here to discuss some legal matters. Not exactly cozy fireside chat material, you dig?”
“Oh?” His smile didn’t falter. “I appreciate your concern. Your companion told me that you are a considerate woman, and I’m pleased to see that Lord Guy did not exaggerate on that account. You needn’t trouble yourself so. I’m sure everything will work out in my favor. May I offer you some lemon tarts?”
“Prince Borodian,” I said, letting out a sigh, “I regret to inform you that you and your buddies have attracted the attention of the federal authorities.”
“Did I thank you for your kind invitation to North House? Mr. Strickland and I had hoped to see you there, but our visit with your brother was, unfortunately, a brief one. It was such a lovely treat to be welcomed into your home.” He pulled the audiomancy trick the way Harry sometimes did, dropping his voice to a bare brush but pushing it so that I heard it clearly. “It smells of you.”
Urp. “Does it?”
“I understand it was not always so,” he said, his tone soft with manipulation disguised as sympathy. “Another woman’s house, another woman’s Bond, another woman’s bed, such a strange thing to adjust to. But that is all in the past now, surely. You’ve blossomed into a formidable companion and advocate.”
“Yes, well, um.” I had no choice but to thank him for the kindness of his words, despite him having plucked a thorn from my side and sliding it neatly into my heart. “I appreciate you saying so. I put in a good word with the feds for you because…” I drifted off, not willing to accuse him of being harmless, lest he prove me wrong. “I don’t want trouble.”
“This must be difficult for you,” he sympathized. “I’m happy that your ill-considered romance with the vampire hunter didn’t make you cold to my kind. And please believe that I do not hold you responsible for the unforgivably haughty attitude of your immortal companion. Your compassion is appreciated.”
“I’m here to advise you to collect your house and go beyond the Bitter Pass to Svikheimslending, Prince Borodian. Your associates have been connected to a criminal enterprise, and revenant crime is a serious no-no around here. The cops won't even apologize before they stake you.”
“What crime am I accused of?” Apparently, the implied threat of getting abruptly staked was not high on his list of concerns.
I took a shot, because why not? “Smuggling.”
“I see.” He touched a little bell on his side table. “Shall I ring for Steven? I’m sure he still has lemon tarts.”
“Prince Borodian, I don’t expect you to confess to me. You don’t need to. If you’re even remotely involved, the law will come down hard. You know how it works, sir. They don’t need proof. Not for immortals. I can’t do much to protect you. Not while Liv Malashock is kicking down doors and flinging rowan wood around.”
“And you are advising me, for my own safety, to flee to Svikheimslending?” He chuckled. “What do you know of the Bitter Pass?”
“Um, a little?”
“You want me to abandon my home, my business ventures, everything I’ve worked for, my comforts, my relationships, and go to some strange, far-away land to be surrounded by the Arctic winds and the frigid, hostile stares of the undead?”
“Sounds like you don’t dig the cold,” I said. “I get it. But you’ve gotten yourself involved with some shifty folks and possibly bigger trouble than you want. Malashock doesn’t have to prove anything. She’s got the pink slip. She can pretty much do what she wants with you.”
Zorovar threw back his head and laughed at this. “Oh, my. I’m suitably terrified.”
I sighed. It was a very Harry Dreppenstedt-style reply. I should have expected it. “Go. Please. I’d hate to see your entire house ruined for the sake of money or friends.”
“No.”
“No?” I blinked. “That’s it, just no?”
“Come here, little one,” he said, patting the worn velvet couch. “Join me.”
I hovered where I was, not quite committed to entering the room. “Is that like ‘come to the Dark Side; we have lemon tarts?’ A bit redundant, I’m already on the dark side.”
“Are you? How quaint that you think so.”
That brought me up short. “I’m not?”
&nbs
p; “You have only glimpsed the abyss, sweet bird,” he promised, “but I will take you on a far more thorough tour, if you crave such things.”
Blerg. I had no illusions in that moment; Zorovar’s only attraction to me was steeped in petty revenge. Harry had stolen his ship, or at the very least his paramour, and Borodian wanted to even the score. I had zero interest in my soul playing Prometheus over some kind of eternal darkness.
“Do you?” he purred, and my DaySitter body thrummed with warning even as my mind slipped sideways into a familiar pattern of haziness and submission.
“Do I…?”
“Crave the darkness, sweet bird? I think you do. I can taste your desire. You are like a mourning dove,” he said, “aren’t you? Singing sadly of oblivion when you haven’t yet tasted so much as a hint of its true meaning. But I will show to you the void, my delicious thing. I will open your eyes to true emptiness. The despair of eternal nothingness.”
“Gosh, I don’t think that’s necessary,” I said with a breathy laugh. “I already have my own doom chasm.” Even my sarcasm seemed to be coming from far away.
“When you flirt with death, miss, do not be alarmed when death responds to your desires.” Zorovar Borodian smiled once more, but this time, his fangs were on clear display, thirsting for the hot rush of blood. “You will feed me.”
“This is how you treat visitors in your territory? You put the moves on another revenant’s DaySitter? After being welcomed into his home?” I said, gripping the gun in my pocket tighter, while fully aware that Glen Strickland’s life was still very much in danger. “My neck isn't for you.” The demon king’s scar around it ached acutely, though I couldn't tell if it was in invitation or warning.
“You should have sent your police lady,” he said, coolly and matter-of-factly. “Now, I will have you.”
His hunger woke. Unleashed from his control, it rolled through me like a tank across a battlefield of broken bodies, smashing barriers and spinning through flesh and bone to make his point clear — this was an old creature, older than I’d estimated, older than Ghaz, and he had no patience for being toyed with by another immortal’s short-term plaything. That was precisely how he saw me: warm, and wriggling, and disposable. Tasty, perhaps, but very, very temporary. In the time it took him to make a serious decision, my life would have begun and ended, a blip on his radar, and of no significance whatsoever.