by A. J. Aalto
Harry had never made me feel so worthless, so insignificant, my input fleeting and negligible. It was jarring, but it shouldn’t have been.
I drew up my clinical detachment like a shield, but I couldn’t help but remember how many times Batten had tried to drill into my head that they were vampires, monsters – heartless, incapable of love or mercy, treating humans as food and nothing more. I didn’t – couldn’t – agree with that assessment when he spoke of Harry, but this man, this creature, absolutely fit Batten’s definition. The reminder was a blessing.
“Thank you, sir,” I said, wilting with relief, and the frank honesty in my voice intrigued him into a cocked head and a half-smile.
“For what, little bird?”
“Pretty sure you just cured me of my addiction to assholes.” I matched his smile and raised Mr. Merritt’s .357. I slid my finger onto the trigger to show him I was serious. “And you made this a lot easier. Now, I’m leaving. And someday very soon, I’ll hear that you have, too. I came here as a favor to you, to warn you of danger, to show you the respect of giving you options. Nobody has to get hurt. I’m going. Go home.”
I started edging back to the door. I had delivered my message. I had resisted his lure. Time to go, my warning bells said. And they were right.
Zorovar hissed and lunged. I pulled the trigger and fired until the gun was empty.
The bullets took him in the belly and stitched upwards as I stepped away to help absorb the recoil, knocking him back slightly in a flutter of shredded velvet, tearing flesh and spraying inky, blue revenant nectar in a fine mist. I dropped the magazine and slammed in the second, readied for another salvo if he came back at me. I knew he would before he started snarling, hot fury snagging in his throat. A fountain of dark blue blood gushed from his mouth when he tried to speak. Smoke rose from his wound in a curious spiral. I fired one more time, hitting closer to center of mass and knocking his unbalanced body back against the wall. Plaster gave way. Grey dust and bits of lath showered him.
Shit, shit, shit. I looked down at the gun like it had fired that last bullet on its own. Had I just doomed Strickland? Wes?
“I don’t want to be enemies, here, Zorovar. I don’t want to shoot again. Let me leave,” I said loudly through the sounds of his agony, lowering the gun as the revenant struggled to swallow his pain so he could fight or flee.
He snarled wetly, but didn't rise.
I glanced around the empty room like there might be someone there who could advise me.
Unexpectedly, there was. A small-framed man in his early twenties stood quietly in the threshold of the hallway in navy track pants and no shirt, wiry and lean, wide-eyed and stunned. Pale. Physically shaky. Emotionally traumatized by what he was seeing, and didn’t the Blue Sense decide this was the perfect time to inform me of it. Steve. He had something in his hand, but when he saw me notice, he set down a rather impressive looking buck knife.
“We’re done here, Steve,” I advised. “Probably, you should tiptoe on out like I’m going to.”
I expected either compliance or the continued silent statue act. I did not expect balls the size of King Kong. “You just fucked up hard.”
My eyebrows shot up.
“You’re asking for peace with a gun?” he said, stepping fully into the room, and I saw his master’s rage mirrored in his young eyes. Uh oh.
“Kid, don’t do this,” I warned. “Trust me, I get it. I do. But he came at me first. I’m trying to work this out. This isn’t the time or place to make a stand. Not for this asshole, at least.”
The young man’s voice dropped. “My name is Steve, and I’m not your kid.”
I flashed back with empathy and regret on how many times my age and small size had been used to demean me, and felt like a jerk.
“Furthermore,” Steve continued tightly, “that asshole bleeding on the floor belongs to me. And if you fire on him again, I will spend the rest of my life making you regret it. So I’m going to give you about nine seconds to drop the gun. After that, I won’t be held responsible for what happens.”
I frowned. He’d said precisely what I’d have said if someone shot my Harry. I could fault him for none of it. “If I drop the gun, are you gonna let me leave?”
“That’s not my call to make,” Steve told me.
I glanced at the revenant, who was still attempting to push up off the wall as his rapid healing drained some of his energy. Fangs fully extended, eyes bright with murder, he was absolutely the bigger threat. Even the bullets were only putting off the inevitable. My self-doubt reared its ugly head, but I’d listen to its reprimands later. Right now, I had to focus.
Out, my gut said. Get the fuck out.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” I said as he got up in my face, squaring off against me.
“You won’t,” he said, placing both hands on the barrel of the gun and wrapping them around it. He tugged a little. I held tight and dropped my finger back inside the trigger guard. His hands were around the slide. Would his flesh catch in it enough to prevent it from firing? The Blue Sense hit me with his devotion, love, and fury, and I thought Steve might risk a slide bite to save himself and his companion.
“Let go, Steve,” I said, then raised my voice to speak to the revenant. “I don’t want to hurt your DaySitter, Zorovar, make him let go.”
The revenant swung his stoplight-bright gaze at me, filled with no less murder than they had been. “Bring her to me,” he commanded thickly. “She needs to learn the Lesson of the crimson and ivory. You and I will teach it.”
Fuck.
“Yes, master,” Steve said, licking his lips.
Fuckanut. I slipped my finger onto the trigger but couldn’t afford to shift another muscle. If I fired, I thought he had a good chance of jamming the slide or jerking the gun off target one way or the other. Steve wasn’t giving me many options, here, and his revenant was not in a forgiving mood.
I was starting to tighten my finger on the trigger when the spicy perfume of rum and beeswax swelled and another voice filled the room.
Twenty-Two
“She certainly does hit on all sixes, Zorovar. Yes indeed, a choice bit of calico, this one. Stand down, Steven. Go on.” When he didn’t move, the new voice said, “Go chase yourself, kid.”
I didn’t dare take my eyes off of Zorovar or Steve, but I could see a figure moving into the room in my peripheral vision. Steve’s hands fell from the gun and his body language softened. I was in no way better off than I’d been, however — this newcomer brought with him an old void, something recently fed but perpetually hungry. Satisfied, but eager to explore the sweaty, panting new mortal in its territory.
Sounds began to filter back into my awareness — wind pressing against the old house, creaking and whistling in the rafters, Zorovar gurgling on the nectar in his throat, a low, distant roll of thunder. The new revenant’s footsteps, slowly circling behind me. Hard soles. The smell of damp wool and mildew. Something else, something uglier — old gore, dark sugar, and sweet, heavy, spiced rum.
Nautical Guy. This was the revenant I’d seen with Shakespeare, the one most closely involved in the smuggling, as I’d suspected. Just my luck. Niagara is crawling with dead guys.
He hummed low, and it took me a moment to peg the tune as he slid into the words. “Ten of the crew had the murder mark.”
I knew that one and hastened to sing for him, “Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum?”
He murmured, barely breaking the melody he'd been humming, pleased, or at least amused.
My sense of security oddly enough went up a notch, so I continued, glad I’d indulged Declan Edgar’s fondness for sea shanties so often. “There was cutlass swipe or an ounce of lead, or a yawning hole in a battered head, and the scupper’s glut with a rotting red — ”
His voice sweetened to a glorious tenor and rose in volume. “And there they lay, aye, damn my eyes, all lookouts clapped on paradise.” He dropped to a sad baritone. “All souls bound just contrary-wise.”
He was smiling, no fangs, dressed in tan hat and matching suit that was probably Prohibition era, though his bracers and shoes both looked somewhat worse for wear. I’d seen his face before, on the beach that first night, standing with Ghazaros in a Royal Navy uniform, shying from the mention of the cops. His skin was an interesting blend of pale but leathery, lined and weathered by the sun and sea, prematurely aging his skin before UnDeath had put a stop to it long before the era of suntan lotion, smuggling rum and who knew what else for centuries one way or another. I wondered if he'd dabbled in bootlegging in the American South, trading his schooner for a hot-rodded jalopy.
“So,” I said slowly, lowering the gun a tad, taking yet another educated stab. “Might I assume you’re the famous Rum Runner? Or are you singing pirate songs to mess with my head?”
“Bushwa. I’ve been called a lot of things, cookie, and none of them mean a thing,” he said, taking off his hat and holding it politely before him. “I hear they call you the Great White Shark of Psychic Investigation. How did that come about?”
“Some joke by a journalist,” I said, warily monitoring Zorovar. “Everybody likes a hero.”
He murmured something I didn’t hear, and took out a cigarette case, selected one, then offered the case to me. “Gasper, cookie?”
I shook my head no and quirked a smile. “So. About the hooch?”
“Known to supply a bit of giggle water here and there,” he admitted, lighting his cigarette with a gold lighter then tucking the matching case and lighter away. “Other things, too, as I get ‘em. Make my own way in this world, no four-flusher, me. ‘Sides, I like seeing a happy customer on a toot with more’n a jorum of skee, runnin’ to half-seas over. You know, good n’ spifflicated. Warmed up by a liquid quilt. Nothin’ wrong with that, is there, my bringing decent folks their joy?”
I narrowed my eyes. “It sounds like you might have a good point if I knew what the hell you were talking about. Have you met my companion? You two speak the same dialect of gibberish.”
“He’s a real egg, that Dreppenstedt fella,” he said around his bobbing cigarette while he thrust out his hand. “Bit of a bluenose, I hear, but boy, he’s got bushels of clams, bet that makes up for it. Roy Alvin Harvey, at your service.”
I immediately thought of him as Rotten Roy, but I wasn’t about to say so aloud. The words from “Fifteen Men” were still running through my head, all the way that the sailors were murdered, their heads cracked open and such. Ten fathoms deep on the road to hell, indeed. “Sorry about the hoopla, Roy.”
“Not your fault,” he said, indicating the wounded revenant with his cigarette. “Our Zorovar, bit of a flat tire.”
“This your place?” I asked, relaxing a bit.
He nodded and smoked, staring at me through the grey coils. I avoided his immortal eyes and focused on his chin. “A place to flop. What d’ya think of it?”
I cast my eye around, avoiding my victim and his caregiver. “Honestly? Your security could use work. You don’t rest in VK-Delta here, do you?”
“Is that genuine concern in your voice?” Roy asked, before a swift preternatural probe of my honesty showed him that it was. He smirked as he finished his cigarette. “Well, well. It is. Heck. You’re the kipper’s knickers, aren’t ya? Didn’t I tell you, Zoro?”
Borodian gurgled something that sounded derogatory around the slim corner of Steve’s shoulder.
Roy flicked his butt to the carpet and stepped on it with an old brown boot. “Knew it the first I clapped eyes on you. Let’s blouse, cookie. You like whiskey?”
“Uh.” I checked my watch. “It’s almost noon. Shouldn’t you rest?”
“You slay me. C’mon, I know a joint.” He started for the back hall with his hands shoved casually in his pants pockets, slouching into the darkness.
I’ll just bet you do. I put the safety on the gun and hurried after him, deciding it was safer to stick with Rotten Roy than his temporarily-chastened buddies. What would I do with a drunken sailor, I wondered morosely. I wished Declan or the Irish Rovers were around to advise me. And, on top of it all, I'd missed the early part of the morning. I eyeballed Steve and Zorovar and sidled after Roy, not turning my back on them until he pushed a false panel on the hallway wall, and the rickety set of steps leading down made my gut drop. “Mind your pegs, cookie, no lights down here. Follow the sound of my voice.”
He started to sing “Bully in the Alley” as he descended, low and bold in the dark, and I followed, thinking, I’m out of my mind (help me Bob, I'm bully in the alley) following a dead guy into a dark cellar (way-hey, bully in the alley) after I just shot up his buddy (bully down in Shinbone Al'). My foot hit the uneven dirt floor at the bottom of the stairs. There was a scuffle before me, and I felt cool skin reach back past my cheek. I flinched, and he chuckled.
“Just making sure you don’t run aground fumbling too near the wall. Don’t have to fear me. I’m everybody’s friend.” He paused in his serenade to clear his throat. “Your beau Dreppenstedt, he’s an Empath, yeah?”
I nodded, knowing he’d have no trouble seeing me in the dark with his preternaturally-good eyesight.
“Then you can Feel I mean you no harm,” he said simply, and moved ahead confidently through the pitch, singing again in a pleasant voice. “I bought her rum and bought her gin, way-hey, bully in the alley. I bought her wine of white and red, oh, bully down in Shinbone Al’.”
Thanks again to Declan, I knew the way-hey bits and I joined in, my voice tremulous in the tunnel, my nostrils picking up cool moisture, rotting wood, and dank corridors that hinted of further depths, though I couldn’t see a damn thing. Oddly enough, I trusted Roy wouldn’t let my step falter into danger — he wanted my company, and he would have it.
“Say, Roy, what does ‘bully in the alley’ even mean?”
His hand took mine to lead me when his singing would not, and he said, “Three steps up then we go left. Bully means feeling no pain, usually from being fairly zozzled.”
“Drunk?” When he went mmhmm, I added, “Thanks for translating.”
“Your fella, he don’t?”
I made a frustrated noise of affirmation. “How long have you been supplying happiness to humans, just out of curiosity?”
“Get a wiggle on, honey, I haven’t got all day like you do,” he reminded, hurrying me along. “Mind the doorknobs. Mustn’t jostle those. Vaults and Memorial Rooms and crypts. Other people’s money, tricky footing, and old bones, all best avoided, wouldn’t you say?”
Had this cheeky dude just confessed that there was not only cash money stored down here, but also revenants at rest? Urns of ash? He was boldly trusting, if that was the case, or maybe he’d read me well enough to know that I didn’t need to steal shit from him, Zorovar, or Ghazaros.
We turned another corner and started up a set of steps, these wider and spaced further apart, sturdier than the ones we’d descended. “You let me do the talking. Anyone asks, you don’t know from nothin’.”
“Not much of a stretch right now.”
He shhhhhhed at me as he pushed open another panel, this one leading into a slightly different dark hallway. My nose let me know it was definitely a far better-kept space than the one we'd left, redolent with rich smells of roasted beef and gravy and booze. Clinking of glasses and a chorus of voices layered over piano music. This hallway was wallpapered, or had been in the late 60's, judging by a manic, flowery print in olive, mustard, and rust. Roy motioned that I should leave the gun in the secret passageway.
I complied on nothing more than my gut feeling, and, checking the safety, set it down on the top step and slid the panel back into place. “What are we doing here, Roy?” I whispered, following him along the hall and then down some curving steps into the artificial light of a tavern. The bar was a wide plank set on barrels, with a line of glasses above. The
lights were propane, the mood quiet and tired. The floor was also made of wide, unfinished planks of wood that thumped under our feet. We were still underground in a windowless room. “Where are we?”
“Speakeasy beneath the Blind Tiger. I’ll have a cig, you’ll have a nip of white lightning, I’ll check out your chassis, we’ll punch the bag a bit, and I’ll walk you back.” He did a double-take at me and smiled crookedly. “Lookin’ a bit rough, cookie. Should have glossed you up a bit before we came.”
“Is this a date?” I asked wryly.
“Least you could do,” Roy said, “considerin’ you blew nectar all over my walls. Don’t suppose you know what a waste that is?”
A waste? I gave him some lingering side-eye that he smiled through. When the bartender waddled over, I couldn’t tell if he was undead or not — a first for me. He had good color and seemed to be breathing, but Harry could appear nearly living after a deep feed.
Roy ordered, “Brown plaid for the lady, sir. Shot of coffin varnish for myself, if you please.”
I took a stool beside Roy’s and watched him light another cigarette. Being in his company was profoundly comfortable; that alone should have made me suspicious. Try as I might, I couldn’t hear the warning bells. They simply weren’t inspired to ring for him. “Roy, I have questions.”
“Glorious. I may have answers.”
“Would you really give them to me?”
He smoked and smiled around his cigarette, clenching it between his front teeth in a way that made him look slightly feral. “I’m everybody’s friend.”
“What’s in it for you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
“How’s about the occasional pleasure of your company?” he suggested. “That would be cracking.”
It’s too easy. “Is Glen Strickland here? Is he going to be all right after what just happened?”