Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  “Woman,” he growled, and it made me grin.

  “Okay, okay.” I rolled my eyes grandly for him and sighed as though horribly burdened. “Fine. Tell me all the ways I’m great. Lay it on me if you must, Kill-Notch.”

  Batten made a guttural noise. “Why do I love you? You’re the worst.”

  The L-word hit me in the chest cavity, and I did my best to ignore it. “I am the worst, that’s more like it. Now, let’s get to the important business, here.” I pointed to his get-up. “Why were you dressed like a dime-store Merlin? Are they doing a Sorcerers' Wand night at Peppermints?”

  “You can’t figure out why I chose this disguise, and this place to lay low?”

  I gave it a second for the gears to turn. “Every revenant in town knows that she's a for-profit, entertainment-style psychic, not a real DaySitter... so nobody who knows anything would expect to find a real revenant here.” That led me to, “Wait, what’s the deal here? Are you going to make her a real psychic by Bonding as payment? You're going to pay your rent with fang service?”

  He showed me his cop face, giving away nothing. “Of course not.”

  I was alarmed by the rush of jealousy turning my veins into a hot swamp of misery. His calm tone didn’t do much to cool it down, either. “You’re sure?”

  “The idea sure seems to bother you,” he noted.

  “No, hey.” I shook my head and went back to gnawing on my sandwich, smacking noisily. “None of my goddamn business who you suck on.”

  “True,” he agreed.

  “You can suck this whole city for all I care.”

  “Sounds great,” he said. “Glad I have your permission.”

  “You don’t need my permission to suck it,” I retorted. “You’re not my problem. I wash my hands of you.” I turned my attention ostentatiously to the sandwich and took a big bite, chewing grandly.

  “Then why are you still here?”

  My mouth made several duck noises since my words were failing. Also, it was full of egg salad.

  “Duck hunting?”

  I swallowed, probably too soon, and really resented the lack of my glass of milk. “I’m not doing anything! I’m doing nothing.”

  “So, business as usual.” He sat forward. “I need to tell you something you’re not going to like.”

  “When's the last time you didn't?”

  “Malashock has a shady past.”

  I snort-laughed. “Shadier than being a vampire hunter?”

  “Three of Malashock’s partners have died on the job with her. In British Columbia. She’s reckless. Dangerous to be around. All three died within the first month.”

  “Well, brace yourself, pal,” I said, “cuz I need to tell you something equally disturbing.”

  “Hit me with it.”

  “Erik Shakespeare said it wasn’t possible, but I still think your grandfather’s soul might be trapped in a wheel of cheese. Colonel Colby-Jack Batten.”

  Batten stared at me with the flavor of long, unblinking disgust managed only by the undead. “Did I already mention you're the worst?”

  “Never hurts to remind me. Anyway, the good news is, your grandpa is cold-smoked, smells delicious, and would make a pretty interesting fondue.”

  Batten finally blinked.

  I smiled. “As opposed to those stinky-feet cheeses, you know?”

  “Why are words still coming out of your mouth?”

  I hadn’t had fondue in ages, and was now craving pretty hard. “Fine. Continue to reject my help. I bet Longshanks would be up for fondue.”

  Batten shook his head all the way down into his hands and then gave up on me and on life in general. I could tell by the slump in his shoulders.

  “The best news of all is,” I said, “if I can find out where his soul was stashed, we could get him out without damaging a living human body, or — ”

  “He’s not stuck in cheese!” Batten exploded, and I jerked back like I’d been hit by a blast of foul air.

  “Settle down, Pit Stains. You don’t know.”

  “I’ve heard rumors.”

  I sat up straight. “Is he stuck in a keg? Is that why the rum runner is involved?”

  “No,” he said. “What keg? What rum runner?”

  “Oh, you don’t know about Roy? He’s a real treat. Kinda cute, too. I’m trying not to like him. I think he mindfucked me between coffee time and scotch o’clock.”

  “Marnie...” He seemed more upset than he had any right to be, considering he’d dragged me here under false pretenses and pretended to be a psychic’s pet wizard. “A former DaySitter said that you-know-who likes to put the souls of his enemies into a dying neighbor. The trapped soul gets buried with the neighbor when they pass on.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that your grandfather might be buried in somebody’s dead body?” I lost my humor and my appetite again, and set the last of the sandwich down with a shudder. I remembered my dream about Vi and the colonel dancing in the cemetery. Had that been something other than fear and subconscious free-association double-teaming me?

  “Been researching neighbors in that area who passed away due to, most likely, this invasive phantasm feeding near his nest,” he said. “Would have been someone soon after it happened. Running into problems with the records, and could use Liv Malashock’s help. With a records search, nothing else, got it?”

  “Got it,” I said, mostly just to make his eye stop twitching.

  “But she can’t know it’s for a revenant. She’d never help me. She might help you.”

  “Then show some goddamn appreciation, and don’t be such a dick to me,” I suggested. “I came home to warn you, to have your back. You’re prickly as a dried up shit. This is why you lose every team you ever join.”

  Batten considered this as he drummed a fingertip on the table next to his empty glass of blood. “Guess so.” Then his lips pinched in to hold back a smile or a laugh, and he shook his head. “Trapped in cheese. Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “It was a valid hypothesis,” I mumbled. “I was working several angles. There are other issues.”

  He glared and waited.

  “Ghaz was threatening my brother’s life, or at least bluffing about threatening the lives of Wes and the entire Strickland line.”

  “Strickland prefers ‘hive.’”

  I shot him a look of disbelief — this man, until recently, had insisted on calling revenants ‘it’ and referring to them by the V-word. “Look what’s happened to you after death,” I noted. “You’re calling me out on rev preferences and political correctness?”

  “Miss fighting with you about everything.”

  “Well, you're still an asshole, so that checks out.” I settled back in my chair. “You-know-who is not the one feeding in that area in phantasm form. Neither is Ghazaros or Zorovar, they’re both active. But the list from Gold-Drake & Cross doesn’t show any other Sarokhanians of significant age.”

  “Another bloodline, then?”

  I made a sound that meant maybe but I wasn’t convinced. “Roy’s hiding someone who’s personally important to him.”

  “Roy the rum runner older than he seems? Is he the phantasm?”

  “Nah. He felt like he was Harry’s age, and Harry’s practically a baby compared to these other guys. Only truly ancient revenants sink into wraith state long enough to require phantasm feeds.”

  “Malas Nazaire was only four thousand.”

  “But Declan said the four is always a lie,” I reminded him. “So who knows how many thousands of years Malas is. He’s at least as old as Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, and nobody has an estimate on him.”

  Batten fell into deep thought and offered, “The Raven of Night.”

  I considered him, the lack of stubble on his chin, the way his lake water blue eyes had paled some, and what a startling effect that had when they were still framed by his long, dark lashes and dark eyebrows. His jaw did that clench and unclench, but when he shot me a smirk, I knew he’d done it on purpose for m
y entertainment.

  Entertainment. Hmmm. “Kim the psychic is your cover. She's a decoy.”

  Batten waited, clearly calculating.

  “You had the power, she just communicated.”

  “A little ruse.” Batten’s shoulder jogged up. “You know Harry likes to be theatrical. He was in a mood.”

  “Theater.” Something nagged me. “Playacting.”

  “What you got, Snickerdoodle?”

  I shook my head. “We have to backtrack. Something’s not right.”

  “Nothing is right about any of this.”

  “No, we’re not right,” I said. “We’re being led astray somewhere.”

  “By who?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek in thought. “Don’t you already know?” I shook my head. “You must. Check your gut. Do your things. The new psychic thing, the old intuition thing, the vamp bond thing, the cop thing. Something isn’t adding up.”

  “Most of it isn't adding up.”

  I shook my head again adamantly. Too many secrets. How many could I share? How many would I need to? I flipped up my thumb and began counting off on my fingers as I went. “Malashock is a hunter, never told me. Kimberley is a fake. Nyquist is not what he seems.”

  Batten made an okay noise to encourage me to continue.

  “There are smugglers here of all kinds of shit, going back centuries: the cheese shop smuggles rum into the States, the tavern smuggles cheese into Canada. The Soul Caller smuggles souls in other bodies. Maybe some of these other musty fuckers smuggled opium or silk or fucking hand-carved Norwegian dildos back when they were all buddy-buddy. Nothing there is exactly what it seems.” Kinship of the Departed, my mind teased. Pale Sister.

  And I hadn’t forgotten the break-ins back in Ten Springs, and that Pascal guy and his cold pen. Or Dr. Delacovias, up to his shifty-ass trickery. I was willing to bet his “vaccine” was not what it seemed, either. I told Batten about both, watched the same confusion settle over him that had been brewing in me for days.

  Finally, he said, “What the fuck, Marnie?”

  “Right?” I said, mirroring the way he was slouching in the chair now.

  “I hate all of this,” he said, but even as he did, I could see the line of determination in his upper lip and in the tightness of his jawline. Harry and Wes came back in to fetch me home, and they had some quiet words to exchange with Batten and Kimberley. The determination never left Batten’s face. He wasn’t ready to throw in the towel and back off.

  Neither was I.

  Twenty-Five

  After another feed in the Winter Room, Harry and I settled in for a snuggle. I laid my head on his shoulder and Harry stroked my peach-fuzz hair. “What troubles my pet?”

  I made a mrf sound.

  “I see,” Harry answered. “An astute observation on our times, to be sure.”

  “It’s just that he’s different.”

  “Our Lad? Yes. He is. He must be.” His pale hand played down the back of my neck. “He can no longer be the man he was. And yet, he is no monster.”

  “You sure about that?”

  Harry lifted an eyebrow. “How unkind, ducky. Unless you have a specific accusation to lay…”

  “Never mind.”

  “He has always been a killer,” Harry said, and I felt it was a cheap shot. Even if it was true. “If you chose not to see it before now, the fault lies with you.”

  Ouch. “Love is blind.”

  Harry stiffened.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Much to my great horror,” Harry said, “I do.”

  A text pinged. Malashock. Time to go.

  Harry nailed me with his knowing gaze, eyes soft chrome. I Felt his suspicion through the Bond. “Where might you going, dear?”

  “Just hanging out with my new bestie,” I said lightly.

  “Ms. Malashock is your new bee eff eff, is she?” Harry enunciated his distaste like he had a hair stuck to his tongue.

  “She’s cool,” I said, and was surprised to find I wasn’t even lying.

  “And you and Ms. Malashock wouldn’t be working on her case, would you? This phantasm of hers? After your encounter with Captain Harvey, I should think you’d have learned a lesson. You’ve been told more than once to take your leave of these unseemly proceedings.”

  We all know how well that works. “You said that you and Batten were going to handle the revenant nonsense,” I said carefully. “Have you changed your mind? Do you need my help, Lord Dreppenstedt?”

  “Of course not.” He narrowed his eyes, seeing right through me.

  “Good thing for you, because if you want my help now, you’re gonna have to ask nicely. You might even consider begging.”

  “A lord does not beg.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I sang.

  “If you’re not up to shenanigans,” Harry said shrewdly, “what exactly will you and your vampire huntress be doing this evening?”

  My eyes slid away from his, and I feigned great interest in the wallpaper pattern. Had Batten blabbed about Malashock, or had Harry already known? “Doing all the fun tourist stuff. I haven’t done that in a while, and I asked her to walk me through it like I was a first-timer. Seeing the Falls. Hittin’ the casino.”

  “Slots? Cards? Dice? You?”

  “I’m allowed,” I said. “I’m not precognitive. Maybe I'll have better luck with them than I do with, you know, people's infinite bullshit.”

  Harry nodded, appearing to consider the wisdom of a girls' night out. When he could find no reasonable objection, he surrendered. “Do not go looking for trouble,” he said tightly. “You will behave yourself. I do not intend to present myself to Prince Merzyan for explanations or apologies again.”

  “Yes, Harry.”

  “I trust you fully comprehend my wishes on this matter, my pet?”

  “I do. What if misadventure finds me? Shit happens, eh?”

  “Then do what you must to protect my DaySitter — only that, and not a stitch more.”

  I smiled at him and at the simplicity of my Cold Company’s demands, touched his pale face then stroked his chin with my thumb. “Yes, Harry.”

  He watched me get ready to go, his preternaturally sharp eyes taking in not only surface details but heat, sweat, pulse, body language, looking for trouble. “Pet?”

  I paused in the act of changing into heavier gloves. “Hrm?”

  “If you are deceiving me about your intentions,” he said slowly, “you’re getting dreadfully good at it. The very idea displeases me greatly.”

  I didn’t have to dispel a single ounce of guilt, not in the face of his and Batten’s utter rejection of my help, not this time. My conscience was clear, my belief in myself was high, and my determination was solid, so when I faced Harry and smiled brilliantly at him, I noticed his bafflement with a clinical, detached buzz in my veins. He made a fine portrait of a dominant figure marveling at the unraveling of his control. The Dandy’s Dismay. “You don’t have anything to worry about, my Harry. I don’t intend to keep secrets from you — no more than you keep from me.”

  His face darkened. “Oh, do be careful, my Own,” he whispered.

  I've met too many people who think that monster hunting is lots of chasing dangerous creatures with guns a-blazin’. Truth is, that usually gets you dead real fast. I did a lot of sitting around, watching, taking notes, eating doughnuts, and holding my bladder until my eyes swam. I mean, yeah, okay, I have done the guns a-blazin' thing a couple of times, but nobody should be asking me for advice on it.

  I couldn’t see Liv’s expression behind the binoculars, but the Blue Sense picked her up strongly — there was just not much to pick up. Malashock’s resting emotional state was flat and difficult to shift in any direction without monumental pressure or effort. Since I was always a whirlwind of chaos and mayhem on the inside, I found her quiet, solid nature reassuring. I attempted to adopt her serious focus in defiance of the emotional upheaval in my chest.

  We had
dropped Nyquist off a block from the casino to do his thing, whatever it was, found a place to park her van, and waited. “How do you know that Nyquist won’t bugger off again? He’s kind of a flake.” He’d shown up at our rendezvous without saying where he’d been or why he hadn’t answered anyone's calls or messages sooner. As geologists went, Nyquist wasn’t a terribly reliable one.

  “How is it that he even had favors to call in?” I asked her.

  “I pulled the string and called that contact of yours at Cross in Montreal. But I can’t show my face to a DaySitter. None of them trust me,” Malashock said.

  I didn’t particularly trust her either, not when it came to revenants. I figured she’d probably defend me against an attack, but only because she really liked dusting immortals. I popped open a massive box of Timbits, propped it up between us on the dashboard, and helped myself to a doughnut hole.

  “I’m not making anyone happy these days,” I confessed around a mouthful of honey-glazed dough.

  Liv grunted. “Making everyone happy is horseshit. Pick fewer than five people, focus on them. The rest can go fuck themselves.”

  “Five’s doable,” I lied. When she pulled back the binoculars to eye me skeptically, I said, “Five’s not doable. Could I start with one?”

  “Baby steps,” she said, returning to her surveillance. “Look at the bright side: there’s a fair chance you’ll get sucked dry and wind up an empty husk. Nothing will matter then. But you'll have made some vamp happy.”

  “What a relief that'll be,” I drawled, reaching for another doughnut hole.

  “Eat up, kid,” she said, as if I was younger than her or at least less mature. I didn’t object, since I could sort of see her point. “Might be our last meal for a while. Once we go — ”

  “I know, I know,” I said, “we might not come out alive. You only say this no-civvies-on-the-team shit in front of Longshanks, eh?”

  “I was going to say, once we start, we’re going to be all-in until we find what we’re looking for. If Nyquist can find out from my contact which tunnel might be filled with revenants and not boggles, we’re getting this job done in one stop. No more fucking around.” She adjusted the binoculars and swung them towards the valet parking stand. “Could be underground for hours, could be a few days. Not sure how far those tunnels go.”