by A. J. Aalto
Days? Days without coffee? I tried not to panic. “Would these tunnels have a Starbucks? A Timmie's? Some kind of caffeinated mushroom?”
Malashock made a noise that I chose to interpret as pensive, though if she was wondering anything, probably she was wondering how she wound up stuck with me.
“Will they have a bathroom?” I asked.
“Vamps don’t urinate.”
“Boggles do,” I said.
“Like animals. You know, on the ground. It's not like they're packing two-ply down there.”
“But I’m not an animal. What about me?”
“I’m not going to be responsible for keeping you comfortable. I’m not even going to be responsible for keeping you alive,” she answered. “Every woman for herself.”
“That’s a load of pure-blown assmist, Malashock,” I whispered angrily. “We’re a team. You, me, Indiana Nyquist, and Longshanks against Whatshisface and That Other Guy.”
“Who?”
“That’s what I’m calling the baddies, since we don’t know who they are.”
“Great. We're fucked, then.”
“Nobody cares how hard your life is.”
“And nobody cares whether or not you have a toilet,” she shot back.
“Really? Talk to me when you need to pop a squat in a dank tunnel full of boggles,” I said. “We’ll see who’s wishin’ she had access to a coffee shop then, won’t we?”
She diddled with the binoculars again and swung them back at the casino. “Won’t happen. I’m prepared.”
I shot her denim-clad ass a glance. “Are you packing an adult diaper?”
Her lack of response was all the answer I needed.
“You. Mad. Genius.” I settled back in the van’s passenger seat. “That’s dedication. I wish I’d thought of that.”
“Wishes are useless,” she said. “Do the work or don’t do the work. If you let your biology slow you down, you don’t get the work done.”
“You should write a self-help book,” I said. “How to Kick Ass at Monster Hunting, by Bad-Ass Malashock.” The Blue Sense sent me a wash of frustration and something darker from her direction, and I understood in a rush. “Biology has slowed you down before. Your body failed you in some way and…”
Her shoulders stiffened slightly.
Not just biology, her lady bits in particular, and it had cost her dearly. No longer wanting to be overly nosy, and sensing her pain, I didn’t probe.
“Doesn’t matter,” she clipped. “Won’t happen again.”
She was trying to pretend it was a small loss, that it was the cost of excelling at her job, and she’d been willing to pay it. I didn’t Feel like it would affect how she did her job right now, so I decided to leave the wound alone. If I picked, I knew I’d Feel her overwhelming sadness bubble to the surface, and that would suck for both of us.
I changed the subject. “Did I tell you what I read last week? According to this very reputable rag-mag headline, I not only found Bigfoot’s daughter, I am Bigfoot’s daughter. They didn't say whether Bigfoot was my mother or father, though, so I'm not sure which of my parents I need to break the news to.“
She didn’t answer that, but pointed out, “Another Range Rover, tinted windows; let’s see who gets out.” She was a ball of tension and her words ground from her as a result.
I offered, “You know, it’s okay to not know stuff.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Sure it is.” I shrugged. “I don’t know stuff all the time.”
“That’s fine for you.”
I smirked. “Because it’s already common knowledge?”
“No. It’s just…” She shook her head. I Felt a wave of psi that brought a one-two punch of shame, then anger. “You wouldn’t understand, forget it.”
“Explain it to me,” I said, checking my thermos. The van filled with the warm, sweet smell of brandy and espresso. “I’ll just sit here and listen.”
“I’d rather not,” she said. Again her shame swelled. She didn’t want me knowing the particulars of her vulnerabilities.
I shrugged once more to let her know she was off the hook. “You know, my ex used to get piiiiiissed at me when I didn’t know a thing. Just furious. Like I’m supposed to know everything? Harry does that too, sometimes, when I don’t understand his old-timey English jargon. It used to bother me.”
“I don’t need your therapy session,” she grumbled.
“I’m just sayin’, sometimes our expectations are too high.”
She swung around to face me, her hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. “If you don’t know shit in this job, you get killed. Or worse.”
“What’s worse than killed?” I asked. I knew a whole bunch of things that were worse, but wanted to hear what she had in mind.
She just shook her head and turned her attention back to the Range Rover.
“Did you not know something one time?” I asked. “Did it get you worse-than-killed?”
Her jaw clenched like Batten’s used to. Probably, it was to keep from admitting what it was, or maybe it was just safer than telling me off.
“I didn’t know about the potential treachery of old ladies once,” I offered. “Trust the cute old lady was always my go-to position. Because old ladies look like grandmas, and grandmas are sweet and nurturing. Except my Grandma Vi, who was a bit of a floozy and ditched her family to run off with a dead guy. But most grandmas are sweet, right? They bake cookies and knit you sweaters and give squishy hugs. I thought so. But do you know what happened?”
I had her attention, though she looked like she already knew where this story was headed.
“That treacherous old broad put roofies in my chai and tried to feed me to a lust demon. Moral of the story: not all grandmas are cute. Some of them aren’t cute at all.”
She deadpanned, “Thank you, Dr. Baranuik.”
“What I’m trying to say is, worry less about not knowing everything. And don’t worry about Nyquist. If he actually shows up, he’ll do fine. He’s just meeting someone. In public. In a busy diner.”
“He’s a rock collector,” she said, and for a moment, genuine worry creased her brow. Her cheeks colored pink. “A lab monkey. He doesn’t know what could be in there. I can’t let him get hurt. He’s my responsibility.”
Since Nyquist was some form of lycanthrope, I figured he might be able to handle himself. Breaking that news to Malashock might bet somewhat tricky, and I was still unconvinced that I should blow Nyquist’s cover. “Sometimes, people are stronger than you expect. Look at me, for example. I look like a wimp, but I’ve got some skills.”
“Let me get this straight,” she said slowly, dropping the binoculars again. “You’re a servant to a vampire and you’re a shape-shifting were-thing. Did you minor in mermaid while you got your PhD, too?”
Put like that, I wanted to sock her right in the gooch. Instead, I tried to remember how people skills worked. I told her the story of the werefox bite in Egypt and the mellified man, and Declan Edgar, my trusty dhampir companion, and the demon fight and the shape-shift, then showed her my cell phone with pictures of the scales I’d shed after the battle.
She looked at the picture. “If you were bitten by a werefox,” she said, “why didn't you turn into a fox? I don't think were-wyrms are a thing.”
“It was the most interesting form that popped into my mind at the time, and the biggest. I mean, I was huge.” I smiled. “I wasn't exactly nimble, but I didn’t know that before I shifted. Trying to move around totally sucked. Shift and learn, am I right?”
“Could you have chosen something different?”
I had considered this before, and assumed it was an option. “Probably some kind of fox, I guess. Other stuff went through my mind.” I recalled seeing harpies and mermaids and manticores, but didn’t feel comfortable talking about all that. “Um, a whole bunch of stuff. Some of it looked like it might have been cool, but some of them seemed like capital-B Bad Ideas, even to me.”
&n
bsp; “Have you tried?” she asked.
“I’ve tried not to. It’s… not comfortable. You ever had all your bones crack and reform at the same time? It sucks, like, a lot.”
That slowed her down some before she followed up. “Could you do it on purpose anyway?”
“What, now? In this van?” Motion in the parking lot caught my eye, shadows flitting, first one, and then a second. “Is that proper stakeout protocol? Are you — oh, whirling, twirling shit-parade.” I squinted through the night. Damn. The walk hit me first, set against the lights of the casino: a confident, no-nonsense stride full of predatory grace and self-assuredness. Batten. Had Harry blabbed my plans? That centuries-old snitch.
Malashock scanned the lot and pinpointed the shadow I was concerned about. “Rev?”
“Ugh. He’s here.”
“You know him?”
“No,” I lied, sulking.
Malashock nailed me with an astutely calculating glance that immediately diagnosed heartache, and shook her head at me. “You’ll be fine.”
“No I won’t, look at him! He’s magnificent.” I gurgled with disgust. “I hate that about him. But also, he’s a ne’re-do-well. Do you know what that means? Best not count on him to do well, cuz he’ll do the opposite.”
Malashock shot me a look that practically stripped the glaze off my Timbits.
“Oh, gaaaawd,” I said and crumpled in my seat. “I should have done a spell to help me resist his sexiness.”
She studied him. “He’s not that great.”
“Of course you don’t think so. You’re not a fan of many people.”
“I’m not. But I’m also seeing him without love goggles. He’s simply not as hot as you think he is.”
I shot forward. “Are you sure? Look at his ass.”
“I see it.”
“You don’t like it?”
She made a sound like meh. “It’s an ass.”
“You should see him naked.”
“You shouldn’t, right?” she said pointedly. “As for me, I’ll pass.”
“I should let him know I’m here. He won’t be happy.”
“You don’t need to tell him. He’s spotted us. Took him two seconds.”
I grimaced and shrank back in my seat. “Is he looking?”
“No. Do you want him to?” Her face softened and she sat back, mimicking my slouch. “Are you okay?”
“No, but I’ve been not-okay for years.”
“Having met you, this is fairly obvious.” She opened my thermos and sniffed, drawing back at the smell of brandy. “You knew this guy before he was turned?”
I nodded. I considered telling her that he used to be a hunter, but passed on that little nugget. The fewer people who knew the infamous Kill-Notch Batten wasn’t dead, the better.
“When he died,” Malashock said, “he did you a favor.”
Ouch. “Agreed. Because now I can shoot him and not worry about killing him.”
“You shot him? I thought you loved him.”
“That’s why I shot him!” I cried. “Haven’t you ever been in love before?”
“No.”
“That’s simultaneously the saddest and most awesome thing I’ve ever heard. And for the millionth time since I met you, I wish I was you.”
She snuck a look through the binoculars again, then set them aside on her lap. “Okay, Ms. Therapy Session, your turn. Don’t you have a responsibility to yourself to get the fuck over him already?”
“I’m planning on it.”
“And when is that slated for?”
“Sometime before my eighty-third birthday. Damn.” I watched him enter the casino without pausing at the security guy. It was like the guards didn’t even see him. “Look at that swagger. If I tried to walk like him, I’d pull a muscle.”
“You whine a lot,” she noted.
“Well, I’m sorry my heartache is fucking annoying, Liv. It’s annoying me, too.”
“I think you thrive on it.”
If that wasn’t a punch in the knockers, I didn’t know what was. “You bother me,” I reminded her. “When is Nyquist coming back out?”
“He’s not. When he sends the signal, we’re going in. He's supposed to be in the restaurant on the first floor with our contact. A DaySitter.” Just then, her cell phone vibrated; she glanced at it and swung out of the van. “Speak of the dirt devil. They’re ready for us.”
Twenty-Six
The sign just inside the door read “Seat Yourself” in swirly script, so I nodded at the waitress, and she turned to grab menus. We wove our way through the tables and I felt watched, though neither Nyquist nor the woman he was sitting with looked up.
“It would be better if I speak to her alone,” I told Malashock when we got close to the table. “DaySitter to DaySitter.”
Nyquist overheard me and took the hint, rising from his seat. He nodded to a booth for two partway across the opposite wall, and he and Malashock went there to give us some relative privacy.
“There is always a safe corner in the nest of the Raven of Night for you, sister,” I greeted formally, remembering the way Netta, a DaySitter from House Buryshkin, had greeted me at Skulesdottir. “Death Rejoices with me as I welcome you. I think that’s how it goes?”
My contact smiled and shrugged one slight shoulder. She was petite, with strawberry blonde hair tucked up in a high ponytail. Tiny pearl earrings studded her ears. She picked at a plate of French fries, dipping them daintily into mayonnaise two at a time. “I can never remember these things,” she said with a soft Quebecois accent. She extended her non-fry hand. “Danni Nazaire.”
I took it in my gloved one. “Marnie Baranuik, DaySitter to Harry Dreppenstedt. Thank you for meeting with me,” I told her. “I know we’re not exactly destined to be best friends.”
Danni showed me another little shrug, but the Blue Sense reported she was far less comfortable than she looked. “I didn’t see any reason to decline,” she said.
“Well, the alliance between our Houses often seems tenuous,” I offered. “I can never tell if we’re on solid ground.”
“None of the bloodlines of the Falskaar Vouras are,” she said with a sad chuckle. “Don’t know if you noticed, but old revenants are prickly. Every day, there’s a new war declared. I try not to pay attention.”
“Well, you could have said no because I’m a notorious shit disturber. Isn’t that a good reason?”
“Not good enough,” she said, and I liked her a bit more for that.
“Is that why you’re helping me? Because you don’t believe the hype?”
“I’m curious why you’re here. There’s some talk that you’re trying to track a victim of Aston Sarokhanian,” she said. “Colonel Jack Batten. You didn’t know him. Most of us just assumed he’d been killed, like so many other hunters. Your own FBI hunter, his grandson, is dead.”
That stung to hear, and because she was watching me so closely, I let my face show it.
She nodded, as though satisfied that she had an answer to a question she didn’t ask yet. “Are you carrying on his search for vengeance?” she continued. “Owe him a favor as a last request? Or are you just nosy?”
I tried to keep cool at the sound of Sarokhanian’s name, spoken aloud in public, and knowing Batten was somewhere close by. Anyone could have heard it, but she didn’t seem concerned. Perhaps Danni had a reason to be unafraid. Was her House in league with the local Big Bad? I attempted to mirror her laissez-faire composure.
“I’m not here to see Aston Sarokhanian punished,” I said honestly, and it seemed to satisfy her. “I'm a scientist, though some would argue otherwise. I’ve been fascinated by this soul-swapping Talent for ages. I can’t wrap my head around the details. Mark Batten would have been uncomfortable with me asking questions about it while he was alive, but now that he’s gone, I don’t see any reason to shy away from the subject. I was holding off on independent research out of consideration for his feelings. His grandfather’s own soul may have been taken.�
�
The waitress came to offer me a menu, and I turned my coffee cup upright for a fill. I watched Danni pop two familiar looking pills with her diet Coke; oxy-lipotropin, a synthetic replacement for the ms-lipotropin in a revenant’s saliva that kept the mortal brain pliant and happy. Ms-lipotropin withdrawal caused brutal headaches, and the synthetic version could buy her some time while she and her companion were apart. That told me that her revenant, whichever Nazaire he was, wasn't local. She was a Nazaire DaySitter, and possibly even married to one, as she was using the surname, but she was probably not Ludovic Nazaire’s advocate here in Niagara.
“Why can’t you grasp it?” she asked. “I understand you witnessed the soul stealing of a bokor. Someone working for Malas Nazaire, was it?”
I sighed. “It seemed the other way around. Spicer was building zombie-revenant hybrids to work as free labor. He manipulated Malas into helping him by offering to make female hybrids that might not rot so that Malas could have eternal company.”
Danni sipped her drink and considered me over the rim of the glass. “I wouldn’t be too sure that Malas can be manipulated.”
“Oh?” I leaned forward. Malashock’s instincts had been right on this — a DaySitter related to a chatty revenant like Ludovic Nazaire had all the best gossip. I would have to throw Liv a high five later. “How do you figure?”
“If a Nazaire wants female company, he can easily attain that. The telekinesis can change the ebb and flow of chemistry in the mortal body, including hormones; they're just molecules, after all, aren't they, Doctor Baranuik?” I had a brief, angry flash at the echoes of Delacovias' patronizing tone, and attempted to muzzle it. She continued, “And Malas has created a female revenant before.” She shot me a knowing look. “You made her Queen.”
“He had help,” I said, meaning Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, though it was still unclear which revenant had been ultimately responsible for Remy’s turning. Still, it gave me a lot to think about, and looking back on the Spicer incident, Danni might be right. What the hell had Malas been up to at the Ashcroft mine? Was it over, since he’d lost the help of the bokor? Now that he had Declan Edgar to roam the earth with, watching over him, I wondered — had Malas’ little project been a passing fancy or a lifelong dream? “John Spicer used a bunch of questionable methods to take souls, to enslave bodies, without alerting Death to claim them.”