Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  “I don’t need you to — ”

  “Where’s Mitch Dunlop?” I demanded.

  He stared at the tips of his boots like they were a threat he had to monitor. He had to have known the question was coming. Dunlop had been at North House, but he wasn’t here at Kimberley’s House of Trickery. There was a reason for that.

  “You remember him,” I prodded. “Troy police department. BFF bros? Helped you quite a bit after you were quietly shipped home by Carole-Jean. He was up here with you. Ride or die, right? And, well, since you died, that made him ride along, huh? Combat Butler said there were cups in the sink. And you no longer drink your coffee.” I aimed an accusatory glance at the cup I'd swiped from him. “Where is Dunlop now?”

  “Marnie — ”

  “Mark,” I whispered. “Please, please tell me you didn’t kill him.”

  “No!” he choked, but he wouldn’t look at me.

  “It’s quite common for the new-dead to lose control if their hungers aren’t slaked consistently and their rest isn’t carefully monitored. You wouldn’t have been able to foresee a loss of control.” I remembered how Wes snapped when Neil Dunnachie attacked the cabin with fire, and I shuddered.

  Batten still wouldn’t look at me. “Is Dunlop alive?” I asked.

  He nodded, his head lowering even further, and through the House Bond, the shame and self-loathing damn near swallowed us both. He didn’t have to tell me. I could fill in the blanks. He'd unwillingly vamped-out and attacked the mortal trying to shield and protect him. The one completely mundane person in the world that he trusted and depended on. And Dunlop had either left on his own, rethinking the wisdom of staying at Batten’s side, or Mark had ordered him to go.

  Batten couldn’t hide the cold wash of loneliness that sluiced through the House Bond, then, and I really wished he was still a psychic null for me. My urge to smother him with protection and care, amplified by both the metaphysical effects of being a DaySitter of his bloodline and our shared history, yanked all the strings in my gut into a tight knot. I slipped off a glove, reached over tentatively to his hand, resting on the bench, and covered it with my own. He was cool to the touch, and though the Blue Sense yawned open uncomfortably and showed me all his miseries, I didn’t pull away. He needed to share his pain. What Batten needed in that moment mattered more to me than my own discomfort.

  “You still have help. Just reach out for it,” I said softly. “You don’t have to do this alone. You never did.”

  He nodded in silence. Batten had never allowed himself to mourn the great influence of his life, Colonel Jack. He’d always held the firm belief that the Soul Caller had crammed the colonel’s spirit into another vessel, and that if he simply tried hard enough, was a good enough hunter, a good enough detective, that he could find and free his grandfather. I wondered if he imagined some grand reunion, pictured it over and over for years, how it might play out. It hadn’t occurred to him until now that Jack Batten might really be gone, had been gone all this time, and there was nobody waiting as a reward for his one-man crusade.

  I'd felt a lot of things for Batten over the years, but this was the first time I’d ever pitied him.

  “Are you prepared to look at the possibility that you-know-who didn’t put your grandfather’s soul anywhere? That he couldn’t? That when you busted into his nest to stake him, the soul-leech was implied or faked to keep everyone intimidated and in line?”

  “Don’t want to,” he said briefly, and then shot me a sad smile. “Definitely don’t want to. Might not have a choice.”

  “Tell you what, Hunkypants,” I said, patting his hand gently. “I’m going to gather more information. I’m going to find out what the hell is going on with this phantasm feeding business. I’m going to figure out what’s up with Nyquist. I’m going to poke around at the boggles, and what might be lurking behind them in those tunnels, even if I have to bust down some grates. When I do, if the Sarokhanians are involved, I'll — ”

  “Names,” he warned.

  “If the jimjam slurper who possibly can’t slurp is involved, then we’ll deal. You and me. Together. Because you’ve got me, dipshit.” I leaned forward. “Furthermore, it may surprise you to know that you’ve got Harry. Why do you think he’s helping you hide? Why do you think he’s funneling money for your support through Miss Shiny Skirts? For kicks?” I accepted that this might be part of it with a shrug and he snort-laughed, sharing my acknowledgment of Harry’s whims and humor. “Harry never wanted you dead. Harry never even wanted you gone, despite all his protestations. He loves to have you around to complain about and to needle. He gets enjoyment from you, bizarre as that may be. Harry is a hedonist. If it feels good, he wants to wallow in it. I mean, I don't know if voyeurism or cuckoldry is an actual kink of his, or if he's just getting off second-hand through the Bond like Asmodeus does.” I tried to steer for safer territory. “He enjoys the drama and angst you bring him almost as much as he enjoys putting you in your place. He finds little ways to keep you around even as you challenge and infuriate him.”

  Batten arched a brow at me dubiously.

  “He gave you his Veyron to keep you in Colorado,” I pointed out. “That was his baby.”

  “Where is my Bugatti, anyway?”

  “Chapel ended up executor of your estate, so he gave it back to Harry. Someone hadn't bothered to put together a fucking will, despite being, you know, in a dangerous line of work. Harry's the only one who wouldn't get kicked in the dick paying the insurance on it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And despite what you think, Harry drained you so nobody else could. I think he did it in order to control and buffer the pain, and maybe give you a chance at surviving, somehow.”

  Batten’s flash of guilt confirmed it — almost everything had worked out the way he’d planned, except I don’t think he’d expected Remy Dreppenstedt to be the one to turn him. I wanted to lay into him for not doing what he was supposed to, so he might have known about her, but it wasn't going to do either of us any good. Now, Batten was struggling not with the dual-Talents of House Dreppenstedt, but with a whole suite of Talents offered by the only female revenant in existence. Since Remy had nine immortal powers, no one – except possibly Remy herself – knew how many Batten would inherit. No male revenant on record had more than two, and that was for the best, really; the Falskaar Vouras did enough damage with what they had. But no male revenant had ever been turned by the queen, either. It was too soon to tell what Batten would be capable of, though I suspected Harry had picked up some clues. Picking Harry’s brain would make for some enlightening fireside chat if we got out of this.

  “We need answers,” Batten said. What he meant was he needed answers, and he was coming around to accepting that I was going to be on hand if those questions were being answered now.

  I drained Batten’s coffee dregs and grimaced at the cool bitterness. I had to get an audience with this Ludovic guy without a were-geologist or anyone else spooking him. Friggin’ monsters, I thought, never there when you want ‘em, always there when you don’t. But then a whole different sort of preternatural creature filled my mind, followed by the memory of a warm laugh and a jolly Irish disposition, reminding me that not all unexpected monsters were bad.

  Batten gave me some side-eye that had nothing to do with his coffee. “Think that again.”

  I jerked. “Did you hear it?”

  “Not… hear.” He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I thought I saw someone familiar.”

  I pulled up the face in my mind again, and Batten’s face reacted with a grimace and confusion. “Declan?” he said. “The dhampir? Your replacement?”

  “Doctor Edgar was my assistant, not my replacement.” I pulled out my phone, slapping it in his hand. “I’m assuming Mitch Dunlop bought you a burner phone before he got scared off and ran? Put your number in there. When I call, you answer. We do this together and we do it right. No more fucking around. We need help.”

  “We need
the right help,” he clarified, his eyes flashing an eerie light blue-green. Every brush of anxiety set him to vamping out, as Wesley would call it, and Batten hadn’t yet mastered how to cool down quickly, and control it before it controlled him.

  “Easy, fella.” I shoved my phone at him again, and he took it reluctantly. He punched in his number as “Dennis.” I added “the Menace” and gave him an annoying, blaring car-horn ringtone. “Now, make me a coffee to go before I leave. Your super-psychic girlfriend has more coffee, right?”

  He rolled his eyes at “girlfriend” and gave a tolerant grunt as he disappeared into the apartment and returned with a plastic travel mug smelling of store-brand java. “Keep me in the loop.”

  “Okay, but I mean it,” I said, taking the coffee. “When I say come, you come.”

  Batten’s brow arched and he dug in his cheek with his tongue to put off saying something he’d regret. I heard what I’d said, got warm in the cheeks, and blurted, “I mean… you know. Listen to me. Trust me. Do as I say for once in your fuckin’ un-living life. Got it?”

  Batten shook his head, but I thought it was less of a “no” and more an expression of I-can’t-believe-it’s-come-to-this, and a disappointed I-don’t-want-to-need-you that I was quite familiar with. I had a passing urge to shoot him in the ass again, and the fond memory of doing so danced through my mind.

  Batten stepped back. “Yeah, yeah. Okay. Go.”

  “Sure you’re not telepathic yet?” I asked. When he avoided my eyes again, I went hmph. I texted Mr. Merritt to ask if he minded picking me up, and motioned to the sidewalk with my head. “I’m going to wait for my ride outside. You okay with that? Worried about some creep kidnapping me?”

  “Anyone who kidnaps you deserves it,” Batten said seriously.

  Point: Batten. I smirked. “You’re damn right. Keep your head down.”

  The mid-evening traffic of Niagara Falls zoomed by noisily or stopped entirely by turns, and I kept myself tucked against the store front to stay out of the teeming sidewalk, jammed with tourists even at this late hour. I fished my phone out of my pocket and made with the dialing.

  When he picked up, the sound of his voice instantly warmed me. “Hello?”

  “Yo, Irish!” I said.

  “Oh, jumping Christ, what’s it now?” Declan moaned.

  “Calm yer tits,” I said, laughing. “I just wanna run a heckin’ good plan by you.”

  “Whatever it is, Dr. B.,” he said, “your plan is shite.”

  I grinned, holding the phone next to my face and wishing very much that I could reach through it and hug the dhampir. “Damn, I miss you.”

  He made a pleased sound. “How lovely.”

  “How’s life overseas?” I asked.

  “My mother has wings and Manflay Bonehack stole all my macarons.”

  “Queen Remy grew wings and kept the troll?”

  “The wings rather confirm her Dreppenstedt origins, I thought. And Manflay is working on Captain Rask’s ship. He seems to thrive on the open waters. He fishes up frost wyrms and makes chowder.”

  “Blerg.”

  “It’s actually quite tasty. Anyway, Malas and I are in the south of France, now. He’s bought a grand chateau east of Marseille. I guess I shouldn’t complain, but even Nice is boring after a while.”

  “So you’ll be glad to listen to my plan…?”

  “No no. La la la la la,” Declan said, “I can’t hear you, la la la.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that.”

  “There’s that Baranuik spirit. I’m mad for it. Can’t get enough.”

  “C’mon, Irish. It’ll be an experience.”

  “Everything’s an experience, Dr. B., but this isn’t a good one.”

  “You haven’t even heard it yet,” I objected. I felt Batten’s energy hovering not far away, and wondered if he’d found a good spot to eavesdrop.

  Declan paused. “Do I want to?”

  “Probably not.”

  He chuckled, a warm sweet sound that always reminded me somehow of melted caramel. “Does it involve any vampire hunters?”

  “More than one. To be precise, two.”

  Declan made a long, burdened gurgle of dismay into the phone. “Oh, Dr. B., you didn’t…”

  “I never did!” I squawked, assuming he meant sex. I briefly contemplated a threesome with Batten and She-Batten, mostly to fuck with Kill-Notch if he was eavesdropping psychically, too. Then I had to stop picturing it, because it was scary.

  “Ha!” Declan covered his phone for a moment then returned. “Malas sends his best.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise slightly with a rare jolt of optimism. “Does he? Really?”

  “You might be surprised to learn that his memories of you are… selective.”

  “Why does that worry me?”

  “He’s under the impression that you adore him.”

  I choked on my coffee and it dribbled down my chest. “You made me spit coffee on my boob.”

  “You’ve not changed a bit.”

  “Have so,” I retorted. “I’m recovering from being bald. My ghost hair has stopped haunting me.”

  “Fair enough,” he said. “That is a change, even if it doesn't come entirely as a surprise.”

  I chuckled. “Not that he’s not super-nifty and all, but would you be so kind as to remind me: when, how, or why do I adore Malas?”

  “I was told a story about a party and people dressed in animal costumes? You defended him with your very body? He remembers you being fiercely protective. His knight in squirrel-suit armor, apparently.”

  “Oh, Dark Lady, have mercy,” I moaned. The memory of his ghastly body lurching up the stairs and settling into his throne, his unsettling gaze falling on me, and all the bloodshed that came afterward was one I’d conveniently shunted to a dark corner of my brain.

  “In any case, Dr. B., House Nazaire is firmly in hand,” he said. “If you need anything — ”

  “I do,” I said excitedly. “That’s why I called. Would Malas put a good word in for me with Ludovic Nazaire in Niagara Falls?”

  Declan made a long, uncertain noise. “A good word regarding what?”

  “I need Ludovic’s insights. He knows I’m sniffing around, but I’m not sure he trusts me. Our first meeting got torpedoed by an unexpected werewolf.”

  “Unexpected werewolves are not good. I thought the US had rules about lycanthropes working with humans?”

  I spared Dr. Delacovias a sour thought. “On account of being unpredictable and sometimes-man-eaters? This one passes as human, though. For the most part. And he doesn’t attack people.” I hope. “Look, I wouldn’t ask, but you know it’s much easier to approach a revenant if he knows you’re for-sure friendly.” Old revenants tended towards pessimism due to centuries of experience dealing with mortals, and who could blame them? “Would you mention Ludovic to Malas for me, and see if Malas would be willing to speak well of me? Since I adore him and all…”

  “Of course I will, Dr. B.”

  I smiled, not wanting to hang up yet. “You’re deeply missed,” I repeated.

  “As are you, my friend,” Declan said on a sigh. “I’ve not had any adventures in your absence. Very dull indeed.”

  “When are you returning to this side of the pond?”

  “I go where Malas leads,” was his non-answer, though it held no small amount of wistfulness. “I believe he plans to move on soon. He tires easily lately and is somewhat blue.”

  “Malas is depressed?”

  “I wouldn’t say depressed, I would say he lacks purpose, challenge, focus. He’s a moody sort at the best of times, to be honest. UnDeath hasn’t exactly made him perky. It’s difficult to interest or amuse someone his age, after all. Not much in the way of novelty.”

  “Are you saying Malas is bored out of his undead skull?” I asked, thinking of Harry’s headboard, inscribed with “What is there left to do but play?” Perhaps Malas needed a project. “Wish I could help.”

  “Glory,
no!” Declan cursed, “I don’t think he needs that much amusement.”

  I snorted, spotting the hearse in the approaching traffic. “Point taken. My ride's here. Thank you for the support. Take care of him, Declan. And yourself.”

  “Be careful, Dr. B. Give my best to our mutual friends, will you?”

  I laid my gloved hand on the passenger door handle and glanced at the apartment window above the trinket shop and psychic office; the blinds fell into place where they had been slightly parted. “I will.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Harry was decidedly gloomy that evening, lounging by the fire in his grey flannel suit, no ascot, no top hat, no shoes. I eyeballed his argyle wool socks suspiciously. When Harry wasn’t wearing his shoes or his house slippers, shit was pretty bad. He’d put a 78 on his vintage Victor-Victrola, and I wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if the machine was older than Mr. Merritt. Billy Martin’s voice spun through the ages to croon at us about dancing around the floor, but Harry stared moodily at the fire — he was in no mood to dance. Mr. Merritt offered refreshments, but Harry didn’t seem to hear him. I passed on espresso, thinking I might just slump off to bed.

  My cell phone buzzed in my back pocket and I whipped off a glove to poke at it. It was a too-long-to-read message from Carrie, informing me that my Cold Company had been seen multiple times in Virgil, and that she was starting to suspect undead shenanigans were afoot. She outlined her observations in point form, one after another, each more unbelievable than the last. I was about to confront Harry when my phone vibrated again.

  A text from an unfamiliar number. What was written there made my eyebrows lift even higher. “Uh, Harry?”

  My Cold Company swung his attention to me from the fireside, and I turned my phone to face him. He read aloud, “I am expecting you. LN.”

  The next text to follow was an address in Queenston Heights between Niagara-On-The-Lake and Niagara Falls.

  “He did it,” I said, relieved. “Declan did it. I asked him to get me an audience with Ludovic Nazaire, and he did it. Amazing.”