by A. J. Aalto
Batten stared at me unblinkingly, in that unnerving was only the undead can pull off. He finally asked tightly, “Then what?”
“Plan A was: then I report it.”
“To who, Marnie?”
I resisted correcting him to whom, partly because I wasn’t sure whom was the right word, and partly because his eyes were starting to bulge like they might explode. I didn’t want to be responsible for that. “Report it to someone in authority or some undead jackass. Consider my report complete.”
“What,” he said through his teeth, “was plan B?”
“Um.” I scratched behind my ear. “Find the Exile: check.” I searched his face for approval but was rewarded with some jaw clenching. “Remove him from the area and ship him overseas: not yet check, but I’m working on that. And I don’t see why I’m not getting at least half a point, here. I’ve done all the legwork and not a single person has died yet!”
His bug eyes went away but were replaced by a narrow glare that was just a different flavor of disapproval. “Hardly seems like a Marnie caper without at least one death,” he said.
“Might be a record for me,” I agreed.
“No stabbings? No demons? No shapeshifting?”
“I hardly ever do that,” I said with a sniff.
“No shootings?”
“Okay, yeah, I shot someone. But it was in self-defense, and they were a revenant, so that only half-counts.”
Batten pinched the bridge of his nose and I swore I could hear his teeth grinding.
I stared glumly at the inscriptions on the tombs, trying to puzzle my way out of this, and hugged myself to keep the shivering under control and avoid looking at him.
“No rampaging phantasm? No angry tomb guardia — ” He lurched to a stop, cutting himself off. “Huh.”
I stood, hoping I’d clue in quicker if I was standing beside him, staring up at the lanterns like he was. His jaw did its thing, and I tried that, too. It didn’t help.
“What exactly would happen if these two woke, released, at full power?”
I did a quick calculation. “Do you mean besides me dying?”
“Say they were fully fed.”
My eyes cut to the door. “I couldn’t possibly predict. Sounds like a really bad idea, though. Moving them while fully sedated like this is a much safer plan.”
He cut his eyes at the ceiling and its canned inhabitants. “And what did you say about those things?”
“The lanterns? The Soul Caller’s company?” I stared at them, pushing aside my emotions about them so I could think clearly. Easier said than done. “Their proximity to the Soul Caller reassures him that he’s where he belongs. Keeps him snuggled down in wraith state, nice and compliant.”
“If he didn’t feel safe?” Batten prompted.
“He’d be restless,” I said slowly. “Unsettled. Uncomfortable. Alerted to a problem.”
“Even as deep as he is?”
I wasn’t sure; normal VK-Delta was deep enough rest that revenants required DaySitter protection, but I was no expert on the mechanisms of the Soul Caller or how he chose to feed via phantasm while lying in long term wraith state. It was probable that he cast his phantasm out into his feeding grounds, but never inspected the surroundings of his casket, relying upon the feeling of security and familiarity provided by his soul lanterns and the perpetual company of his buddy, Hervi. “That’s possible,” I told Batten.
“Is Hervi comfortable because Sirekan is?”
“They may be something of a couple, yes,” I said, considering the long history of Malas Nazaire and Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, who began as hunting companions several thousand years ago, and who had a longstanding dependence upon one another that went deeper than mortal relationships. “If Sirekan became restless, Hervi might pick up on it.”
“If we released the souls, what then?”
I saw where he was going with it. If the Soul Caller lost his security blanket, would he stir to find out why? “We can’t send the souls to Heaven, if that’s what you’re thinking. Only he can do that. All we could do is crack the lanterns, but glass isn’t keeping these souls here, Batten. Magic is. His magic.”
“You can’t banish them?”
A jolt of cold horror made my core temperature dip even further and I shuddered hard. “Banishing kidnapped souls of innocent victims with borderline unfriendly magic? Dude, I’m just gonna say it: using dark magic in here seems like something I would fuck up.”
“You would absolutely fuck it up,” he agreed, but then brightened and turned on me with more enthusiasm than I’d seen in ages. “But,” he raised a finger in the international sign for But wait, there's more! “You’re very annoying.”
I screwed up my face at him. “Um, wow. Thanks?”
Batten laughed happily, and put his chain-mail gloves back on, gearing up for renewed battle. I watched him go back and forth, mystified at his shift in behavior.
“You said that like it was great news,” I told him.
“Plan B, part two: I break the lanterns, you annoy the souls,” he said.
I rushed over, horrified. “How do I annoy the souls?”
“Just be irritating. I have complete faith in you.”
“Am I dealing with an insane vampire right now? Is that what this is? You're possessed by the spirit of an even bigger jackass, somehow?”
“Revenant,” he corrected.
“And I'm the annoying one?” I said with a moan. “Oh, Dark Lady. I’m gonna die in here, aren’t I?”
“I need you alive as part of the plan.”
“Oh, good,” I said sarcastically. “I’m super-reassured by that.”
“Stand clear and let me open this vault up.”
I craned up at him. “Really? Is this also part of the plan? Gonna hulk out and bust the door open?”
He nodded once, firmly.
I put my back to the corner of the far wall. “Hot. Do that. Use the shock-and-awwww-yes. I’d do it, but I’m not sexy enough. I’ll sit back here and ogle you. Make sure to flex your butt to brace your stance.”
Batten favored me with a dour look.
“That's what Hood says when we spar!” I objected.
“Listen,” he said sternly. “We bust open the door. We clean the silver off the tombs. We unhook the tubes and reverse them.”
I looked at the lab set-up. There were enough flasks and hoses that we could probably rig something up. “You want to put the nectar back into the revenants, like siphoning gas into their tank.”
“Supplementing an emergency feed, or at least slowing their drainage. Then, I crack the lanterns. You annoy the souls, they alert Sirekan that something is off. He rises, Hervi rises. They can get out, because their tombs are clear, but we’re long gone, because the vault is open.”
It wasn’t the worst plan, though supplementing them with their own nectar wasn’t going to allow them to return to full waking strength. I wasn’t clear about exactly how I’d annoy the souls, either, but irritating the shit out of people was definitely in my skill set. I nodded hesitantly at him.
Batten studied the door with determination, then backed up to gain speed, warmed up his hands by making fists, and prepared his neck by turning side to side. It was cute because he didn’t realize he didn’t need to do any of that shit now that he was immortal. Encouraged by his renewed resolve, I did my best not to smile at his preparations, regardless of how adorable they were. He rolled one broad, meaty shoulder. Then he flung himself bodily, blinking through space, a blur before me, colliding with the chain-riddled vault door like a side of frozen beef dropped from the CN Tower.
The chains rattled but the door didn’t budge. He didn’t seem surprised when he rebounded from it, finding his balance, but I was.
“What the fuck was that shit?” I barked. “Your damage-per-second is terrible.”
“It’s heavy,” he said, bristling. “And, in case you hadn't noticed, there’s silver shit all over it.”
“You yanked it shut easi
ly enough,” I replied. “Harry could have knocked that thing down by rolling his eyes at it.”
“Not helping.”
“Seriously, I’m barely exaggerating. He once glared at the bedroom door and it slammed.”
“Harry,” Mark said tightly, “is four hundred years older than me. He's had time to practice. Besides, he's not a telekinetic, that's the Nazaire Talent.” He smirked. “He probably just shadow-stepped there and back before you saw him close it the old-fashioned way.”
Point: Jerkface, but I wasn't going to let him win that easily. “You've got preternatural strength and who knows how many Talents, even if you totally suck at using them. It should be easy-peasy,” I said. “All right, granted, I’m sure the silver is messing you up. Maybe the door is loaded with the same cross nonsense as these tombs? You know, just in case the Exile somehow escapes one barrier, he’s stopped by another. I mean, that would be smart.”
“Can’t you strip all this?”
“Strip it?” I scrunched my face. “How are you imagining that I would strip it?”
He wiggled mystical witchy-fingers in my direction.
I snorted. “Sure, lemme just get some basil and oregano and I’ll be all over that.”
“Then shapeshift, for fuck’s sake.”
“I can’t just do it on command!”
“Come on, babe, I’ve seen you do some freaky shit.”
“Are we still talking about witchcraft, or do you think I'm gonna huff and puff and fuck the door down?”
The realization that I had limits brought Batten up short. He didn’t stop cursing for a solid minute, pacing back and forth in front of the sarcophagi.
“I can at least take some the chains off.” I strode forward and grabbed the nearest one, tugging hard. The chain dug into my gloved hand, but otherwise, nothing happened. I gave another yank, bracing my feet and leaning my weight backward. The chain rattled against the vault door but held. I grabbed a different chain and pulled. Nada. I stepped back and stared up at the door, studded with crucifix-inscribed nails affixing yard after yard of chain, and frowned, wishing I still had the bolt cutter or at least the gun.
Batten growled in frustration, and unlike all the other times he’d growled at me, this time it raised goosebumps. I whispered curses, my breath fogging the cold air, and circled back to the raised tombs, examining the engravings.
“This French?” Batten asked, pointing at an inscription on the sarcophagi.
“He Will Gather Nations,” I translated. “Well, that’s not grandiose at all, eh? Man, what a cool thing to say about a guy. I wish someone would say that about me. Hey, maybe I did gather nations. After all, I made a Queen. How ‘bout that? I should put it on a t-shirt: This bitch gathered nations.”
“The Hervi one has an inscription, too.”
I read, cocked my head, worked it through with my rusty, half-remembered conjugations. “In His Wake Fall the Frozen Tears of Trespassers. Double fucking yikes with a capital Y. Are we trespassers? Is he — oh no.” I thought immediately about Pascal and his frosty pen and his snooty warning about trespassing. Then I thought of how sitting next to Rotten Roy, I had asked about the air conditioning, since it had seemed super-extra mega-chilly. Then I thought of Ludovic’s other warning. (“Fear the cold reaper.” Oh, I will, Ludovic. Trust me.)
Kill-Notch went hrm but he was miles ahead of me. “We let these guys out, they wreak havoc?”
“I’m not entirely sure they’ll limit their targets to those who have wronged them,” I said softly. “Worse, I think Mr. Hervi here might be a big concern.”
“More concerning than a pissed-off, primeval immortal who can suck your soul out?” Batten deadpanned.
I saw his deadpan and raised him one of my own. “Yes.”
He scoffed but those sharp eyes of his calculated. “Explain.”
“Someone warned me to fear the cold reaper. Frozen tears of trespassers. This guy’s frosty.”
“He’s undead,” Batten said. “Trust me when I say we’re all frosty.”
“This guy’s ice cold, and not in the white boy 90's hip-hop kind of way. I think he’s cryokinetic,” I said. “Every immortal emanates a little bit of chilliness, but around Rotten Roy, I felt extra cold. I thought the speakeasy had the a/c on. Roy laughed at me.” I paused, frowning at the sourness of the memory. “And that night, I couldn't warm up. And this Pascal guy, with the cold pen… Pascal must be Roy’s DaySitter.” I briefly explained my encounter with Pascal, adding, “If we wake Master Hervi up to release him, he could suck up all the heat like a Hoover and I’ll die of acute hypothermia. As for you, well, I don’t really know what would happen to you, frankly.” I thought of Wes and Harry going feral, and with their last ounce of sanity, throwing themselves into the icy depths of Shaw’s Fist to put themselves in semi-stasis. Would waking Alvar up throw Batten and every other revenant around him into a hypothermia-like torpor?
“There’s got to be a way of moving these two a safe distance away from the sick civilians, out of this neighborhood, without setting them free.” I heard a dry rustling sound as Batten started to answer me. “Shhh. Listen.”
I stared at the closest tomb and held my breath until I heard it again. A bony rattle. A linen shift. Overhead, the lanterns swung as if given a shove by a breath of wind, and the chains rattled softly. Some of the lantern lights briefly brightened.
I shot one finger at the vault door and mouthed to Batten, Work on that. I began a slow circle of the stone tombs, problem-solving while Batten tried to use only the chain-mail-protected parts of his hands to tear down the silver crosses.
He eventually managed to get one off; it was the first of hundreds. At this rate, we’d be in here longer than I wanted to do the math. My nose was cold and starting to leak. My bleeding arm throbbed. My fingertips were icicles, and when the thought of a hot cup of espresso snuck into my mind, my knees went weak with craving.
The somewhat reassuring thud of Batten’s repeated attempts to shift the door filled the silence so I didn’t have to think too much about my impending death. At least the racket wasn't bringing the boggles back, or maybe it was scaring them off. That was the only good news at this point. I sulked anyway.
“All right, Snickerdoodle,” Batten said, “what’s Plan C?”
“Oh, when the chips are down, I get to decide?” I stared at him. “What happened to Mr. Deathgrip making all the hard calls? A few days ago, you told me to take a fucking vacation and, quote, ‘let the men handle it.’” I made air quotes around it with just my middle fingers to make sure he got the hint.
Double-Point: Marnie.
Batten grimaced, chagrined. He muttered as he paced, circling back to thump and grab the door in frustration. He hissed when a cross caught his bare fingers, and like a kid not grasping the concept of a hot stove, he slapped the silver chains away, causing another sizzle. The smell of burning flesh intensified in the small space.
“You're not gonna be able to jerk off if you sear all of your fingers,” I said. “Give yourself a breather.”
“I don’t breathe.”
“Thanks for the lesson, professor. Park your ass for a minute and let me take another crack at the door. Who knows, maybe I can witch it down. Maybe I don’t know my own strength.”
He stalked off to the side and let me square up at the chains on the door.
“Watch the magic, Kill-Notch.” I slipped both gloves off and cracked my knuckles. “This is gonna blow your mind.”
I concentrated on the palms of my naked hands, held in front of me, spilling my focus into scrounging for hints of psi or earth energy in the dirt floor. My fingers started quivering slightly as a weak trickle of power rose up at my command. The silver crosses began to rattle against the door, the small ones jittering noisily. Alas, there wasn’t much down here for me to draw on, what with the ultra-needy dead guys slurping up every ounce of vitality. I drew harder, gritting my teeth, and chains rattled noisily. I closed my eyes and focused with every ounce
of strength until I heard something crackle sharply and tinkle all around, like a thousand light bulbs bursting at once. Fuckberries.
I opened my eyes a tiny bit at a time, but my reluctance to see the bits of glass on the floor couldn’t change the results; the door remained wedged shut, but I’d shattered the soul lanterns.
“Mind definitely blown,” Batten admitted.
Thirty-Eight
“Freezing in a crypt with an undead jackass,” I muttered, shivering. “You were a prick before you died, but at least you had body heat. How long have we been down here?”
“About an hour,” Batten reported, watching the pin-prick lights of souls float and spin in the dark, while others lay limp across Sirekan’s tomb, drawn close to him. “Any better ideas?”
“I’m thinking reeeeeally hard at Wes, hoping he'll bring me some espresso. And, you know, maybe drag Harry along for a bit of light rescue. Boy, wouldn’t that be dreamy right about now? Caffeine and Harry. Then we could move on to our next case.”
His eyes were flat and unreadable as he stared past me at the pair of crypts and the big, rusty vault door. “There’s no we, Snickerdoodle.”
I ignored the hot sting in my eyes. I jammed a finger into his chest, feeling the movement of chain mail beneath his shirt. “There’s been a we since you dickrolled into my life and we shared our first sneer. And thanks to Remy fucking Dreppenstedt, there will be a we until I die or you’re dust.”
We stewed in silence on the edge between anger and weary truce, having vented enough for the moment. It made me think of all the times we’d simmered with frustration and hurt and lust and need and want. Through the House Bond, I could feel similar memories, and the feelings they invoked bouncing around inside him, too.