by A. J. Aalto
“Half as alive and twice as annoying. That’s the guy you love?” I aimed a glare down at my left boob, behind which, my heart thudded innocently. “Verrrrry funny, you traitorous blood-pump. Give it up, already.”
“Why haven’t you given up on me yet?” he asked, casting me a surprisingly vulnerable look through his lashes.
If that look had come from Harry, I’d have known it was manipulation, some shiny bait to draw out my protectiveness, my need to defend his good side and extol his virtues, to buoy his low spirits. But from Batten, it was genuine curiosity, a shield drop, leaving him raw and exposed. He expected me to take the shot. He was showing me a hole in his armor and bracing for the strike. Maybe he was hoping for a shot. He and I were always more comfortable in rage than in despair.
What I wanted was to kiss him, to tell him he was a jackass and I loved him. Or maybe tell him that I was the jackass, and I loved him. My alarm bells reported this was a disastrously bad idea that could set off a cascade of other bad ideas, ending with attachment and possible Bonding of a metaphysical nature. Batten was undead now, a revenant not linked to a DaySitter, living without proper feeding and maintenance. It would be a long time before he had the power to offer anything like that to whomever it ended up being. In the meantime, Bonding accidentally to another revenant’s DaySitter was an extraordinarily monstrous possibility. It was also really fucking rude. I’d already toyed with Gregori Nazaire accidentally. Harry would be irate if I did it again.
I’d gone too long without answering his question and Batten jumped to the worst conclusion.
“Seriously?” he accused. “That’s why you’re still following me around? For fuck’s sake, Marnie, you’re thinking about my dick?”
“I’m not! I didn’t for once!” I did a double-take at his zipper. “Huh, how about that, I really didn’t until just now. I must be coming down with something.” I put the back of my hand to my forehead. “Do I feel feverish to you?”
“Let’s talk about something less disastrous than our relationship. You do know what Plan C has to be, right? I have to crack these tombs and stake these vamps.”
Back to the V-word for Kill-Notch. My mouth went dry.
“You’re joking,” I said. “Are you insane? Do you know how old this Lord of Exile guy must be for Gold-Drake & Cross not to have heard of him? For there to be no records of his existence? Even weakened, he’d have you for breakfast. Hell, if he even casts his phantasm out at full force, he’ll fuck you up six ways to Sunday. You’re not getting anywhere near him with a stake. Besides, what would that accomplish? We’d still be stuck in here with two piles of ash and their entire bloodlines snuffed out as a result?”
After a long, angry war of silent glares, Batten said, “I’m sorry.”
“Which apology is this? You owe me about a thousand,” I said suspiciously.
“A thousand?
“Fine, seven.”
“Seven?”
“Five-ish. Give or take two,” I said. “Almost definitely seven, though.”
“You know what you’re going to get seven of?”
“I already told you to stop trying to distract me with sex.”
His lips tightened. “I meant, I’m sorry about Ireland. I’m sorry about Skulesdottir. I’m sorry about hiding the truth. I’m sorry about all of it.”
I saw what he was trying to do and appreciated the effort, but I couldn’t resist. “But that’s only four things,” I whispered.
His serious face cracked a rare smile, a real Mark Batten smile just for me, and it lit up his face. “Why the fuck do I like you?”
I remembered Carrie’s advice. “Magic vagina?”
“That can’t be it.”
“Probably, you also swoon for my winning smile,” I suggested, like it was bad news. I demonstrated for him, beaming.
He ducked behind the nearest sarcophagus. “You look like you're going to chew your way through a cord of timber or start ranting about fava beans and Chianti.”
“Harry probably has those at North House. Along with some espresso.”
“It's too bad he can't send you a shot of that through the Bond.”
“Oh, man, that would be awesome.” I returned to dreamy daydreams of Harry, visions of him as my own personal bedside barista, boots freshly shined and everything, until Batten derailed me.
“Hey,” he said, his dark brow furrowing. “Maybe you can’t do it with coffee, but can you draw enough power through the House, through Wilhelm, to bust us out of here?”
“And kick all the boggle ass between here and the beach,” I added, catching up with an excited nod. “Bitchin’. There’s only one problem with that.” I pointed tiredly at the two caskets. I could feel them passively draining my energy. Anything I called through the House Bond would go immediately into the two primeval revenants already sapping my strength and vitality. I didn’t doubt that the Exile knew we were there — I felt his awareness as a cold thrum in the air. He was stirring and he wanted to be truly and physically fed.
More than that, the release of the souls had done exactly what Batten expected. I had annoyed them. Sirekan sensed a problem. He was alert.
And he wanted out.
Thirty-Nine
The growing weight of the Exile and his companion in the room triggered in Batten a riptide of psi, and as it washed through him and splashed over the edges of the House Bond, it threatened to drag me off my feet. He had moved to place himself between me and the tombs as some sort of breakwater, buffering the rising tide, but it wasn’t going to hold back the surge long — Kill-Notch talking about stakes wasn’t a particularly friendly feeling in the room for these two, and they ached to reach past him to the heat and security they sensed in me, the closest DaySitter and a possible ally. I was their first hope of a hot, solid feed in who knew how long, and they would have me, even if they had to shred Batten to get to me.
Sometimes, being wanted sucks right out loud.
I felt one of them shed wraith state fully, a primeval force that thundered through the room as he summoned energy from all directions. The second awoke at the metaphysical hoopla, plowing back to life from the deepest of sleeps, the rest of ancient kings. The flashlight did less than I’d hoped to illuminate the room; it didn’t relieve the darkness so much as push into it a little, nudging it aside briefly. But there was the sense that the darkness here had not been disturbed for decades and was only barely tolerating our trespassing — any second, it would rush back in, filling the space like a thick tide, and drown us.
“Crapnoodles. It’s time to level up, bro. Knock this door open. Come on. Get it,” I told him, shaking my boobs like pompoms for him. “You’re hard as fuck, let’s get this done.”
Kill-Notch showed me a long blink. “What happened to you, in your life, that made you like this?”
“Shit, give me a break, eh? These guys sense me now. They’re stirring. We gotta get out.”
“Then we need a plan D.”
“Fuck Rotten Roy,” I whispered. “He said he was everyone’s friend.”
Batten swung me a look full of suspicion and misery. “Let me guess. Marnie Baranuik done trusted her a vampire.”
“You mock the trust, but that does work once in a while. I have charm, you know.” I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “And this is where you trust me, and hope my charm is as… charming as I think it is.”
“I’m so afraid to ask.” He moved to the tombs.
“Well, the way I see it, it’s the only thing left to try. We crack these bad boys open and ask them to pretty please help get all of us out of here.”
“You said that was too dangerous.”
“Yep. Waaaaaaay too dangerous. So I wish there was another option, but it’s this or wait around here until I starve to death or you get hungry enough to eat me.”
“Malashock,” Batten said desperately. “Malashock will tell someone you’re in here. They’ll send in a search party.”
“Maybe. Maybe the se
arch and rescue people won’t get shredded by boggles, and we’ll get out of here without a scratch in a few days. But how long until you start eyeing me the way I ogle a big, juicy steak?”
“Stop talking about it,” he growled, and I could see the tips of fangs behind his canine teeth. He acknowledged with a frantic nod that the stirring of immortal power in the room was making him thirst, too, and it was only a matter of time before he lost control. He was new dead, and it hadn't been long since he chased off Mitch Dunlop, likely by vamping-out unexpectedly. It wasn’t a stretch to think he might rip my throat open; whether he wanted to admit it or not, he had become the kind of monster he had always hunted. That came with a price and he was paying it now. “What do you want to do first?”
“This is the part where I die,” I said, “so we should kiss.”
“What?” He laughed in astonishment. “That’s not going to help.”
“I would like a goddamn smooch on my fucking lips before I get torn to pieces without even getting coffee first,” I told him, pointing at my mouth. “You’ve kissed me eighty-four times before this, you’re going to play hard to get now? Holy hell, you think I’m the annoying one?”
“Fine,” he exploded. “Come here.”
“Forget it, I don’t need your pity smooch! I expected enthusiasm. You’re crazy about me. You should be hurrying your sorry ass over here to get the sweet stuff while I’m still warm and wriggling.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Kill-Notch said with a steady stare. “If you pull this off, I’ll give you eighty-four more kisses. The long slow ones that makes your toes curl.” His dark brow darted up knowingly. “Wait, eighty-four? You counted?”
“No,” I lied, scoffing. My cheeks flushed hotly. “Pfft. Shut up, you’re not special.”
“Sure.” He used his thumb to indicate the tomb of the Soul Caller. “Sarokhanian first?”
I shifted the silver chains link by link up the length of the tomb while Batten waited at the foot, gripping the edge of the stone lid. I Felt the unmistakable void within and, worse than that, the alertness of that void fixated on me. I focused on my goodwill toward the being in the casket within. Easy does it, boy. Be a nice vampire, I thought. Shit, V-word. Dammit, Kill-Notch.
The chain links rolled under my finger, pinching my bare hands several times, as the links had been wrapped tightly enough that they were tricky to shift. Every time I touched the stone, I got whispers of psychometric visions from within, and Felt his longing to be free, his ache for touch. His intimate brand of hunger had my core shivering already; it reached past the silver and crosses to taste what was being offered by my proximity, and my DaySitter heart hammered hard in reply. I could hear Harry’s warning in my head about the Fourth Canon: Safeguard oneself chiefly against the dead, for the mind of a DaySitter is far more vulnerable to the call of the grave than is the mundane mind.
“Right,” I heard myself say aloud. “Here we come, Sirekan. You play nice.”
Forty
We had to work together, Batten avoiding the crosses and me trying desperately to hold onto the meager psi boost flowing from the earth, and trying not to touch the souls lingering near to their Caller, to shift the lid of the sarcophagus aside slightly. I expected the casket inside to have a lid, but, apparently the ancients were into convertibles and exhibitionism. I peeked inside.
The Lord of Exile remained still, and thank goodness for that, because I think if he’d made any sudden movements, I’d have peed myself while enjoying my first heart attack. The body within looked like the cover model of Forensic Exhumation Monthly, with one notable difference — this one’s eyes were open, active, bright, and shining with intellect and awareness. The sound of his hunger, rumbling in his throat like a jungle cat’s low growl, vibrated through me, shaking bones I didn't even know I had.
I practiced my manners. I knew that was what Harry would advise in this moment, and as long as the tension was coiled so tightly on both sides, all attempts would have to be cautious, tentative, and extremely polite.
“Death Rejoices, Glorious Elder,” I said, barely above a whisper, but putting a heavy dose of reverence in my tone. “Cherished master of the grave, keeper of the gift of immortality. I am here at your service, Lord Sirekan, to help you. To free you. May I have your permission to continue?”
“DaySitter,” was his reply.
“Um, yes,” I said softly. “I’m going to pull this lid off. Okay?”
I didn’t get a no, so I nodded at Batten and we tilted it enough for the weight of the stone to snap the few silver chains still acting as a deterrent to the weakened revenant within. Once he was fully uncovered, I asked Sirekan, “Do you know where you are?”
Sirekan’s eyes drifted up to the broken soul lanterns first then cut to his left, and though he was not in a position to see the casket and stone tomb of his immortal companion, he got the message across — he wanted his buddy released.
Batten and I worked at the next set of chains diligently, as we were under silent scrutiny, and though the first revenant didn’t exactly monitor us, the feeling of anticipation had my spine tingling. Upon finally shifting the lid, we found crystals of ice inside. The second revenant was frost-slicked and more decayed than the first, with lips drawn tightly against pale, anemic gums and browned teeth shaved to points. Behind human canines, long fangs protruded, ready to feast. Alvar Hervi tried to speak through a leather-tongued mouth, dry throat clicking, but if he was speaking English, it was too heavily accented for me to understand. I repeated my soft greeting, and attempted a not-too-terrified smile.
Sirekan was still staring at me, and I fixed my eyes on his chin, just to be safe.
“What have you done, DaySitter?” he rasped, reminding me a lot of Malas Nazaire and his dry, rusty, grating voice.
“So many things,” I admitted. “Let’s focus on the good stuff, though. I’m here to unhook these tubes, because I’m sure…” I reached down and examined the needle stuck in his withered, grey arm. “You aren’t consenting donors.”
Sirekan made a tired gasp as I withdrew the needle from him and hurried to do the same to Alvar. I wrapped the tubing up, keeping it above the flasks, and resolved to deal with that mess later. First, the revenants.
“Lord Sirekan,” I continued “You’ve been moved to a vault, and kept in wraith state for many years. My companion and I are trying to release you just as soon as we can figure out how.”
Several of the limp souls were wriggling across the fallen lid of the tomb like worms on a rainy sidewalk, and I forced myself not to look at them as they sought out the Soul Caller. Sirekan’s fangs slid from their hiding place and his entire body shuddered once, hard, in response to his growing need to feed. “My maker… is cold.”
“Ah, yes, the king.” I chewed my bottom lip. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but King Den went mad. Queen Remy now sits the UnHallowed Throne.”
Alvar Hervi found his voice. It wasn't any more melodious than Sirekan's, and he struggled with his English, but he got his point across. “Your hunter means us harm.”
“He just has Resting Grump-Face,” I promised them.
“Your hunter hunts his own kind,” Sirekan said, “yet our new Queen’s power flows through his veins. You will explain this.”
“Remy turned him,” I confirmed. “It’s a long story. We should get you out of here before dawn, or we’ll be stuck down here another whole day, and I don’t think I can go a whole day without espresso.”
“The Queen’s good nectar has revived my Younger,” Sirekan observed, closing his eyes, seeking Aston Sarokhanian through their Bond. “The hunter can revive us, as he has revived the other.”
“I'm going to what?” Batten hissed coldly at the back of my head, and his words rose prickling goosebumps across my nearly hairless scalp.
“I think our sleepy new friend here,” I said slowly, emphasizing friend to keep Batten’s tone in check, “could assist us with the door issue if we help him wake up a bi
t. Isn’t that a lovely idea? We help them with the lid, and then you feed them, and they help us with the door, and we all waltz out of here just as cheerful as can be.”
Batten choked on his tongue, and gestured to the casks of spiked rum. “Like hell I will. I’m not a keg to tap. I already did my bit.”
“Well, sure, I guess saying no is an option,” I said, “but I don’t think starting a brouhaha is the smart choice, Hunkypants, do you?”
“Your turn,” Batten said. “You’re used to bloodsuckers, you’re a DaySitter.”
“I am one DaySitter, and, you know, mortal. These guys need turbo-charged vein juice. And, while I may be a total snack, I’m hardly a meal.” I eyeballed him pointedly. “It’ll take two minutes, Kill-Notch. I know you can usually last at least that long.”
Batten wasn’t listening. “It’s licking its lips.”
“He, not it,” I reminded. “Also, he can hear you.”
Batten forced his thoughts into my head, a loud, clumsy version of what Wes could sometimes accomplish, without my brother’s finesse. It’s disgusting.
“Pretty sure we all heard that,” I said.
“Enough,” Sirekan snapped. “I grow tired of this. Feed me the Queen’s nectar, DaySitter, and fulfill your promise to release us.”
I was fully prepared to continue convincing Kill-Notch but I didn’t need to. Batten strode to put himself between the two tombs, seething with the perceived injustice of it all. I was never going to be able to convince him he was doing the right thing — frankly, I wasn’t entirely sure of that myself, and Batten knew it. Still, lacking a better option, here we were.
“Look away,” Batten said, shedding his chain-mail gloves, glaring at me the whole time he rolled up both his sleeves with rapid, furious twists. The marks from Aston’s feed hadn’t healed yet, and the fang marks were an angry red.
I was so relieved that he was going along with it, I didn’t even sass him. “I’ll keep sending Wes a mental S.O.S.”