by A. J. Aalto
By that, I assumed he meant further feeding, this time by the Nazaire Youngers and maybe even Ghazaros and Glen. “Ludovic isn’t the part of this plan I object to.”
“They had to scare off the boggles,” Batten allowed tiredly. “I can’t think of anyone who makes me wanna get the fuck out more than Baranuiks.” He nailed me with a knowing look.
Carrie cleared her throat behind him and he flinched.
“Fuck. How many of you are there?” Batten demanded, staring up at her.
“Enough to save your sorry ass, I guess,” Carrie said. “Is this him? Your FBI fuck-buddy? Ooooh, let’s call him your fuck-Fed.”
“Can I please die now?” I groaned, mortified. “I’ve changed my mind. Put me back in the vault.”
Rena strolled over to look Batten up and down as he lay in the sand, and she seemed mightily unimpressed. “This is him?” She rolled her eyes over at me. “Really?”
“Hey, he has his charms,” I said. “Can we focus on the business at hand?”
“That you've got the hots for an average-at-best lump of beefcake who doesn't even send dick pics?” Carrie asked.
“No, the distressingly large congregation of undead and recently-deeply-resting undead assholes who are now up, awake, and probably wanting to go on some kind of fucking rampage against their captors,” I said. “My questionable sex choices can wait.”
“The Nazaires have offered to transport them safely to the Bitter Pass,” Wes said. “Ghazaros will stay to dismantle the smuggling ring and encourage the remaining Sarokhanians and Borodians to find legal ways to amuse themselves or move to Svikheimslending, where the Lord of Exile will support them at Vlastimirova. And if they're dinks about it....” I didn't need Wes' psychic ability to picture Malashock with a fist full of warrants and just as many stakes.
“How will Ludovic manage the Lord of Exile’s hunger on the journey?” I asked. “Ludovic himself said Sirekan is insatiable.”
“Hey,” Wes said suddenly. “How did you even begin to wake two super-old immortals from wraith state?”
“I bet she-” Carrie broke in, eagerly.
“I did not fuck the primeval undead back to life! There was zero magic bahookie action. ”
Batten chortled weakly. “She has a very special skill set.”
“I thought we agreed to keep that part between us,” I told him tightly.
“Aw, come on, Snickerdoodle,” Batten said low, “Be proud of your accomplishments.”
“Wait. Wait.” Wes hooted. “You accidentally broke lanterns and were generally annoying? That’s how you solved the problem?”
“You read his mind wrong,” I said, tempted to smack him.
Wes assured me, “No, that’s exactly what Batten was thinking.”
I noticed that everyone had fallen silent and was looking behind me at the cave entrance, so I twisted to see Harry emerge, looking more pale than usual. He acknowledged me with the slightest dip of his chin and a quick wink, then dropped to one knee in the sand. Ludovic came next, the spitting image of Malas Nazaire, skin stretched over bone, yellowish and waxy. He also fell to one knee, as did his Youngers in a wave of bowing heads. Alvar Hervi came next, his tread slow but sure, his mouth softly open to wonder at the freedom outside the tunnel and the black night sky. Ghazaros escorted the Lord of Exile from the tunnel then, and when Sirekan was steady on his feet, Ghaz sank to his knee. Everyone held their collective breaths — those of us who still breathed — to brace for his reaction.
I wondered how long it had been since he’d been free, outside of that vault, walking on his own. I still felt the draw of him on my energy reserves, milder now, and probably not intentional on his part, and I was suddenly ravenous, picturing all the cookies in the world spread in front of me. And cheeseburgers. And poutine. And cinnamon rolls. And Harry’s special roasted potatoes.
The silence thickened as the air behind the Exile began to fill with a pale, icy mist, the pinprick lights of souls dotting him like a glittering aura. I frowned, staring at it in confusion, but I caught the hint of Harry’s satisfaction and approval through the Bond and knew he’d cut some kind of deal with the elder. Streaming upward like frigid fingers until they took form behind the Exile, faces pressed from the fog. Hardly more than outlines and vague profiles, the captive spirits began slipping free of their attraction to the Soul Caller. Released from uncountable years in his company, a steady column of souls lifted clear into the sky, some clumped in bundles, sticking together in swirls, while others seemed to be fighting to remain apart, swimming against a current no one but the Soul Caller could control. The Blue Sense roared to life, but all I picked up was the overwhelming sense of relief.
Wesley made a sound I hadn't heard since he was a kid, a shaky whimper, and I thought he was channeling Sirekan’s pain and the blessed relief of all the souls freed. Wes pressed his fingers to his scarred temple above his bejeweled eye patch and squeezed his good eye shut.
I reached for Batten with one gloved hand, making contact with a splayed leg, and patted him, both for his comfort and my own. Witness to the release of so many trapped souls had Batten longing, helplessly searching the mist for sight of his grandfather — but the Soul Caller hadn’t taken Jack Batten. Still, that last ounce of hope withering in Batten came through our House Bond loud and clear, and my heart ached with his.
I was so, so glad Malashock missed it. I was equally glad when Batten passed out. I just wish he hadn't landed face-down in my lap.
At least Carrie's cackling didn't wake him up.
Forty-Two
It was painfully late, the dry-eye hour, and I had been awake without the support of coffee for longer than I could guess, but at least we were back at North House. Batten reminded me of a humorless bodyguard as he lingered between an unmarked Shield truck parked behind Mr. Merritt’s hearse and the bus beside it. The caskets of Ludovic Nazaire, and new ones for Sirekan, Alvar Hervi, and Aston Sarokhanian, also supplied by Shield, were safely tucked in the back of the van, in crates packed with earth for added protection. Volunteer DaySitters from House Nazaire had arrived en masse in accordance with Ludovic’s offer of consanguinity.
It was still barely enough; regular DaySitters, even willing, bleeding, well-fed volunteers, couldn’t hope to satisfy the hunger of a primeval revenant the Exile’s age for an extended time. Batten’s immortal blood, flowing with the power of the Queen, had not only revived Aston Sarokhanian but had satiated Alvar Hervi and the Exile for the moment. The Nazaire DaySitters, twenty-three in all, would be their traveling rations. If Alvar and Sirekan didn't want to go back to feeding on mere mortals after getting a taste of Batten's high-test, brood-of-the-Queen, go-go-Inspector-Dead-Guy juice, well, that was going to be someone else's problem, preferably at Skulesdottir. Come to think of it, Kill-Notch was going to be someone else’s problem now, too. I was having a hard time feeling like that was for the best.
Batten must have heard or seen a flicker of what was going on in my head as I flashed back on the memory of the wizened ancient, a dusty, reaching, clawing figure, bare greying skin stretched over bone, attached to his wrist. He grimaced, and squinted up at Harry’s porch lantern, a black wrought iron affair with a bulb shaped like a candle's flame and made to flicker like the real thing.
“So,” I said, watching the DaySitters in the bus talking animatedly about their upcoming trip, changing seats, leaning over the back of a seat to chat, swapping snacks. “Back to the other side of the pond?”
“Back to the other side,” Batten said, nodding. “What happens to the elders?”
“Malas and Declan will meet you in Paris. From there, they’ll take the elders to the Bitter Pass. Her Nibs will decide what should be done with,” I waved my hand at the assembled forces of darkness, “all this.”
“Including Aston and Ghazaros?”
“Not up to me, dude. But I bet if you asked Sirekan, he probably has some thoughts. Everyone's lucky they aren’t facing human justice here. Malashock could hav
e a bundle of warrants by morning, if she doesn't already.”
“Zorovar,” Batten said, “watched Aston’s hostile takeover of the house, saw that it could succeed, learned from Aston’s mistakes, and then made his move. He had all the right business connections through Rotten Roy to solidify his hold. But something still isn’t right.”
I noticed that Batten had made no mention of his grandfather since we’d left the cave, and moved to take his hand. I stopped myself. His face was hard and cold, blue eyes distant. The pain of his mourning was visible in the sharp crease across his brow and the tightness of his jaw. Trying not to break down in front of me was giving him a headache, and he had a long trip ahead without any measure of privacy; even on a private, chartered flight, he would be surrounded by DaySitters and the older, more powerful revenants, and wouldn't be able to wall off enough to avoid his grief spilling in such close proximity. I knew Batten too well — if he had tears for his grandfather, they would have to wait. Wearing a mask of stoicism, he would return to his maker at Skulesdottir, where he would feed and convalesce. With Remy. With Wilhelm and Carole-Jean. With House Dreppenstedt.
Not with me.
Harry, ever mindful of my uncertain emotions, remained inside. He could — and no doubt would — rant and rave at me later for my conduct in the caves. I thought about blaming the moon, but, since I hadn't turned into a were-anything, that probably wasn't gonna fly. I couldn't even go all Milli Vanilli and blame it on the rain, since it was just overcast and kinda breezy now.
The bus started its engine, rumbling and coughing exhaust, and Batten’s moody discomfort flooded through the House Bond. I gurgled with disgust. “I wish you’d learn to block that.”
“I’m trying,” he said.
“I liked you better when I thought you were an emotionless dickhead who hated me.”
“Feel free to continue believing that,” Batten grumbled. “It’s not far off.”
“Liar.” I smirked. “You really dig me. Like… a lot.”
Batten ran his hands over his face like he was scrubbing it clean. Though he’d been fed a few times with Shield’s finest O-neg, he still looked drained and hangry, and would likely need to feed again soon. “I need a long vacation from you.”
I gestured at the van. “Then make with the fucking-off.”
“I’m going,” he assured me.
“You’re not going, you’re standing there like a dork, thinking about kissing me goodbye,” I accused. “Guess I’m not the only one who has bad ideas, eh?”
Batten cut his eyes at me. “Really bad idea.”
“Probably you shouldn’t. Kiss me, I mean. Maybe just one last feverish bedding?”
His forehead must have cramped because he started massaging it. “How is that better?”
“Knowing you, it’d be faster,” I reasoned.
“Are you saying I fuck too fast or I kiss too long?” he demanded.
“Both really,” I said with a shrug, “but I was trying not to be indiscreet about it. Premature ejaculation is no joking matter.”
Batten’s voice climbed the octaves. “I do not — ” he clammed up, his lips thinning in a tight line, his eyes sliding to the bus windows then right back down at me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said cheerfully, “did I just blow your chance to hook up with some hottie on the bus, there, Kill-Notch? My bad.”
Batten just stared at me, unblinking.
“What?” I stifled a chuckle. “It was an accident.”
Batten continued not blinking. His jaw clenched.
“I don’t care if you get laid,” I lied smoothly. “Go! Fall in love! Stay away forever! See if I care. See if I even notice. Good riddance. I’m totally over you.”
Batten stuffed his hands in his pockets and a smile bloomed slowly but surely across his lips, a smile that said he knew better. “You are.”
“Absolutely.”
“If you say it’s okay to get on with my life, off I go.”
“I shooed you once, but you seem determined to be un-shoo-able,” I pointed out. “What are you waiting for?”
Batten looked past my shoulder and I turned to see Harry lounging in the doorway, and Wes close behind, listening to us.
I squirmed in my Keds and asked Kill-Notch, “You’ll be safe?”
“Malas will be there,” Wes added hopefully.
“Well, that’s better than a cuff upside the head with a limp dick, isn’t it?” I laughed bitterly.
Harry touched my elbow. “I assumed Ludovic’s contribution to this evening’s endeavors would illuminate that the Nazaires have, at times, been solid allies, ducky.”
“Okay,” I told Batten, who had be cautiously quiet through the whole conversation. “Declan will be there. You’ll be careful?”
“That’s the plan,” Batten agreed.
“Upon no account is Our Lad required to seek your permission to leave, my Own darling,” Harry reminded me.
I turned on my Cold Company slowly. “I. Know. That.”
“Do you?” he asked, examining his fingernails. “Splendid. It’s such a pleasure to witness personal growth, though I hope I know better than to call you agreeable by any stretch of the imagination. As it happens, however, Our Lad is obliged to request my consent.”
“Yours?” I blinked rapidly.
“Technically, Our Mark belongs to House Dreppenstedt.” Harry was beginning to look smug, though he considered himself far too dignified to smirk outright. “As the only Dreppenstedt in the new world, I am also the eldest, and therefore it would be proper etiquette if your Cold Cook were to present himself to me for permission.”
Good luck with that. I spotted movement on the street and held up my hand to the guys. “Hold that thought, you stuffy stiffs.”
A familiar white van pulled into the drive behind the bus and the other truck, and I was more than a little surprised to see that Malashock had a passenger. He’d abandoned his hat and his disguise; having been unmasked, there was no point in further subterfuge. He’d pay for the laws he broke, and I expected an apology for the gun-pointing business, but if I didn’t get one, I’d live. Strolling over, I met them at the bumper.
“Didn’t expect to see you two together,” I said.
Malashock sighed impatiently at me. “Needed his directions, had to get my gun back. You tossed it in the caves.”
“Oh. Right. Welp,” I said, offering a gloved hand. They both shook in turn, “Guess this is good-bye for now. Indy, it’s been… weird. Thanks for not getting fuzzy on me or giving me rabies.”
He dug the toe of his shoe into the stone edging the driveway and had the grace to look away. “Maybe next time.”
Malashock eyeballed the van. “No more phantasms, eh? I hear you got the responsible parties out without loss of life?” Her words made me swell with pride but then she added, “Is that a first for you?”
“You know,” I said, rolling with it, “it might just be. No, wait, a couple of the Mud Goblins got eaten and I don't know if anyone whapped a boggle, but you can’t argue with the end results.”
“I’m not sure that…” Nyquist thought better of it and backtracked. He raised a weak fist in the air and shook it in a little cheer. “Go you.”
I smirked over at Malashock. “If I don’t see either one of you again, it’s been a blast. Mostly. Some of the time.”
“You’re a nightmare,” Liv told me, eyes twinkling. “Please stay in Colorado.”
“I intend to,” I promised her with a smile. “Stay safe.”
“I intend to,” she promised back, and cast one last look over my shoulder to the front door at the trio of dead guys. Mr. Merritt had come out with a small silver tray to offer up to his master and guests, upon which three copper Moscow Mule cups sat, polished to a high shine. I saw something soften on Malashock’s face, and it gave me a little hope. She took a moment to catch my eye; the unspoken shift in her opinion might have been tiny, but it was written there – the unadulterated hatred had fallen away at
some point, hopefully because of me, and the monsters had started to look more sympathetic. I doubted Malashock would stop staking naughty revenants, but she might stick to assignments and issued warrants, rather than seeking them out.
Nyquist didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands.
“We good?” he asked.
I nodded. “I’m always good.”
“Ugh.” He shifted uncomfortably, hanging his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so screwed.”
“Dude, you fucked up. We all do, me more than most. You’ll be fine,” I told him, lowering my voice so Malashock wouldn’t hear me. “Get a good lawyer. Don’t nibble on anyone in court.”
“I’m going to get fired. They're gonna call me the Caveman when word gets out. Or Boggle Bandit. Or worse.”
I smirked. “I don’t want to be the Great White Shark of psychic investigations, but what are you gonna do?”
“You did look really funny in that centerfold.”
“You’re gonna be an overnight sensation in the cryptobiology world. Dude, they're gonna call you Fruitbatman. They’ll want you for talks about gem-toting boggles and werebats and just what you saw in that smuggler’s vault — let’s face it, that’s big news here. Even if you have to consult from a cell via Zoom or something, like a low-rent Hannibal Lecter.”
Nyquist squelched a pained grin and went to the passenger side, disappearing inside. Malashock waved one last time and ducked in.
The bus rumbled and farted and jerked, then started rolling. Malashock’s van pulled out, as did the Shield van and the bus, and it was only then, when I caught sight of the familiar back of Batten’s head through the bus window that I realized what just happened.
Flabbergasted, I could only gesture silently and wildly and confusedly as the bus drove away. Batten did not look back. I flipped him off anyway. With both hands.
Wes came to join me to wait by the curb until Malashock and Nyquist were also out of sight, and then we stood stunned by the sudden, empty peace and quiet for a few minutes. Halloween was right around the corner, and Mr. Merritt had been diligent with his landscaping. Though North House was home to many evergreens, the few red maples that dotted the front lawn were already bare of leaves. The garden had been winterized, shrubs carefully wrapped in burlap and roses pruned down, old annuals pulled, an extra layer of mulch laid in.