by A. J. Aalto
He dragged his attention off Umayma’s pretty face with a shake of his head. “Uh, the pawn shop guys. Couple of jackasses who don’t have a clue how to keep paperwork records, and wouldn’t give me a refund. Um, my minister at the church. My doctor. My therapist. My best friend back home in Denver. I’m staying in Ten Springs for a few days while my apartment is fumigated. Roaches and flies.” He glanced back up at Umayma. “I’m not unclean. I’ve just had a bad week.”
“Are you staying in a secure location?”
He sipped his tea and smiled gratefully up at Umayma, though I suspected he did so to sneak another look at her. She was scribbling something in her notepad. “I’m really not sure. It’s the Ten Springs Motor Inn.”
Of course it is. Fuckanut. And fuck the wide array of lodgings in this two-stoplight burg. I sighed and jotted the motel’s name in my Moleskine. “You’re not in room four by any chance, are you?”
“No, why, do you know the place?” His bulging eyes looked about to pop out of his skull. “Is it unsafe? Maybe I can’t go back there. You can’t go there. She’ll follow me to you. She’ll follow you to me. I can’t go. It’s not safe.”
“Holy assbutts, chill out,” I said.
He got up to leave and Umayma put a hand on his bony shoulder and urged him to sit.
“Don’t flee,” I said calmly. “It’s all right. We’ll manage this.”
“But how?” Beau pleaded at me with his eyes.
I finished my tea and set my mug down. “You just take care of the crotch rot, Beau. Leave the monster to me.”
Beau’s relieved smile came complete with tears, though he wiped them away quickly before I could actually see them. He nodded rapidly and assured Umayma, “I’m sure it’s just a matter of some antibiotics. It’s not a… well, you know. I just…” He sank deeper into the chair and buried his attention in finishing the tea.
Umayma smiled uneasily at me and her lips shrugged as if to say “Greeeeat.” I didn’t need the Blue Sense to read her sarcasm loud and clear.
Chapter 6
My last client of the day wanted a basic reading, nothing unusual or exciting, and I was thankful for that. As soon as he was gone, I bailed on the paperwork, seeking Umayma for a consult. She’d disappeared up to her office under the eaves, and I knew she was likely deep in her studies, but I had to know. I popped upstairs and rapped on the little door, waiting for her to let me in.
She was already shaking her head when she opened it. She signed, Not happening.
“Please,” I said. “It’s Arma-fucking-geddon. Don’t you think we should know whether or not it’s really coming?”
She rolled her eyes and I caught the barest whiff of her Seeing psi. Then she waved her hands to stop me and then signed, No.
“Is that nope, you're not gonna tell me, or nope, it isn't happening?”
She held up two fingers in a V and sighed heavily, looking at me with pitying contempt wrapped up in a ball of patronization, all of which I caught loud and clear.
“Oh. Oh it’s not happening. The big it.” I felt a stupid wave relief sweep through me. “You Saw that?” A nod. “So is the ex-girlfriend actually a Horseman — erm, horsewoman? — of the Apocalypse?” A shrug. “Can’t see that part?” She shook her head. “But it’s definitely not the End Times?” She rolled her hand over to indicate well-eventually with a duh expression.
Whatever Beau’s problem was, some dame he was pining for bringing forth the end of the world wasn’t it. I would solve his mystery, but I didn’t have to panic and freak out about the shit hitting the fan worldwide; this was a good thing, as I’d had enough planet-wide crises to solve this year, thank you very much.
“I know you don’t like using your Talent, and being psychic wasn't a part of your job description,” I said. “Thanks for making an exception this time. I promise I won’t ask it of you again.” I reconsidered. “Well, probably not. For a while. Much.”
Umayma pointed in the general direction of the street to indicate that it was time for me to get the fuck out and bugger off home. She was right.
I wished her goodnight and, keeping a keen eye out for the details of the street, hopped into my Buick. There was a noisy trio of black birds on the melting snow pile by the curb. Probably, I was imagining their accusing stares. They fluttered off when I pulled out. I watched for My Buddy’s silver truck, but didn’t see it; even still, I circled the suburbs a bit and took my time meandering through back roads to get to Shaw’s Fist Lake to shake anyone who might be tailing me.
The knot of stress that had been building all day in my belly began to release as I slowed near the cabin. We’d had another late dusting of snow, gritty crystals that crunched under my tires. I pulled up close to my mailbox first so that I wouldn’t have to walk too far on the ominously glittering pathway. The cabin lights were out and no smoke curled from the chimney; Harry was still snoozing.
I parked by the fence but left the car on, throwing one leg out into the cold, testing the slip factor of my boots on the ice. My breath fogged in the evening air. The honeysuckle bush on the fence had grown, spreading like a wild thing into the forest now that it was home to not one, but four spriggans. I cocked my ear, but didn’t hear a peep, not even from the noisiest of them, who called himself Professor Pfaffenzeller; which was unusual for early evening. A petite snowdrift had crept up the side of the mailbox pole. Tonight, the little red flag was up, and I remembered the shock of seeing a decapitated head open its mouth and hiss at me. My mouth went dry as my heart skipped ahead of its healthy beat. The yard blanked out as visions assaulted me; a crowd of noisy first responders, the curl of forest shadows, a monster’s summoning finger, the creak of a dead jaw. I squeezed my eyes shut and willed it away, but that only skipped the record forward — Neil Dunnachie’s squirming arm, a shed full of spider webs, Dr. Murakami’s glasses flying off his face. My lungs struggled to keep up with my needs, and it felt like I couldn’t draw enough air. I was drowning, drowning — the necromimesis spell and that cold press of death, two bullets in a dark alley, a demon’s injured cry — and then I was smashing through ice and plunging into a flooded graveyard full of unquiet spirits. I snapped out of it by giving myself a chilly-handed slap.
So, this is when I lose my shit? Checking the goddamned mail?
The answer to that was a stubborn, if sullen, no. I was not ready to give up. Golden was right. It was time to get my life back on track. I needed relief, but I wasn’t going to find it hiding in the gym, hiding in my bubble bath, hiding in my bed, or crawling into a bottle. Goddess Above, I owed Golden an apology. And she would get it.
I took out my phone to quickly text her, Breakfast tomorrow? My treat?
Her reply was instant. Claire’s. 7:30. Relieved, I nodded to myself and put the phone away.
I used my leather jacket sleeve over my hand to open the mailbox, wary of touching it directly, reconsidering the wisdom of ditching my gloves. Why was I inviting more negative input? Didn’t I have enough garbage to worry about? You’re punishing yourself, Marnie. But none of this is your fault. Punish… him.
I didn’t know how to do that.
Recover, the answer came, and I wondered where it had come from. Certainly not from me. Pick yourself up. Make yourself harder and stronger without becoming brittle. Grow. Change. The time is coming when the need to adapt is paramount.
The evening wind chilled tears on my cheeks that had escaped without my knowledge or consent. I puffed out a loud, hearty exhale to calm my nerves and looked into the mailbox. Inside, there was the usual stuff – a utility bill, a couple of fliers for local businesses, the spring catalog from my favorite sex-toy shop, and a copy of Cat Fancy – along with a small package sporting a conspicuously large number of stamps. Who sends actual mail anymore? I frowned at the handwritten return address: Master F. Folkenflik.
The name made me glance helplessly at the sky, looking for the moon. I knew a Gunther Folkenflik, servant of House Sarokhanian, the lunatic werefox who ha
d bitten me under a full moon in Egypt. I was quite sure I’d heard enough from the fucking Folkenfliks for one lifetime. The gauze-wrapped wound on my arm chose that moment to give an impertinent little itch that I refused to scratch.
The return address on the package was an unclear scribble, a lot of numbers, and a symbol that didn’t look like a letter from any alphabet I knew. I felt the package; under layers of paper and tape was a hard rectangle no bigger than my palm. Probably a bomb disguised as a deck of cards. If I was lucky, it would take my head right off and put me out of my misery.
I popped back in the car to pull up close to the cabin, tucking the nose of the Buick next to the front steps. Then I grabbed my gym bag from the trunk, kicked a clump of frozen slush off the rear wheel well, and started for the porch.
A raven darted out of nowhere, flying low across my path from the south. It skimmed the ground in front of my feet, then lifted into the trees, veering off to the east, away from Ajax, Harry’s debt vulture. I watched the raven until it was a speck. An omen of travel, flying to the north. Too many black birds all up in my business today, if you ask me.
“Not in the mood, Universe,” I shouted. “If you have a message, text me. And no dick pics or eggplant emojis, either.”
I noted a glow from the direction of Mr. Kujawski’s window brighten as he parted the curtains to find out what was going on. Freddie was just going to have to get used to seeing me in the yard, shouting nonsensical profanities at nothing in particular. That’s how I roll even on my best days. I trucked my stuff into the quiet cabin to prepare for dusk.
My first order of business was a quick, hot shower and a change into yoga pants and my favorite black World of Warcraft t-shirt (For the Horde!). I hacked a couple inches off the bottom of my black and turquoise ghost hair, swept on a bit of make-up to hide how pale I was from Harry’s worried eyes, and went into the kitchen. Outside, dusk was falling. The blinds on the kitchen window were always closed against the sun to protect Harry from its rays; the white slats no longer glowed with the sunset’s blaze as it sank behind the forest to the west.
Hood had ordered me to eat, even if it was something little. Trouble was, it had been so long since I had any appetite, or more than a nibble of something, that I felt queasy at the thought of food. I scavenged to see what was available and was surprised to find all sorts of fresh vegetables, fruits, cheeses, and an entire cherry pie that hadn’t been touched; Harry had been keeping things on hand, just in case. They certainly weren’t for him; a revenant could eat regular food, but their physiology did not allow for easy loss of caloric intake. Their metabolism was designed to extract and hold onto every bit of nutrition it received from human blood, and used regular food as a sort of insulation when and if it was even digestible. My brother Wesley had found that out the hard way by continuing to indulge in bacon cheeseburgers and pizza after he was turned, and getting a little husky in the process. When I’d pointed out he was no longer the rippling-abbed Adonis he thought he was, he’d pouted for a week, but had steered clear of the drive-thru munchies ever since, other than sniffing around with the subtlety of a Basset Hound puppy when I'd bring one home so he could get his fix.
I missed Wesley, which was my own damn fault. Harry had sent him away after we’d returned from our ordeal on Svikheimslending, and I hadn’t stopped him from going. Wesley had flown home to Canada to seek shelter with either our family in Virgil, Ontario, or to live in North House with Harry’s butler, Mr. Merritt. Since he hadn’t been returning my phone calls, and I had given up trying, I wasn’t sure where my baby-faced brother had holed up. He had thumbs, at least when he wasn't a slipper-humping bat; he could damn well text me.
I cut myself several optimistically generous hunks of cheese, then peeled and chopped some pineapple, mango, and a pear. Considering a piece of pie, I decided not to push it with too much too soon. I also thought about opening a bottle of wine, or pressing a triple shot of espresso, but decided on a big glass of water instead. Taking my snack into the living room, I flipped on the TV, found some sitcom reruns, and curled up on the couch.
Halfway through my dinner and a second episode of Night Court, I felt the languid roll of power in my veins and the summoning snag of the Bond as Harry rose from rest. I closed my eyes and opened myself to it, welcoming his cool, preternatural probing, accepting his nosy exploration and assessment of how his pet was feeling, and what I might be up to, from the comfort of his closed casket. I let him see my contentment, flooded the Bond with my affection for him. The fact that it took him by surprise was a disappointing reminder of my own failures; I had neglected his emotional needs far too long if he was startled by my warmth toward him. He wasn’t surprised long. I felt his immortal hunger respond eagerly to his DaySitter’s desires, though he did not hurry up the stairs to see me. Instead, I sensed him relax; he was having a cigarette.
Undead dork, I thought fondly, and nibbled some pineapple. My appetite stirred something in Harry through the Bond, too. He responded with delight, prodding around my tentative return to health. It would take more than a little fruit and cheese to fix the damage I’d done, but it was a start, and Harry was pleased.
I built a nice big fire in the wood stove for him, fetched the electric blanket for his chair and turned it on to warm up, then sat back down to open my mail. I could burn the majority of it if I had to.
Conveniently enough, the package contained a cigarette lighter that I had seen before, engraved with the letters JB. I turned it over in my bare hand, wary of the impressions I might get from it. I flicked it a couple of times, but it was empty and just threw off some impotent sparks; I tried not to read too much into that, reminding myself of the post office's rules about mailing flammable materials, and not as a suggestion or commentary on how Ma-- Jerkface had been bled dry. The last time I’d had it, it had been in the pocket of Harry’s pea coat in Ireland. Sayomi Mochizuki had stolen it, and then tried to burn me alive in Gareth Granger’s garden of spriggans and thorns.
I stared at the lighter, not understanding why it would have been returned. As far as I knew, Sayomi had kept it. She hated me; I couldn’t imagine why she would return it to me. Apparently, it had fallen into more friendly hands in House Sarokhanian at Svikheimslending, though I couldn't imagine there being any friendly hands in that House where I was concerned. Unfortunately, other than some crumpled brown paper to act as padding, the package didn't contain any clues about the lighter's recent provenance. Or did it? My bare fingertip brushed a corner of thicker paper and I explored a bit more. A letter.
This, I opened with more trepidation. I didn’t know who “Master F. Folkenflik” was, and I was pretty sure I didn’t want to. I heard the soft pat of Harry’s Oxfords on the stairs in the pantry and felt the room cool slightly as he joined me for the evening. Close behind, I heard the tinkle of the bell on Bob the Cat’s collar as he followed his beloved revenant around the cabin. Bob was forbidden from sleeping in Harry's coffin, since he had a penchant for using Harry's cufflinks as chew toys, and his bladder wasn't all-day sized, as we'd learned the hard way, but Bob would drowse happily on top of it throughout the day, ready to pounce and head-butt the dead guy right in the schnoz as soon as he opened the lid. For his part, Harry bore it with bemusement, and bought a bunch of lint rollers to deal with the inevitable orange and white fluff bunnies.
“Shruff and cinders, don’t you smell heavenly this evening, my pet,” Harry exclaimed, coming close to sniff my hair. “Goodness, yes, that’s nice.”
I swatted at him playfully, smiling. “Ivory's finest, you suave motherfucker.”
“And just as ladylike as ever,” he commented wryly as he crossed the room to settle into his chair; dressed in formal white tie and tails, he removed his top hat to set it on the little table beside him, crossed his legs, and removed his cigarette case to select a second smoke for the night. His grey eyes fell on the disemboweled package and the lighter that Batten had given him, the one that had belonged to his grandfather, C
olonel Jack Batten.
“I’ve been looking for this everywhere,” he mused, picking it up to flick it several times, just as I had. “Wherever did you find it, love?”
“I didn't. It was in today's mail,” I said, explaining the Sayomi bit. I had been as vague as possible about the perils of my adventures when I was on Asmodeus' asinine errands, and Harry did not like hearing about the burning outhouse and the risk to my life one bit. His eyes flashed chrome, which I suppose was understandable, but the fangs were uncalled for. I gave him a knowing down-boy smile and he settled himself, drawing the electric blanket over his lap.
“You should have said,” he told me. “I could have—“
“No,” I cut him off. “It’s sorted. Just… let’s let it go. I have bigger grubs to drown right now.”
Harry’s mouth made a little moue and then his eyebrow danced up to encourage me to go on. I took a deep breath and started slowly, “I met this Beau fellow. He’s released, uh, something from, well, another place. I’m hesitant to say what or from where. I’m not entirely sure it could be true. It had to do with a seal, though. And a trumpet. And a woman — maybe, or not — materializing from a dream.”
Harry tapped his foot under the blanket to give the cat something interesting to pounce upon. “I see. Any ideas yet?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, but left it at that for now. While the Boudreaux Problem lurked in my mind, I didn’t think bringing up hell was a grand plan this evening, especially not while Harry seemed so happy. I debated telling him about my scuffle with My Buddy in the back of Batten’s house, but the sound of the Hummer pulling into the driveway had Harry on his feet again before I had a chance. His Oxfords padded softly as he went to welcome Hood. Bob darted ahead of him, nearly getting tangled in the revenant’s thankfully-swift and graceful feet.
I slid Master Folkenflik’s letter onto my lap while the sheriff greeted my companion and passed through the hall to my kitchen with enough Chinese takeout to feed a frat house.
