by A. J. Aalto
His light blue eyes were kind and concerned. “Here, now, here, now,” he said. “It can’t be all that bad.”
Yeah, just never gonna have what you have, no bigs, I thought. I hadn’t even realized I wanted it. Marriage? Kids? That didn’t seem like my thing. It definitely didn’t jibe with my lust for Batten; he hadn’t been husband material by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, I hadn’t actually loved the idiot, right? I took the offered hankie and my tears exploded into full-on blubbering. Had I? Had I actually, without knowing it? Was that why my chest was a raw wound that wasn't healing any faster than my demon-sear or werefox bite?
Claire returned with more tea and some little creamers at exactly the wrong time, but ignored my outburst as though my life wasn’t falling apart in front of her. I appreciated that. She left an extra couple of napkins.
The old lady put her coat on. “Come away and let her have her privacy, Hal. It’s not our business,” she advised. He studied me for a long beat and nodded.
“You keep that,” he said about the hankie, and turned to help his wife zip up and settle her hat. His fussing hands reminded me of Harry, and that made me feel a little bit better. Maybe I did have what they had. Why was the aging together bit important? Why were my emotions splintering like shards of glass in my lungs? I watched the old couple exit and get into their sedan.
Claire came with three menus. I let her know I was only expecting one more. She grunted and pointed out the plate glass window at the black SUV pulling up, all but announcing “Fedmobile.” Golden was in the passenger seat. Chapel was behind the wheel.
I sighed and put cream and sugar in my tea, hiding the handkerchief. When they approached my booth, Claire set the three laminated menus in front of me. I hoped my eyes weren’t red from crying; I had to think about Jill and her illicit Kit Kats to find my smile, but I managed it, and when they slid into the booth opposite me, I showed it to them.
I hadn’t seen Chapel since I was having my burns treated in the hospital after returning home from Svikheimslending. He glanced at the bandages and then politely ignored them. “Marnie.” His voice was soft.
“How they hanging, Boss Man?”
Chapel placed a packet on the table, which Golden quickly swept off the table and onto the padded seat between them.
I cleared my throat and told her, “I’m sorry I’ve been snippy with you.”
“And I’m sorry if I pushed too much,” she replied. “You okay? You look a little drained.”
“Totally fine,” I lied, rolling the hanky into a ball and stuffing it in my front pocket. “But I did have to lay the smack down on the new Chief Deputy this morning after wrestling with a bowl of Sheriff Hood's oatmeal.”
Chapel adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses on the bridge of his nose. “I have some business to settle, Marnie.” He took out a white envelope from his package and slid it across the table to me. It had my name on it, written in his all caps, blocky, straight up and down lettering.
“You don’t have to open it now,” he said.
I did anyway. As I’d feared, it was a letter from Batten. It started with the words, “Hey, Snickerdoodle,” and I was sort of amazed that it didn’t trigger another meltdown. I read the words again and again, looking for that sharp jab of pain. The letter was dated January 3rd, and was written on hotel stationary from Norway. I scanned it, not reading it closely for content. The overview gave me the impression of a “goodbye/sorry about this” letter. It was one page, front and back. I was careful not to read the p.s. bit. I folded it and put it away. If I were going to feel bad about it, I’d do that later, in the privacy of my own home.
“He wrote this right after he left us in Ireland,” I said. “Before I even got to Egypt. He knew he was out way before he told me.” I had no idea if this was news to either of them, or even if it mattered, and let my mouth run without me. “Did he go right back to Svikheimslending on January third? If so, he’d have had to stay out of the cold, someplace safe. The only place I can think of like that is Felstein. Crowned Prince Dreppenstedt would have known he was there. Wilhelm gave him shelter on purpose.”
Chapel asked, “We know very little about the revenant you’ve mentioned, Marnie. Would he have helped Mark?”
“Wilhelm must have suspected what Batten was planning,” I guessed with a mix of sad surprise and impotent anger. “And he didn’t stop it. Why would he? Vamp hunter dies, no big deal, one less threat in the world. Vamp hunter succeeds, then Aston Sarokhanian, his oldest foe, is vanquished. Wilhelm risks nothing. Batten risks everything.” I said, as I had a hundred times, “You stupid fucker.”
Gary's hands tightened and the corners of his mouth turned down.
“Not you!” I blurted.
Golden echoed, “So fucking stupid.”
Chapel was watching things cross my face and I no longer cared about putting on a brave front. I felt my lips twist and quiver and I rolled my eyes, wanting the onslaught of emotional garbage to stop. Under my old boss’s steady, compassionate gaze, I marveled at how composed he was, and whether or not he’d broken down, whether or not Chapel had cried into his hands, sitting at his desk, or in the process of filling out final forms, or considering Batten’s replacement at the PCU, he was still keeping his shit together like an actual, functioning adult. Of course he is, I thought, and then, upon closer study of his hazel eyes shielded behind tortoiseshell glasses, I saw a slight flinch, and he looked away. The back of his hands became suddenly interesting, as if there was something there that needed his attention. The pain was well-hidden on his face, but just as fresh as mine was, despite being two months old. I almost summoned psi to probe him Empathically, and then shut that idea down; Chapel’s mourning was private, and if he wanted to share his pain with me, he would. Today, right now, he was choosing to be okay. It wasn’t easy, but he was choosing to go on with his life, because he had shit to do. And so did I. I could choose, too.
“Are you all right, Marnie?” Chapel asked at last, bringing his eyes back up tentatively, as if he were afraid I might know his inner workings.
Sitting there in the morning sun, with my living friends, and Batten’s words in my hand, I knew that no matter what had happened this past winter, no matter what this letter said, I was going to be all right.
“I don’t hurt as much today as I did yesterday,” I told him honestly. “How about you, Boss Man?”
“Things are progressing at work. There are still a lot of unanswered questions for forms and—“
“I can do those,” I said. “Why didn’t you just ask me?”
Chapel opened his clutched hands to show me his palms in a gesture of helplessness designed to remind me that I don’t work for him anymore. He'd been respecting my privacy and pain. Of course he had.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “Right. Well. I can still do them. Honestly, it would probably be better if I did, with Harry to help me know exactly how I should word things delicately. For legal reasons.”
Chapel adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. One of the pads had come off where they gripped his nose, and it was leaving a raw, red mark. “I can’t really let you complete the forms, Marnie, but I could interview you and Harry as witnesses.”
I hemmed and hawed about that, but knew that Harry would be delighted to see Gary again, regardless of the reason. A revenant who has tasted a mortal once never forgets their flavor, and Chapel and Harry had gotten into some shenanigans a couple years back when I wasn't in a position to freak out or fret. The recent distance between them, since I’d stopped working for the PCU, wasn’t something Harry was happy about. Perhaps having Harry speak with Chapel would be a part of the healing process for both of them, or maybe even all three of us.
I had no doubt that Harry would offer some form of apology or explanation; he was a gentleman and would want to accept his part in the chaos. He could assure Chapel that he’d done his very best to safeguard Batten in the end, and when he could not, he’d stepped in to soften the
blow. Maybe we all needed that out on the table. Finally, I nodded. “Saturday evening, after eight?”
“Thank you, Marnie.”
“We’ll be happy to have you,” I assured him. “You’re always welcome.”
“You two want me to put on some Marvin Gaye and get you a room?” Golden drawled.
Chapel shot her a look that told her she was being unprofessional, but I choked a laugh and kicked her under the table. “Shut up, jerk.”
“Sorry,” she said, not sorry at all. She smiled out the window at the passing traffic.
“Besides,” I said, grinning at Gary, “Always go for the Righteous Brothers when the mood strikes, am I right?”
I was about to sound like a cat getting strangled to demonstrate my command of “Unchained Melody” when Claire returned to see if we were ready to order. I looked up at her and smiled. “I’m famished. Haven’t been this hungry in ages. Eggs, sunny side up. Rye toast. One of those fruit salads you make, the big one with the kiwi and blueberries? It’s really good, thanks.” I paused and met her eyes. “Hey, Claire? Thanks for never forcing me to engage in mindless small talk. You don’t know how much I appreciate that.”
She stopped writing, and her little pad flicked down in her hand beneath a hovering pen. She seemed to scan my face for signs of sarcasm then she nodded and cut her reptilian stare at my tablemates. Golden ordered coffee and an English muffin. Chapel went big with coffee and a dozen Danishes to go.
“There’s something else,” I prompted Chapel, as the Blue Sense reported his hesitation and desire to take things slowly.
He nodded. When our food came, he ate a lemon cream Danish and put the rest aside for the team at work. “I have some of your things. From the office.”
From Batten’s office. He’d been clearing it out. “Whatever it is, I’m sure I don’t need it.”
“Just a couple pairs of gloves.”
“I don’t wear them anymore,” I said, and wiggled my bare fingers at him. When he drew two pair from his jacket pocket and put them on the table neatly folded in half, I didn’t immediately reach for them.
Golden made an unhappy noise and stuffed her mouth with toasted muffin so as to squelch her words. She wiped melted butter off her fingertips on a napkin abruptly, then balled it up and tossed it onto her plate.
Gary met my eyes over the rim of his glasses. There was no disapproval in his gaze at all, just classic Unflappable Chapel acceptance. “Marnie, I’ve had a call from a researcher out of Atlanta.”
“CDC?” I guessed. “He must be studying the lycanthropy viruses.”
His eyes dropped to the gauze on my right arm, and as if the wound had felt the shift in attention, it gave a hot throb. He nodded. “He’s chief of the Lycanthropy Surveillance Directive finishing up a research project at a lab in Denver and would like permission to come see you. Dr. Charles Delacovias.”
I got out my phone and texted the name to Harry; he wouldn’t see it until he rose from rest, but I wanted the name in his phone just in case I forgot to ask him. “Why didn’t he contact me directly?” I asked. “It’s not like I’m hard to find.”
“He called the PCU looking for you,” Chapel said. “Your office line is temporarily forwarded to my phone, is all.”
“What does he want from me?”
“I didn’t ask,” he said, showing me one empty palm. “It wasn’t my business.”
“I asked,” Golden lied with a teasing smile. “He wants to study your brain to see just how long you’ve been passing for sane.”
“Well, in that case, you’d better give him my fuckin’ number STAT.” I scarfed down my eggs and asked Chapel, “Anything I need to know for the funeral?”
Golden dropped half her muffin, chasing it across the table and putting it on her plate.
“You’re coming?” Chapel asked, carefully avoiding my gaze, doctoring his coffee.
I blew steam off my tea. “Maybe. Someone smart told me to consider it, so I’m considering it.” I didn’t look at Golden but I knew she was satisfied. “Tell you what. You let me and Harry supply the headstone, and I’ll come to the funeral home and the grave site, even if we pass on the actual interment.”
“That’s very generous, Marnie,” he said, trying not to sound suspicious. “May I have some say in what goes on it?”
“Drat,” I said, giving him a caught-out glance over the rim of my cup. “Saw through my evil plan?”
“I’m certain Lord Dreppenstedt would veto any unsuitable thing you wanted engraved on Mark’s memorial,” Chapel said, but he didn’t sound certain at all, and Golden chuckled. The atmosphere at the table warmed a solid degree, and I could see them both relax a notch. Golden checked her watch, then sighed and side-nodded at the SUV while giving Chapel time-for-work eyes.
“I was just going to add his middle name, now that I know it,” I fibbed.
Chapel blinked rapidly behind his glasses. “I suppose that would be fine.”
I finished my tea as he got up to go. “Wait, you know what his middle name is?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, throwing down ten bucks and grabbing his box. “It’s Kill-Notch.”
I thought I did a fairly good job of keeping a straight face as he waved good-bye and Golden slid across the bench seat to get up to follow him. She shook her pant leg down where it had crept up around her ankle holster and hitched up her belt, then noted the look on my face with a lopsided smile.
She asked, “Suckin’ on a lemon?”
“Am I wearing my sour face?” I asked.
“Mega-sour,” she confirmed.
“His middle name is not Kill-Notch.”
“It’s on his passport and everything. You could have just asked me.” Her smile widened, and she double-checked Chapel’s money before putting her own wallet away. “I’ve always known.”
I pointed out the window to indicate she should flee, but smiled ruefully. “I have never liked you,” I informed her.
“I know,” she retorted. “See you Friday night?”
“What’s Friday night?”
“De Cabrera said he’s going to drag you to karaoke with us,” she said.
“Ha! Fat chance. But I suppose if anyone could do it, it would be Elian,” I admitted. “Ever seen that Cuban dance?”
“He never stops. He probably has to aim twice as hard when he uses the little boys' room.” I watched her go, feeling a lot better despite being intensely aware of Batten’s letter burning a hole in my pocket.
The morning sun was higher now, slanting through the SUV window and hitting Chapel in such a way as to spill through his sandy brown curls and cast wavy shadows on the window. I tried not to think about my own misbehaving shadow, and I reached out to swat at the turquoise ghost hair that was curling out of the black braids and tickling my ear. Gary Chapel and I could not be more different; he was cool-headed, wise, mundane, and despite fighting paranormal crimes, he was untouched by monster mishaps and unbroken by this job. And I was… this. Whatever the hell I was. My focus brought the itch in my werefox bite alive with a hot, stinging vengeance.
The commuter rush was building, and cars jockeyed to get into the drive thru or spots in front of the diner. Chapel had taken the passenger seat and was poking at his iPad while talking on his phone. Golden slid into the driver’s seat and adjusted it; Chapel, a lanky spider monkey with a Great Dane face, had legs that required car seats to be ratcheted nearly as far back as they could go.
I heard more tea being poured, and Claire slid into the booth across from me. We looked at each other in a silence that started out at “awkward” and somehow lurched towards “comfortable.” The Blue Sense reported that she thought I needed a body near me, and she was grudgingly willing to provide that much human contact as long as she didn’t have to talk to or hug me. I put my leather gloves away in my pocket and fought the urge to glance around at who was doing duty as the second-string wait staff while she fraternized with a customer, however coolly.
I raised
my cup to toast her without comment. She blinked, once, slowly, like a cat deciding that I didn't suck. Then we both stared out the window and watched the busy morning traffic go by. Mundane, prickly, and silent though she might be, Claire was right. It beat staring at traffic alone.
Chapter 9
I slapped my leather gloves in the glove box, feeling uncomfortably full but definitely energized from my breakfast. I had another stop to make before I could wrap up my day with a comforting trip to get my pedicure: checking out the source of Beau Boudreaux' cursed trumpet, which, upon reflection, sounded like the worst nickname for some dude's junk ever. He’d visited a little place in Ten Springs, per his dream’s instructions. Footer & Solmes' Fine Goods appeared on my GPS on a one-way street between a moderately sketchy lawyer’s office and tattoo parlor with boarded-up windows and a sign on the door that said “Call Andy.” I didn’t know who Andy was, but the sign was yellowed by the sun and the tape was crispy around it, so I figured it wasn’t an urgent matter.
I pulled up in the angle parking and got the immediate impression that going into Footer & Solmes' without my gun would be a foolhardy adventure. I may think I’m a bad-ass, but one glimpse of the guy behind the counter through the barred window made my inflated courage tuck its tail between its legs and slink away. He was a bull-necked skinhead with his face half-inked, beady eyes behind cat-eye granny glasses on a chain. His arms sported full color tat-sleeves and threatened to split the XXXL black t-shirt he wore. I bet no one ever teased him about the granny glasses, or if they did, they soon came to regret it from a doubled over position with their organs mashed to a fine pulp.
I dubbed him “Conan the Librarian” and decided I never wanted to see what he charged in late fees, then texted Hood, Footer & Solmes'? Safe?
The speed of his reply showed an alarming amount of familiarity. NOPE. Do NOT approach Jim Solmes. 65 White male, 5’7, 150, brown and brown. A second went by and then Hood added, Please and thank you.
