by A. J. Aalto
“Earl Grey,” I said, “cream and sugar, please and thank you. Golly, are those cucumber and watercress sandwiches?”
“Only anything your heart desires, my love, and then I will excuse myself so that you may have some privacy with your guest,” Harry said, and he hurried to do just that.
Folkenflik sipped at his hot tea and blew the steam from the surface, all the while blinking at me with naked vulnerability in his slightly glassy eyes, as though I might explode with rage and blame him for my situation any second. The Blue Sense told me that he was prepared to accept the blame, too, to shoulder whatever I might throw at him on behalf of Gunther.
Instead, I asked, “Is Gunther your brother, or do werefoxes take their skulk’s dominant surname the way revenants traditionally do?”
“We do ofttimes assume our skulk’s surname, but in Gunther’s case, he is indeed my brother,” he replied, nodding once as Harry whisked out of the room in a cool rush of immortal grace behind him. “We received the virus during an unfortunate attack on holiday in Switzerland. Our parents were killed. Gunther was left scrambling to protect me and bore the brunt of the resulting violence, I’m afraid. The trauma of that night led to many troubles, including depression, paranoia, and insomnia. He was, due to the savagery of that night, quite mad long before the lycanthropy began to affect his brain the way it can.”
I noted the “ofttimes” and set my cup down, considering my next question. “Finn, how old are you?”
His smile blossomed and his eyes took on the clear, bright sheen of the lycanthrope. “I will be two hundred-twenty-eight on my next birthday.”
My thoughts scrambled briefly. “Lycanthropes don’t have an extended lifespan.”
“Then would you agree that I must have exceedingly good genes?” he replied, and I heard a hoot of laughter from the living room.
“It’s not polite to eavesdrop, Harry!” I bellowed, as though he could somehow turn off his preternatural hearing. In the bed chamber below, in his casket, my brother began to stir from a long rest, and I knew the sun was setting at last. “Are you saying that the scientific community is misinformed?”
“Quite thoroughly,” he said simply, “but that is perfectly fine by us.”
“Hooooo boy,” I said on a long exhale and picked up my tea again, this time to bury my mouth in the busy work of drinking. Did I need more life extension from lycanthropy? I already had extended health, strength, and slowed aging from my activities as a DaySitter; Harry’s saliva contained minute amounts of v-telomerase, the source of revenant immortality, which slipped into my bloodstream when he fed.
Through the Bond, I felt a low hum of contentment; my Cold Company was thinking the same thing, and happily so. I finished my tea and reached for a little sandwich triangle with the crusts cut off, munching to give myself time to think.
Folkenflik filled the silence for me. “The virus can communicate with itself, recognize itself in other bodies,” he offered, taking off his glasses to rub a sore spot on the bridge of his nose. “I knew the moment I met you that she was there, and she, in turn, sensed my own viral bodies.”
“She?”
“It’s quite common in the community to refer to our virus as ‘she,’” he explained. “Ask yourself, deep down, if you feel a kinship with me. That is the virus speaking. You may learn to listen to her. And furthermore, you may use her to call your new kin.”
“Lycanthropes are not known to live in packs,” I said curiously.
“Werewolves do not. Oddly enough, in nature, wolves are very much a pack animal. Werefox skulks tend to stay together in one area. Close-knit, communal. We are... uncomfortable... when our members grow distant. We find being together far more to our liking.”
That was interesting. I mean, I wasn't planning on holding an open house or anything, but that kind of kinship would make having a yard sale a breeze. I needed to get back to why Folkenflik was here, though. “You know of Dr. Delacovias,” I said.
“We have crossed paths,” he said delicately.
“Does Dr. Delacovias know all of what you've just told me about the virus?”
“Charles knows what we want him to know, and little else.”
I sensed Harry paying extra close attention now. “You don’t trust the doctor.”
“Nor should you,” Folkenflik told me. “Charles Delacovias was once a vampire hunter before he went into preternatural virology; it is my belief that he studies us so that he may, someday, better hunt us.”
Harry’s displeasure sluiced through the Bond as his fears were confirmed in a way, though things were differently worse than he’d expected. “You’re saying that the man who wants to see me and possibly receive his therapy may, in fact, want me dead?”
“I’m saying a great number of people want you dead, Dr. Baranuik,” he said.
“Well, I can’t hear that enough,” I drawled.
“They will want you dead simply because you are a carrier of this virus. It would be best if you hid it as long as possible. You will be welcome in Liechtenstein if life becomes too terribly dangerous for you here.”
“It won’t,” I said, glancing at Harry. “I’ve faced a lot of shit. I got this.”
He observed me skeptically. “You are unwell.”
“I haven’t been sleeping, and drinking too much, and my diet is shit. And my hair is possessed. Or were you just talking about my gnarly eyebrow adventures?”
“This isn’t the effects of mere bad habits brought on by grief,” he said, blinking rapidly behind his glasses. “You have been denying little signs of your first shift. Tell me I’m wrong.”
A hot jolt of guilt lit up my cheeks.
“She will not be patient inside you. This isn’t like breaking a nicotine addiction or denying yourself an extra helping of dessert. The virus is eating you alive. If you don’t let her out, she will consume you completely — body, or mind, or both.”
“You’re saying I should, what, welcome it? Shift on purpose? I don’t know how to do that.”
“But you know how to fight it,” he was quick to point out. “You block psychic input and effects of your metaphysical bond with your companion. You’ve been applying the same science to the virus. I promise you, Dr. Baranuik, that is a recipe for disaster.”
“I accept your expertise in this matter,” I said carefully. “How can I explain, though, how irresponsible it would be to allow…” I caught myself. I was talking like this was all settled, that I was for sure infected, that I was purposefully fighting it. Was I?
He folded his hands on the table. “I would ask a favor of you, Dr. Baranuik.”
“Marnie,” I said, and there was a surge of something akin to the Bond I shared with Harry, but far warmer, something full of life and heat. That set Harry’s worry further afire; though he liked Mr. Folkenflik at first meeting, he was displeased at this development.
The look on Folkenflik’s face, however, like a child discovering that there’s an unexpected gift for him, said he felt the surge of warmth, too. He nodded once to acknowledge it then said, “I would accompany you to see Charles.”
“If what you’ve told me is true,” I said, “wouldn’t that put you in danger?”
His eyes narrowed slightly and the shine deep inside them got more intense. “It’s important that Charles sees that you are under my protection, and the protection of the skulk. That I am aware of his request to you. That I am not afraid of him. It will, I hope, keep his research on the up-and-up.”
I pondered this. “You could drive me there and drop me off, I suppose,” I said. “He’s working out of a lab in Denver right now. I’m seeing him Monday morning. I don’t expect to be there more than an hour or so.”
Folkenflik rose from the table with a polite nod. “I would be delighted to escort you there and see you safely home to your companion, Marnie. What time shall I pick you up?”
I walked him to the front door, and when we opened it to the night, the motorcycles roared to life, and their
collective relief hit me like a wet towel in the face. Finnegan shrugged into his leather jacket, which fell across his sweater bulkily. Harry came from the living room to see him off.
“Nine-ish?” I suggested.
“You may expect me at nine,” he confirmed. “Good evening, Lord Dreppenstedt. Thank you for your gracious hospitality.”
“Only, it was a delight, dear Master Folkenflik,” Harry insisted, placing one cool hand on my shoulder fondly. With the other hand, he lifted his top hat briefly. “Might we be seeing more of you in the near future?”
“I intend to be in the west for a while to sort some personal business,” Folkenflik told us. “If you need anything at all, do call. If I am nearby, I will come.”
Folkenflik disappeared into a foggy yard filled with motorcycle headlights and black body shapes. I didn’t watch them go, but closed the door on the whole deal and pressed my back against it to look up at Harry expectantly. “Well?”
“What a lovely discovery to find your furry new friend so charming and well-mannered,” Harry said expansively, flashing fang teasingly.
“You sheltered lycanthropes?” I prodded.
“Oh!” He waved this away with a pale hand like it was insignificant. “Ancient history, it wouldn’t interest you.”
“You’re not going to tell me?”
“Perhaps,” he purred, sending a trickle of pleasure down my spine, “one day. But you must be exhausted from a long and eventful day, and so much emotional turmoil. Let me tuck you in before your brother bounds up those stairs and winds you up again with his rot and doggerybaw.”
He spun me by my shoulders and marched me bodily to my bedroom, following that with a paternal and not-nearly-sexy-enough pat on my derriere. “Off you go, now. Night, night, dearest one.”
I sighed and slouched off to my bed, letting him keep his little secrets for the time being; my Harry loved being an enigma. Shedding my clothes, I collapsed in my blankets, kicking and flinging until I was mostly covered up. I heard Wesley’s voice in the living room, and a mildly heated discussion at lower volumes. My eyelids were heavy and I let them sink, resolving to deal with the werekin stuff later.
Chapter 25
Doctor Delacovias was a short man with a wealth of wild, white hair that suggested that he'd been electrocuted in his sleep, and had a voice like a cement mixer with a couple of bad bearings; the overall impression was that he was the love child of Tom Waits and Mark Twain. He smelled of antiseptic with hints of a candied ginger note that my sensitive DaySitter’s senses were drawn to. His hands were small, slow, and deliberate as he looked at the chart the lab assistant had me fill in and made notes in the margins.
Though it was early in the morning, the inside of the lab was pure Las Vegas temporal isolation without the gaudy trappings – no windows, no clocks, the flatly unflattering glare of fluorescent lights, and no sense of time. Having not slept well, it was enough to make me slightly drowsy, but I stifled a yawn. Mostly.
Without lifting his eyes from the paper, he said, “So, you brought Finnegan with you. That’s interesting. Was that his idea?”
I wriggled on the paper-covered table, uncomfortable in my drafty, too-light medical gown. Would it kill somebody to make flannel ones, and not just the somehow simultaneously flimsy and scratchy fabric johnnies? “Yes.”
“He’s not coming inside the building to watch over me?” He sounded amused, but the Blue Sense warned of well-masked irritation.
“He's getting coffee. He’ll circle back to pick me up after the appointment. I'm fasting for this, and, believe me, I'm already looking forward to getting my hands on some caffeine.” I swung my feet, letting my eyes wander the claustrophobic little space. Posters of the insides of brains and abdominal cavities with growths and necrosis were tacked to every available wall space. “I see you and he are on a first name basis.”
“Does he refer to me as Charles?” Still, he did not look up. His pen moved across the boxes I’d filled in, scanning the information; height, weight, eye color, last menstrual cycle, allergies, cigarette or alcohol use. Date of possible infection. Location. I’d left the spot labeled “identity of lycanthrope (if known)” blank.
“He does call you Charles, yes,” I replied.
“Petty.” He huffed a bit. “He refuses to call me by the title I’ve earned.”
“You mean ‘doctor?’” I wanted to needle this guy something fierce, but probably shouldn't call him 'Chuckles' to his face.
“He insists on addressing me as though we are equals.”
“You’re not?” I tried not to smile as the good doctor turned to retrieve a tray of goodies. “Weird, I thought Mr. Folkenflik was also a doctor.”
He laughed, a short bitter sound. “A PhD.”
“Like me,” I pointed out, and when he finally met my eyes, I held the contact, challenging him to say to my face that we weren’t equals, too. Bring it, Chuckles. I have more sass than you can shake a pair of forceps at.
“He’s not a medical doctor,” he said, holding the eye contact with just as much stubbornness, not backing down on that point one bit.
“So you think that means you’re not equals,” I repeated. After he nodded, I added, “But he could snap every bone in your body if he wanted to.”
“And yours,” the doc warned. “Like any other preternatural creature, they have triggers, and you don’t want to be nearby if he loses control. He’s on his best behavior with you now because he wants something from you, Dr. Baranuik.” I heard how hard it was for him to use my title, like he was pulling a thorn out of his plump belly. “Has anyone ever shown you consideration and kindness without wanting something in return?”
I made a show of considering it, though I thought his cynicism was a bit much. It would probably have been rude to point out that neatly encapsulated my visit to his facility.
He continued, “Ask yourself what it might be that Finnegan wants. And what he might do if and when he is denied.”
I thought about Harry and Wes turning feral and losing control when Ruby Valli forced them to, and the feeling of facing my Cold Company when he’d snapped. I couldn’t deny that Delacovias had a point. I’d not seen Finnegan shape-shift, but I’d seen his brother Gunther do it, and he’d eagerly attacked me more than once. In human form, Gunther spent most of his free time in a straitjacket, so he might not be the best index case.
I didn’t have to wonder what Finnegan wanted; he sought to allay his guilt and be a responsible leader for his skulk, making sure that everyone in his line was both careful and cared for. The Blue Sense had reported Finnegan’s goodwill. If I was infected, if Declan’s slapdash mellified man treatment hadn’t fought off the virus in my bite wound, then I should be grateful for someone of Finnegan’s experience to guide me in the next stage of my life. If he wanted anything beyond that, I hadn’t sensed it.
As for Delacovias, what did he want? There, the Blue Sense got a bit muddier. Was it simply the opportunity to study a newly-infected patient? Research a treatment to slow, halt, or reverse it? Something else, a deeper motive? He was, according to Folkenflik, an old vampire hunter. Now he was a virologist. Seemed like a strange midlife career change. Revenant immortality wasn't a viral infection per se, it was both more and less complex, and far more dangerous to study.
Dr. Delacovias double-gloved, as I had expected him to; most medical professionals dealing with a DaySitter treated our blood with extra caution. Out came a rack of gold-capped sample tubes; I hoped he didn't expect to fill all twenty of them. He scooted on his rolling stool until his knee was tucked between my legs in an oddly uncomfortable and intimate position, but I was distracted by his whipping out an ophthalmoscope with a curly cord and shining a light in each of my eyes, checking my pupils.
“There are many blind spots in the human body where viruses can hide from the immune system,” he said. “One of those places is the eye. Any burning sensation in your eyes since the incident? Difficulty seeing? Strange light flashes?”
/>
I held still, though I wanted to shake my head. “Not that I’ve noticed, no.”
“Any significant pain in your lower back?” he asked, putting the ophthalmoscope away and reaching for a needle assembly.
“Well, there are a lot of pains in my ass,” I said.
He cleared his throat and gave me a look of paternal disapproval.
“Fine. No.”
“Right arm,” he requested.
For as much as his bedside manner sucked, he was an excellent phlebotomist, and the stick was entirely painless. He drew seven vials of blood and removed the needle smoothly, pressing on the wound with a cotton ball as he did so. “Michael will take these to the lab.”
“And what tests will you run, exactly?” I asked, but I may as well have been asking the wall, because he buzzed for his aide, and was already making notes on his tablet, though I had no idea what he had to document.
The lab tech came in and hovered until being handed the rack of tubes. “Don’t forget Specimen Collection Form 749.3. Be sure Deb takes a smear as well, and I’d like to see the first run on the overhead.”
“Yes, sir.”
“What will you look for?” I asked, feeling a tad out of my league and irritated at not getting any answers. Obviously, they’d be searching for signs of the virus that caused lycanthropy, but how, and where? Even if I hadn't had a personal stake in the findings, the biologist in me was curious.
He pursed his lips and made a series a soft noises, the purpose of which were either to shush me or to help himself think; I gave him the benefit of the doubt and waited while he considered his next words. “Would you be amenable to giving a cerebrospinal fluid sample for culture today?”
“Uhhh… a lumbar puncture? Isn’t that super painful?”
His smile was waxy and insincere. “There’s some discomfort with the procedure, yes.”
“Some?” I blinked at him. “And isn’t there a risk of bleeding into the spinal canal?”
