Last Impressions (The Marnie Baranuik Files)

by A. J. Aalto

  “It's okay, I like horses. But you know what would be better? If they were regular chocolate chips.”

  “Pretty sure they make those already, genius” I drawled.

  “Smart ass,” Carrie said. “Don’t get excited. Why'd you call me if you’re in such a foul mood?”

  “You called me,” I reminded her. “I wouldn’t interrupt your important work to ask you about vagina farts and horse cookies.” I smiled. “So how curvy is this dick, anyway?”

  “Good Lord, woman,” Harry gasped from the doorway, causing me to jerk with surprise.

  “I need to go, Carrie, hard at work here!” I hung up and offered him my wrinkled-nose apology face. “Hullo, Harry. I don't really talk about cock that much. Wait, yes I do. Say, I thought you were out.”

  “Clearly.” His stern reprimand melted sideways into reluctant acceptance. He stepped into the bathroom, the pad of his spotless Oxfords soft and deliberate. “I assume that was a family member on the phone, reporting to you my whereabouts this evening.”

  “You startled me,” I side stepped. “My heart is going a mile a minute.”

  He turned to me in the close space and his lips curved up wickedly. “Mmm, yes. This, I know.”

  “I’m gonna get you a little bell, like we did for Bob.”

  “I hardly think I’ll enjoy that.”

  “Neither does the cat, but he doesn't have a choice.”

  “Whereas I most assuredly do.” Harry’s nose came up, and he sniffed the air. “Did you have company whilst I was out, dear heart?”

  “Just Mr. Merritt,” I said. “He refused to wash my back.”

  Harry’s three platinum eyebrow rings twitched with amusement. “I sense someone else has been in this room, my demented harpy.”

  “Harry, let me ask you a question: Why would a ghost come to see me?”

  “Because you’re warm, of course.”

  “That can’t be it,” I said. “Nobody ever says that.”

  “Quite literally, darling, you leak energy.”

  Fuckleduckle. “I don’t mean to be leaky. How do I make it stop?”

  “What’s this?” Mr. Merritt had hung my parka up on the back of the bathroom door so that it could drip dry a bit on the tile before being washed and dried properly. If my fingers itched toward the picture when it was in Scarrow’s pocket, Harry’s were probably crawling. He shuffled through my coat pocket and brought out the laminated picture. “A carte de visite? This is new.”

  “It’s pretty old, actually.” I looked around his shoulder. “Wait, what’s a carte de visite? Is that some kind of quaint-assed etiquette thing from when people refused to smile for pictures?”

  He waved my babble away with the picture. “You nicked this from evidence.”

  “Did not.” It hadn’t gotten as far as evidence yet.

  “You pinched this,” he pressed, reading the answer on my face, not that he even needed to ask the question. My guilt spilled through the Bond like I was wearing a neon sign. “From where did you pilfer it?”

  “Pinch? Nick? Are we in a 20’s gangster flick?”

  “I must insist you be forthright about this, my pet.”

  “All kidding about felonies aside, Mugsy, I borrowed it.”

  Harry’s brow twitched from dismayed furrow in the direction of full glower.

  “Okay, to be specific, I borrowed it from the pocket of an exorcist. It felt important. Is it?”

  “It has a most unpleasant aura about it.”

  “It’s just a picture, Harry,” I said, but glanced at the pink bath salts still settling in the bottom of the now-cold bath water. “I’ll give it back to the priest tomorrow when I go to see him.”

  “A priest?” Harry gave a little sniff. “It’s a wonder you’re not covered in hives. Let me look at you, please.”

  I surrendered in silence. He took the phone from my hand and put it, and the laminated card, on the bathroom counter. Then he pushed up the sleeves of my robe, one at a time, and made soft, concerned hmmmns over any little bump or red mark he saw, inspecting each carefully. When he looked up from his examination, his irises had sharpened in tone from ash grey to bright chrome.

  “I should not be very happy if you were to seek out this polluted priest’s company again,” he advised. “My DaySitter is no exorcist’s plaything.”

  “I—“ I blinked rapidly in surprise, wondering if Scarrow’s lust and my baffling reaction to it were written on my skin like a lewd brand. “Of course not, Harry. I won’t ever be alone with him.”

  “See that you are not,” he said firmly, his London accent crisp.

  “Constable Schenk is always with me.”

  “You must not forget who you are, my Own,” he warned, and his voice fell to a hush. “Do not become too familiar with him. Do not be fooled by the raiment of his office or the facade of holy influence. Do not allow yourself to be swayed by his endowment. His taint is upon your flesh.”

  “Uh, Harry,” I cracked a smile. “I promise I’m not the least bit impressed with Father Scarrow’s endowment, and want nothing to do with his taint.”

  I wasn’t sure if Harry knew how we’d crossed words there, but the bubble of my humor seemed to put him at ease, and a wash of relief spilled through the Bond. “You’ve had a long day full of mischief and bedlam, but the day is done now, and it’s time to warm up in a hot shower and rest under the watchful shelter of your Companion.”

  He left the uncomfortable little room quickly. I considered taking the plug out and letting the tub drain, but as I approached, the salt stirred once more, rocking toward me in the water. I stalled, and backed away, going instead to follow Harry down the hall to the next bedroom, tucking the card and my phone into the bathrobe's pockets.

  Harry had slipped into the en suite master bath and started the shower running, and the sound of the water hissing against the glass surround began to soothe the knots in my belly. I passed through the dimly-lit bedroom toward the soft light of the bath, bare feet sinking into luxurious carpet. His shadow passed in front of the door as he fetched towels, and for a moment I thought of the possible ghost in my room, and then I heard Harry humming softly. It took me a moment to peg it as Sinatra's “I Won’t Dance”. While he gathered soaps from the cupboard I heard him tapping the floor with one Oxford, the soft pad a rhythmic counterpoint to his melody. If Harry wasn’t anxious about a ghost in the house, I shouldn’t be, right? He’d know that something was wrong long before I would.

  Knowing that I had the equivalent of a paranormal alarm system soothed my nerves more than anything else could. Harry had had an emotionally difficult night, ending in what must have been a small victory, judging by his mood. I’d fallen in icy-cold dead people water, embarrassed myself at a crime scene, and maybe brought a ghost home with me. What I needed, what we needed, was to warm up and have some good, solid Bonding time; the sudden need to feed Harry surged through my core, causing an uncomfortable, craving pull.

  Harry gave a startled chuckle from the next room. His tone was low and teasing when he called, “Come, goose. Your shower is hot.”

  I went into the nearly-dark bathroom and heaved a big, long sigh. “I had a rough night, Harry.”

  Harry made a sympathetic little coo. “Poor baby.”

  “I made a fool of myself.”

  “Of course you did, ducky,” he said soothingly, a warm dose of his intentions trickling through the Bond as he turned out the last of the lights. He didn't need them. He knew that keeping me in the dark as long as he could would heighten my other senses. Under the robe my nipples tingled and tightened at the thought of his feather light fingertips, but he was in no hurry; he slid the robe off my shoulder and nuzzled each bare inch of skin as it was revealed, finally letting the garment fall in to puddle at my feet.

  “Into the spray with you,” he said, his voice so soft and husky that my pulse fluttered in response. I happily complied, stepping into the tile and letting the hot water beat down on me, sending the evening�
�s frozen memories away in a rush. A little sensor underfoot triggered low mood lighting above. I was surprised that music didn’t start playing, but the only sound was the patter of the shower against the glass enclosure, and the rasp and shuffle of Harry’s shoes as he took them off. I watched through the steam in impatient, anxious silence, anticipation thrumming through me; Harry took his time with one cuff link and then the other, setting them aside on the counter with deliberate care. He unbuttoned his shirt, folded it neatly, drawing out his actions to boost my craving. I felt a ribbon of mischief slip through the Bond, and knew he was enjoying my torment. He turned to face me, resting his hip on the counter and gazing at me while he undid the button on his trousers.

  “Soap yourself for me, my sweet,” he said. “Heavens, but you are a marvelous sight.”

  I took up the soap and wet it as the rasp of his zipper preceded the shedding of his pants. Standing naked before me, Harry drank me in, his battleship grey eyes tracking the path of my soapy hands as they slid and cupped and caressed. When they lathered the curve of my breast, his tongue came out to wet his lips. When they played up to the hollow of my throat, he could take no more, and joined me in the shower. With a hungry noise, he said, “Rinse, pet.”

  I let my head fall back and the hot water coursed through my hair, over my face, down my neck. I heard Harry close the glass door and felt him brush against my hip; his hands took over the job of lathering, rinsing, caressing.

  “My, my… someone’s a dirty girl.” One of his hands came up to pull through my damp hair, shaking out the tangles before tickling down my spine to squeeze my ass possessively.

  “I fell in the dead people water,” I said with a pout. “Wait! That’s not sexy. I’m a dirty girl because of other stuff.”

  Harry chuckled. “Other stuff.”

  “Hubba hubba panty-dropping stuff.”

  “Shhhh.” He silenced me with a long kiss. “Such a fuss you make. The only touch of death upon you, my pet, is my own. Here… and here…” His hand made the slippery journey down my waist to slide between my legs and gently explore that most sensitive bud. “And here…”

  Unf. I whimpered and rested my head against the tiles, and heard myself beg, “Feed, Harry.” I had to swallow hard, urging, “Please. Now.”

  Harry’s hand found a slow, steady rhythm, working me with centuries of experience until I ached and burned, his focus licking through the Bond to sense every tiny shift in my needs, adjusting his touch to match it. I felt his otherworldly lips land with a tentative kiss directly over my hammering pulse. For an agonizing moment, he made himself wait, fangs extended, smelling past soap and perfumes to catch his DaySitter’s scent. His free hand slapped the wet tile to steady himself before easing his fangs in until his mouth was flush with my skin, his tongue dancing around the exquisite points of pleasure.

  He trembled once, hard, his whole body going taut as my hot blood hit his system. His feed became fevered and the pace of his stroking hand between my legs quickened, his fingers teasing along my throbbing clit then slipping inside me. Each pull of his sucking mouth threatened to spill me over the brink. I clawed at his back as his flesh warmed under my touch, my own blood stirring in his ancient veins. Desperate animal noises escaped from deep in my throat. I writhed and bucked against his hand; Harry responded with an eager groan.

  Having satiated one hunger, he removed his mouth from my neck, nursing the wounds with a healing lick. Next, he removed his expert, strumming fingers as I throbbed, and replaced them with the promising brush of his cock. I longed to guide him, to wrap my small hand around his shaft, but Harry was too eager, and in one powerful surge, he buried himself inside me.

  I gasped, “God, yes,” and wrapped one leg around him, spreading myself to the surging grind of his hips. As the shower drenched us, Harry pressed me against the steamy glass. His mouth dropped and his tongue teased one nipple then the other, sending bolts of pleasure rocking through my core. I wrapped my hand in his hair, mewling eagerly as the pace of his thrusting matched the beat of my body against his. Pleasure strained through my shaking thighs and quivering ass as each thrust took me closer and closer. I felt him lose control seconds before his lust plunged through the Bond to send me over the edge with a cry. His climax answered mine as he buried himself deep, over and over, wrung out, punctuated by a growl of relief and what sounded like an explosion of French cursing. That made me grin, and before I knew it I was laughing up against the shower’s spray, a wanton laugh that tumbled into the hot mist.

  He had to hold me up as he rinsed me up and toweled me off, and he probably would have carried me to bed if I'd asked. I was absolutely, positively A-OK with letting him do whatever he wanted after that little performance.

  Thus sated and wrapped in a soft towel, I gave a long yawn. “Will you rest with me a while, Harry? My brain is playing ghost tricks on me and I can’t stop thinking about that pond.”

  “Have I ever been known to turn down a cuddle with my companion?” he asked, wrapping a towel around his waist.

  “Thank you,” I said, following him back into my room, admiring the way the cotton cupped his lean backside. “I’ve got so much to tell you, I don’t even know where to start. Probably, I shouldn’t start with the corpse. Or the ectoplasm.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “you might start by introducing me to your guest?”

  I saw nothing in the room that hadn’t been there before. I looked at Harry’s face, and followed the aim of his gaze to a blank spot in the corner, the shadowy part I hadn’t been able to see from my angle in the bathroom. “Guest?” I whispered. “A ghost? Like, you can see it?”

  “Yes, a ghost, my love. The frightened chap crouching in the corner of the room.”

  “Well, isn’t that a major junk-punch.”

  “The lad seems to have followed you home.”

  I remembered the young man pictured in the carte de visite. “Uniform, big ears, kinda goofy looking?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. You might notice how much this displeases me, my pet.”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “I noticed.”

  “I do wish he’d get off the floor. So undignified for a man in uniform to grovel like a wounded mutt under a table. Come, lad, out from there this instant. Stand up, sir, stand and be recognized.” The ghost must have flinched, because Harry let out an exasperated huff. “Well, I’m certainly not going to harm you, son, and she can’t even see you. On your feet, Blue Belly! Chop chop!”

  “Blue Belly?” Why would a big, bad, homicidal poltergeist grovel and hide? “What does he want, Harry? Ask him if he’s seen Britney Wyatt.”

  Harry’s bare shoulders fell. “I would have done, if you had but kept your teeth together a moment longer. You’ve scared him off.”

  I went to the nightstand and grabbed my Moleskine. “Maybe you scared him off with your weirdo nickname.”

  “That was nothing of the kind, ducky,” Harry admonished, going to the closet for a robe and slipping into it. “The lad was a Union solider during the Civil War, called Blue Bellies because of their blue uniforms.”

  “You’re sure he’s gone?”

  Harry made a thoughtful noise of acknowledgment, but something new had caught his attention, and he turned slowly to look at the bathroom. The way his elegant face hardened and his focus sharpened made my scalp prickle. Then he went to ring Mr. Merritt’s bell.

  “Harry?” I found my pencil, and opened my diary to a fresh page.

  Combat Butler appeared in black slippers and velvet robe, cocking his head questioningly.

  “I do believe I will do my reading in this room tonight, Mr. Merritt, if you would kindly fetch my book and my pince-nez?”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Harry staying to sit in my room while I slept should have been comforting. It wasn’t; Harry was newly concerned, and that meant something was wrong. His gaze had strayed to the bathroom again. His pupils were pinpricks in wide chrome rings. I slipped into my nightshirt, got int
o bed, and tried to snuggle in for the night. I was acutely grateful for the hot water bottle Mr. Merritt had tucked beneath the covers, because a chilly thread of my earlier unease was creeping back in like a trickle of cold air under an old door.

  Dear Diary: It’s possible I’m wrong about the ghosts. Which means the whole preternatural science community is wrong about ghosts. Everything spooky is just happening so much. I can’t contain the happy. In case my diary didn’t get the sarcasm, I jotted: Psych! Love, Marnie.

  “Sleep, pet,” Harry said, stroking my cheek tenderly, and, despite everything else, I did.

  ***

  A few hours later, I jolted awake from a half-remembered dream about thrashing around in the murky canal with entirely too many eels and skeleton hands and ice dragons, like some kind of synchronized swim routine in my own personal hell. I found Harry sitting ramrod straight on the foot of the bed, staring at the dark doorway to the bathroom. It was still cute when Bob the Cat stared intently at things only he could see and attacked them in the middle of the night; when Harry was tensed to spring, it was decidedly more ominous. The only light in the room was coming from a blue ceramic canary night light, and Harry was facing away from me, but I knew his fangs were fully extended. Perfectly still, book open and ignored on his lap, Harry hummed with potential energy like a panther ready to pounce on an unsuspecting meal below its perch. His preternatural vision sought movement in the near-dark, while one of his cool hands drifted almost without thinking to smooth the blankets covering my foot. He patted me gently there. I reached for my pencil and saw that the Asiatic lilies on the tea trolley had blackened and curled.

  Dear Diary: Having trouble sleeping. Ghosts are a pain in the bahookie. Love, Marnie. I put the diary and pencil back on the night stand and tried to get comfortable, cramming my face into my pillow and reminding myself it can’t hurt you. It felt like a lie.

  “Mustn’t fuss,” Harry told me, his tone warmly reassuring. It made my eyelids heavy. The weight of Harry’s comfort settled in the front of my skull, lulling me deeper toward peace. “Sleep deeply now, my restless sprite.”