by A. J. Aalto
“Would that it would do any good to give you such a warning, my pipistrelle, but I have learned over the years that it is better to let you fumble about and learn the hard way. Restraint is the key, my dove. Patience and restraint.”
I smirked. Restraint? “I take it you don’t mean the Victorian-era bondage gear under your bed.”
“Sass,” he chided, but there was a warm push behind his words. “Do not doubt that it grieves me deeply to witness my precious DaySitter making addle-brained choices that can only drive her to the brink of emotional ruin.” Harry added a great drama king sigh for good measure, so that I didn’t miss his faux grief. “One must console oneself with the knowledge that you will eventually come around to my way of thinking, and when you do, my angel, know this.” His cool hand cupped the small of my back, and together we watched Batten back out of the driveway. “I will be here to pick up the pieces. I will always be here to pick up the pieces.”
“Think there’s any chance that I can have a fully-functional relationship with Batten?”
He chuckled. “Don’t be absurd, love, but you are more than welcome to try. Far be it from me to deny you a shot at what happiness a mortal life has to offer. As I said, it pains me, but I will soldier on, bearing witness to your self-destruction, to be the rock you cling to when your ship hits the inevitable reef.”
“Why don’t you be my lighthouse, instead?” I said. “You know, guide me on how to do this shit? You’ve been around for four centuries. You have to have a dating tip or two.”
“My pet!” he gasped. “Would you rob me of the joy of being proved right?” He clucked his tongue. “Such a shame. Never do you give my needs a second thought in that pretty little head of yours.”
I half turned to give him my best side-eye. My black eye was pretty awesome for that, I had to admit. “Because it’s all about your needs, right, Lord Dreppenstedt?”
Harry flashed me a teasing grin that was all fang, and swept back into the kitchen. “Can you doubt it?”
I followed. “You know, my happiness is your happiness.”
“And my grief is your own. Must you continue to vex me?”
“Oh, I’ll show you vexing.” I grabbed his jacket off the back of the kitchen chair. "Oooh, ooooh, I'm crushing your velvet! I'm crushing your velvet! Look, I'm rubbing against the nap!"
"You'll regret this foolishness if I have to come over there," he warned me, whisking his red apron off the rack by the pantry. He grabbed his wooden spoon out of the ceramic frog caddy by the oven, and brandished it at me like a weapon. For a moment, I imagined Mama-Captain’s Spoon of Doom, but found that, now that I was safely home, it seemed a distant thing, something I might have dreamed; the continued ache around my eye sockets disagreed.
“Now, hush, bird,” Harry said. “No more talk of love and rubbish. The biscuit tin is empty and I have baking to do.”
I agreed, “That’s far more serious.”
“And on an even more serious note, I should hope your bag would be unpacked before bedtime.”
I rolled my eyes, but it was easier to go do it than argue any more with him. I marched toward my room, thinking I should change the sheets as they’d smell entirely of Batten, and the last thing I needed right now was to obsess about the vampire hunter. “I know how an unpacked bag irritates you, Harry. I’ll get right on it.”
“My pet?”
I stopped, sensing a sudden shift in his mood. I didn’t have to turn around to know that Harry was staring at me intently; eyes that had seen centuries unfold were studying the set of my shoulders, the tilt of my head, marking in a sweeping instant every clue to my mood even before he could apply the immortal weight of his attentions through the Bond. When I did turn, I saw that his face had softened despite a slight frown.
“Do you…” He bit that off, and shook his head. Then he half-smiled at his own inability to speak his thoughts, and gave a little laugh. “Good Heavens, how ridiculous.”
“Harry?”
“Do you suppose I am the sort of man who would deny you true happiness in favor of my own?”
I cocked my head. “Is that a real question?”
“Only when it comes right down to it,” he said, “I admit, I am not entirely sure.”
“I don’t think a man your age could have doubts about his own character.”
He shook his head again, and that sad laugh returned.
“Say it, Harry,” I said, showing him my open hands in an imploring movement I must have picked up from Chapel. “There’s nothing you can’t tell me.”
“For certain, my teasing notwithstanding, I will always endeavor to do what is in your best interests.” Despite his drawing himself up to full height and nodding decisively, he didn’t seem certain at all.
“You know what sort of man you are, Harry,” I said, and if it hadn’t been for the quiver of vulnerability and shame I felt through the Bond, I would suspect he was pulling my leg. “And so do I.”
“Perhaps I am smaller than I imagine,” he said. “I do hope that your future adventures do not expose me.” He looked around the room as though waking from a bad dream, dusted off the front of his apron, and nodded once more. “Right. I have cookies to bake, and you have a bag to unpack. Off with you, ducky. I shall bring you a nightcap momentarily.”
***
My go-bag rested beside my bed, and it would be easy to unpack. Inside was the grocery bag, and inside that was a soft gift wrapped in tissue paper and too much transparent tape. There was a note on the tissue paper in Schenk’s barely-readable scratch on the back of a police services business card.
Even though you spilled coffee all over my paperwork, busted my clock, made me gain ten donut pounds, and called me a “soft softie of softiness,” I made you a hat. Thanks for the help and the nightmares, Cinderblock. Keep warm and stay safe. P.S.
There was nothing after the P.S., and it took me a second to remember those were Schenk’s initials. Ignoring his command that I wait until Christmas, I unwrapped the tissue to find a lump of orange and yellow banded knitting, with strings for tying under a chin; a hat like Jayne Cobb’s from Firefly, only the most kickass knit hat ever. I dug in with both hands, squeezing the softest wool my hands had touched this side of Harry's Vicuna scarf, and when the Blue Sense flared, it offered a glimpse of a protective streak a mile wide. Wound deep into the fibers by his own hands was a permanent recording of the strength I’d come to count on, through the wild and the weird, the cold and the treacherous, dangers both mundane and spectral. I bet if I put this hat on, some of that imbued strength would pass on to me, fill me with memories of a stubbornly unconquerable ally; if it imparted to me a fraction of Schenk’s fortitude, I’d be unstoppable. I plopped it over my black ghost hair, struck a Wonder Woman pose in the mirror, and grinned.
Yes, I thought, flexing my puny biceps, aiming finger guns at imaginary wrongdoers and miscreants. Look out bad guys. I would be ready for my next monster. I would be ready for future battles.
I would be ready for anything.
The End
ALSO BY A.J. AALTO
Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files, Book One) The media has a nickname for Marnie Baranuik, though she’d rather they didn’t; they call her the Great White Shark. A forensic psychic twice-touched by the Blue Sense, which gives her the ability to feel the emotions of others and read impressions left behind on objects, Marnie is too mean to die young, backed up by friends in cold places, and has a mouth as demure as a cannon’s blast.
Death Rejoices (The Marnie Baranuik Files, Book Two) Marnie Baranuik teams with the FBI’s preternatural crimes unit to discover that vampire hunters aren't easily rescued, secrets don’t stay buried, and zombie hordes are a pain in the ass to kill.
Cold Company (A Marnie Baranuik "Between the Files" Story) Bumbling forensic psychic Marnie Baranuik enters the world of a missing woman to find her before her stalker does
Dirt Nap (A Marnie Baranuik “Between the Files” Story) Beset by a rampagin
g stone monster and a furious quarry owner, trapped between a rock and a hard-ass, preternatural expert, Marnie Baranuik faces her biggest challenge yet, and discovers once and for all if size really does matter.
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