by A. J. Aalto
“Lord Dreppenstedt, Marnie,” he greeted, doing a double-take at my bald head. Seeing Unflappable Chapel momentarily speechless was new but it did not last long. “I, uh, did find that box in storage, Lord Dreppenstedt.”
I cast an inquisitive look at Harry, who began searching through some familiar-looking piles of letters. My fan mail from ages ago at Gold-Drake & Cross. Well, that wasn't ominous at all. I took the small pizza gratefully and smiled tightly at my old boss.
“Which box?” I asked. “What’s all this about?”
Wes read someone’s mind and said, “Whoa. Trippy.”
“Ah yes, I thought so,” Harry said victoriously, drawing out an open locket on a necklace, bouncing it in his pale hand. He showed me the picture of a melancholy young vampire-wannabe dude, narrow of face, dark hair brushing his shoulders. I’d seen this before on a news segment regarding famous psychics, something Batten had set up with the news station. A gift from my “biggest fan” supposedly. I recognized him.
It was Wymon. Young, yes, but unmistakably Wymon. I blinked with disbelief at Harry, who just smiled, and began to talk Gary Chapel through the care instructions for our many varied collected housemates and yardmates. Through the Bond, I felt the distinct thread of Harry’s smug, private amusement. He hovered behind me as I closed the locket and put the necklace back in the box with the rest of the past, where it belonged.
The grimoires went into the herb cabinet, where they belonged.
My Moleskine, I held like a shield in front of my belly. My Cold Company continued to shadow me as I slipped into the bedroom with it, and I could feel his inquisitiveness teasing at me through the Bond. “I will indulge you in any way I know how, but... Greasepaint Daddy? The mind positively quails, ducky. Or should I call you Mona?”
And thus, the clown porn went in my nightstand, where it belonged.
I turned on Harry with a grin, and buried myself in his embrace, where I belonged.
