Touched

by A. J. Aalto

  I rocked forward. “Kristin Davis the actress?”

  “No, Kristin Davis the twelve-year-old girl from Denver.” He mimed opening the file like a dickhead.

  Point: Batten. I had the almost irresistible urge to crack my jar of newt eyes over his head. My scruples jabbed me. “Gimme the damn file.”

  TWO

  The manila folder Chapel drew out of his laptop case was slim. The edges of photo paper that peeked out of this folder looked like black mold on the lid of Tupperware long forgotten behind the pickles in the back of the fridge. A complicated file number was written in blue ink, in Chapel's recognizable blocky handwriting: PCU18744. I reached out one leather-gloved hand and tapped the folder. Leather gloves (I have them in all colors imaginable) are a Groper's best friend, a necessity for any touch-psychic of merit. One never knows where horrible images are lurking, ready to jump out and assault a sensitive brain.

  Out of habit, I took a No. 2 pencil from my frog-shaped ceramic jar to make notes in the margins of an abandoned Sudoku puzzle, but also to make Batten wait. When someone says “jump”, Marnie Baranuik is more liable to kick them in the yambag than ask “how high”? I doodled a googly-eyed caricature of him with Xs for eyes and a protruding tongue. I added a ukulele and some tulips. Knowing I couldn't draw the sport sock without cracking up drained an ounce of throbbing heat out of my temples.

  Standing vigil as a doorstop in one corner of the office was a weighted stuffed teddy-frog, and another stuffed frog with a shocked expression rested in a chair in the corner. My espresso cup was decorated with Monet's water lilies, across which some internet artist had added fanciful cartoon frogs. Two of the three of us in the room knew I had a tiny poison dart frog tattooed between my shoulder blades. Some people collect teapots. I'm froggy-obsessed.

  Summoning my nerve, I flipped to the first photo. It was dated and time-stamped early this morning and it was worse than I thought it would be; they always are. Instantly I regretted my big greasy breakfast.

  A headless body in the early stages of blossoming into a woman lay naked and fragile, too pale against the dirty grey asphalt. Conscious of today's pelting hail, I imagined laying nude and prone in that hard grit and ice-strewn alleyway between an overflowing dumpster and a brown brick wall filthily stained with who knows what. Kristin Davis’ remains were surrounded by countless standard-issue boots in mid-shuffle. There are always too many witnesses to a bad end. You'd think the cold weather would hinder some of the curious; it doesn't, especially if the case has even the faintest whiff of the preternatural. I found my shoulders aching and realized I'd pulled them up to keep my neck warm, even though the woodstove was blasting and the cabin was toasty.

  The next picture in the series was a close-up of small matching pairs of puncture wounds on the pale, tender inside of the right thigh. I clenched my fist and the leather creaked. I wished I wasn't wearing the crimson gloves. They felt gory.

  “We thought vampire,” Batten said.

  “The nineties called, Kill-Notch, they want their politically incorrect terminology back. No one uses the V-word anymore,” I murmured, not wanting to bring the next picture closer for inspection and doing it anyway. “That being said, I see why you'd suspect a revenant. No livor mortis, not enough blood left in her body to pool. But here's the problem with your theory: I'm not seeing necrosis, no early signs of crypt plague. When yersinia sanguinaria strikes, the early signs pop within minutes: black marks across the side of the neck,” when the body has a neck, my cruel brain piped up, “and under the armpits, anywhere the lymph nodes are.” I brushed my fingertips over the picture to show them. “Has toxicology screened the tissue around the wounds for V-telomerase and ms-lipotropin?”

  “They will. If this is the primary crime scene, he drained her before he took her head off, as there's very little blood at the scene,” Chapel said, his pen moving without benefit of his full attention. Neat trick. “Why did he want the head?”

  “Trophy?” Batten suggested.

  I shook my head no, hoping he was wrong. “Anything's possible. What I know about aberrant revenant psychology could fill a change purse.”

  “Find that hard to believe,” Batten replied. His attitude made me want to put him in a head lock, so I eye-rolled my focus back to Chapel.

  “If you came here to ask me what a revenant needs a girl's head for, Agent Chapel, you wasted the drive. I don't know.”

  “We're not profiling a human being.” Batten edged forward in his chair. “The why doesn't matter. The laws are clear on vampire crimes.”

  “Revenant,” I corrected stubbornly.

  “We find it, we stake it.”

  “There's no we.” I made a gloved fist on the desk. “You find him, you stake him. Butchering men was never part of my job description.”

  His knuckles whitened on the corner of my desk. “They're not men.”

  Chapel cleared his throat; the noise was soft and polite, yet succeeded in withering Batten and I like two schoolyard scrappers caught by a teacher. I wilted back into my chair. Batten went to the window to finger apart the wood slats of the blinds and peer out across the front yard, where their black SUV in the driveway practically screamed federal law enforcement. Hail continued to strike the glass in front of his unreadable face.

  “We don't believe it's the primary scene,” Chapel continued. “Draining someone isn't a silent crime and takes time. This alley is in a high traffic spot in lower downtown Denver. She would have called out for help.”

  “Not necessarily,” I told him. “If the revenant was over a century dead, he may have been able to override her attempts to scream with mind control. Some develop it, some don't.”

  “Has yours?” Batten said without turning around.

  My already taut shoulders tightened a notch, the desire to spin-kick the holy shit out of him quelled only by the fact that I can't kick without falling on my ass. Also, there was the probability that Kill-Notch would grab my foot en route to his face and snap it in half.

  “It's conceivable that she sat there in silence while he drained her,” I said.

  “Maybe you can't help us,” Batten conceded, returning to claim space up against my desk as he got in my face. “But is there any way I can pry your stubborn ass out of this little log mausoleum here to try?”

  Shit. Don't look at his zipper don't look at his zipper…

  Amazingly, my eyes obeyed and met his with a cool steadiness I didn't feel; I was fine until I realized memories of our enthusiastic sex were written all over his face, subtle but unmistakable, a hot glint in his eye meant only for me. My self-control jerked off-balance like a high heel on a patch of ice. Mental clutzery, my specialty. I was forced to swallow hard, broadcasting the direction of my thoughts. One corner of his lips twitched into a knowing curve. He returned to his chair, leaning back, knees open in invitation. Point: Batten.

  I forced my eyes on the last picture; grossing myself out helped. This photo captured the slight headless body plus a set of women's long legs. Instant recognition sucker-punched me: Michael Kors wedges, opaque nylons on shapely calves, silver ankle bracelet with dangly charms. Silver bells. I knew the clappers tinkled with every step she took.

  I slapped the folder closed and shot it back across the desk in Batten's direction. It spilled onto the floor in a fan of photographic gore.

  “You don't need me.” I heard my voice tremor and forced it out evenly. “Time for you to go.”

  Chapel scrambled to gather up his pictures. “Is there something…?”

  “Sorry, Gary,” I clipped. “You have to leave. Now.”

  Batten stood. “Marnie—”

  “Get out!” I shouted, bolting up. My chair clattered to the floor. If I was pyrokinetic, Mark Batten would be a pile of ash in a second. He opened his mouth, and there wasn't any way I could hear him say my name again without bursting into tears. “Are you fucking deaf? Get the hell out of my house!”

  “Too right,” a crisp British voice agreed fro
m the office doorway. “I should think that will not be an issue, now that I am here.”

  The knot in my gut dissolved instantly. The sound of Harry's smart London accent was an injection of refinement and gravitas, like switching on the BBC news or summoning one's English butler. My housemate lounged in the threshold, effortlessly more vibrant than either of the humans. He was only five foot seven, short for a man, but the unnamable otherness that marked him as immortal made him loom, and his whip-slim build masked infernal strength. Any room Harry entered soon became ten degrees cooler; he carried it with him like an immutable cloak, the chill that seeped in around my ankles.

  Harry was a revenant who refused to dress it down. His nobility predated his turning. I suspected his egotism and fastidiousness did too. Today he looked like Fred Astaire might have, sartorially speaking, if Fred had been undead while tapping Putting on the Ritz: black coat tails and dove grey ascot, white spats on immaculate black Oxfords. Garnet cufflinks were like fat droplets of old blood on French cuffs that covered a fresh tattoo on his pale wrist. Except for the three tiny platinum loop piercings in his left eyebrow, and the thin white iPod ear bud cord snaking down into his shirt collar, he looked like the perfect aristocrat. The top hat was missing; I was sure it would be resting on his end of the kitchen table.

  “Gentlemen, it would appear that you have worn out what short-lived welcome my DaySitter had afforded you,” he observed. “I must insist on escorting you to the door. Might I recommend you not return without an invitation?”

  It was not a question. Batten's square jaw worked on clenching and unclenching again. If he wasn't careful, he was going to gnaw a hole in his cheek. His eyes were impenetrable dark matter, nailing me across the vast expanse of Harry's desk. It satisfied me to know Harry could sidle up silent and unheard behind the infamous vampire hunter: Kill-Notch was only human, after all.

  “Got a license for that thing?” Batten said low. He knew perfectly well that Harry was legal.

  “Why?” I leaned across the desk, splaying my fingers like I was planning on doing push-ups. “Did you bring rowan wood into my house?”

  “Kit's in the trunk of the car,” he assured me.

  I felt my lip curl. “And what makes you think you'd make it as far as the fucking car?”

  “Ducky,” Harry reprimanded me softly, and then addressed the hunter. “I salute your optimism, Mr. Batten.”

  “Agent,” Batten corrected.

  “Hmm, yes.” Harry sounded unconvinced. “Your darling imitation of testicular fortitude notwithstanding, I have offered to escort you out. ‘Tis conceivable you have grown muscles betwixt your ears and consequently may be excused for not hearing. To be sure, I should not have expected to repeat myself for an attentive gentleman such as Agent Gary Chapel. How do you do, Agent Chapel?”

  “Good morning, Lord Dreppenstedt,” Chapel said over his shoulder, as he subtly checked his watch. “I hadn't anticipated you to be… around, at this time of day.” He stood, swiftly collected his things, zipped his heavy coat right to the neck almost protectively. “I'm sorry you had to see any of this, Marnie.”

  “She's seen worse.” Batten's eyes flicked meaningfully at Harry and settled on his chin, avoiding direct eye contact. “Nice tux.”

  Harry performed the shallowest of bows. When he straightened, the feather grey of his irises had fled, leaving a thin warning ring of high-gloss chrome. I lifted my cup to my lips to hide my smile and let my Cold Company have his moment; how he did enjoy his subtle dramatics.

  Harry's unearthly glance flicked at me in question, seeking permission; through our Bond I felt the stirring push of anticipation. I gave the barest shake of my head: don't you dare.

  Chapel paused at the door, lingering close to the revenant: ballsy or trusting? Gary Unflappable Chapel. “Marnie, I have to ask you both where you were on Tuesday night?”

  “Don't even.” I set my cup down hard. “You know my Harry doesn't do shit like this.”

  “May I phone you, pick your brain about this case?” Chapel pressed.

  “You have another psychic working it.” My stomach coiled-up like a snake spitting hot acid. “So there's really no need.”

  I strode out from behind my desk, backing them into the hallway. I like to think it was me who was intimidating them, not Harry.

  “Don't ever doubt you're needed, Baranuik,” Batten said gruffly. “Happy Shark Week.”

  Shark Week? I scowled my confusion, speechless until he was out the front door, jogging to the SUV with his leather jacket pulled over his head to shield from the hail storm. Baranuik, like I was one of the team. One of the guys. My gloved hands were shaking as I balled them into fists.

  “Go to hell, Mark,” I said, too late. Chapel was barely in the car, his door ajar, when Batten slammed into reverse. I watched them lurch out, the spinning tires spitting frozen gravel in the drive.

  Thunder rolled overhead. Thunder in December. Hail mixed with cold sleet instead of thigh-high snow. Was nothing as it should be? At nearly nine in the morning, it still looked like midnight outside, the sky blanketed with dark wool and misery. Naked branches shivered and clawed at the edges of the property, clicking together, making woeful music with the wind that moaned against my little cabin. Kristin Davis would be at the morgue now, waiting in a drawer for her turn to endure the indignities of an autopsy.

  My Cold Company moved behind me, raising all the little hairs on the back of my neck, not an unpleasant experience and very familiar. Discomfort washed through me; I knew it was as much Harry's as it was mine.

  “I thought you quit so you would not have to see that man again,” he said.

  It wasn't until I noticed the box of Kleenex in his hand that I started to cry.

  THREE

  Even chin-deep in bubbles, with aromatherapy candles and a much-too-early cocktail, it's difficult to relax in the bath when a four-hundred-and-thirty-five-year-old vampire is sitting cross-legged on the closed lid of the toilet, staring at you. Revenant, I thought-corrected fiercely, pissed that Batten had stuck the v-word in my head.

  “So they have replaced you already, and with such meager substitution,” Harry said, inching forward as though it was fascinating gossip I'd collected on someone else.

  I did my admittedly bad Al Pacino, clenching a sudsy fist. “Just when I think I'm out, they pull me back in.”

  “Thrown you in a mopple, has it?”

  As I soaped, I felt his preternatural probing wash over me, licking through our Bond to taste my emotions; it was like being probed in the brain by rubber-fingered aliens. He didn't have to do it that way. Harry could be exceptionally subtle. Apparently Harry wasn't in the mood for subtle. The FBI agents in his home had him flustered like a murder of crows disturbed from their roadside pecking.

  “I'm fine. In fact, I'm relieved.” It was pointless to lie to Harry of all people, but fuck it, it sounded good. “Now that Batten's officially recruited his little airhead, he's got no reason to pester me.”

  “Yet they were here, and one is forced to wonder why,” Harry said with a hint of a smile. “It is increasingly evident that without you the police, most notably your agents of the preternatural crimes unit, have the devil by the nose.”

  I said dryly, “They're not my agents.”

  “You must concede that you have made an impression with the hunter.” Now there was a full-fledged twinkle in his eyes. “He moved Shark Week up several months to celebrate it with you.”

  He showed me the newspaper headline again: Marnie Baranuik, the Great White Shark of psychic investigations, lets child serial killer slip through her jaws.

  I hate sharks. Sharks eat people. I, on the other hand, do not. I have no plans to start, either. So how the hell am I remotely shark-like? And why was it my fault the killer escaped? I wasn't the only person on that team. I motioned for Harry to throw the paper in the trash; he tucked it behind his back.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Batten's only coming around to get close enough to
stake the cheeky dead guy I share my life with.”

  Harry nodded once in genial concurrence. “Are you quite sure it was Danika Sherlock in the photograph?”

  I sank deeper in the shelter of hot water, not wanting to think about those ankles: claimed ankles, spoken-for ankles, betrothed ankles. That silver bracelet might as well have been a sparkling engagement ring with a lady killer diamond, the way it twisted like a jagged piece of ice shoved under my heart and jerked around in my vitals.

  “My gut would recognize those ankles anywhere.”

  Harry frowned as though my sentence hadn't made sense. It made his eyebrow rings twitch, the platinum reflecting candlelight. “The bigger issue is: how can they employ this over-switched nizzle-toppin without rousing controversy?”

  “Nizzle-toppin,” I repeated, as though just making sure I heard him right. I felt my lips tug into a reluctant smile. “At least she's not downright phony.”

  “Oh, but she is, if we are speaking of boobs,” Harry offered. I loved how he said con-trov-ersy, and how his “issue” was said with soft, snake-y Ss, but it never failed to strike me as bizarre when words like “boobs” popped out of his mouth in his posh Queen's English. He'd slipped off his jacket, but the ascot remained, and the mother-of-pearl buttons running the front of his crisp white shirt were sheer perfection. He'd rolled up his sleeves to the elbow; now I could see my name in calligraphy tattooed on his left wrist.

  “Though it grieves me to say so,” he continued, “Agent Chapel appears to be recruiting a fine tribe of malefactors; scullions and kitchen knaves, blackguards and fools, your codding bully-rook of a hunter, now this rigmutton rumpstall. And whilst your nemesis, she of the bejeweled ankle, certainly possesses a resplendent flair for staring attire, something which you obstinately refuse to adopt…”

  He paused to give me space to retort, lifting his eyebrows as though expecting an explanation. I blinked long and hard at him; I was sure there must be an insult buried in all that antiquated rigmarole, aimed at me.