by A. J. Aalto
Wes made an unhappy noise and I looked back to see his eyes had wilted to pansy purple again. It reminded me of the goetic summoning candles, as though they were dancing inside my brother's skull.
“Have you figured out how to not do that, yet?” I asked.
“Do what?”
I wanted to cry with exhaustion. “What do you need Wes?”
“I really need to talk to you in private,” he stressed, wringing his hands. I'd never seen a guy do that before. I couldn't think of anywhere outside of golden age cinema flicks that I'd seen anyone do it. “Before it gets too weird in here.”
“Gosh, why do you think it's about to get weird in here?” I asked him flatly. “Because your sister is radiating homicidal rage?”
Batten interrupted us. “Hood just called. Dunnachie is missing.”
I blinked. “Missing how?”
“As in, he hasn't been seen by his wife or anyone in his precinct.”
“Dunnachie has a wife?” It occurred to me that this wasn't supposed to be the shocking part. “Missing since when?”
“December 8th, went out to buy bread and never came home.”
I threw up my hands. “I have enough to worry about. I don't have time to keep track of Mundanes. I'm tracking ghouls and goetic witches and demon kings. Dunnachie's a big boy. He can take care of his own problems!”
Wesley had gone very quiet and still. I diagnosed this to be the same don't notice me stance he had tried when he found my stash of Playgirl magazines in 1996 and ratted me out to Mom. Now, he also had the stillness of the undead. The guilty silence was the same. I don't know how Batten missed it while he grabbed a soda, mumbled something about my failure to buy beer, and then joined Chapel in the office, where Chapel was talking heatedly on his phone.
Wes said quietly, “Batten thinks I killed that cop.”
“He doesn't think that,” I assured him.
“Oh yes he fuckin’ does,” Wesley hissed, and grabbed for my elbow. He'd only touched me for a second, a brush of fingertips, when he pulled back. His whole body shrank away from me.
I studied him, setting my can down. “What the hell is your problem?”
“Your Talent. I don't want you to, y'know,” his lip curled, “know all my stuff.”
I stared him down. “I know stuff without my Talent, too. Because I know you. Go to my room.” He started to speak and I pointed hard. “Now.”
We shut the door behind us and I watched as he went to my bed, crawled into it, pulled a pillow into his lap. There were more problems on his face than I could handle. I let my head fall back until my shoulders screamed that they weren't going to hold its weight like that much longer; my breath left in one long sigh.
“Wesley, in ten minutes, I'm going to bed. Alone. I am going to sleep. All night long. I don't care if ghouls come a'knockin'. I don't care if a lovesick immortal howls at my window. If a demon king descends upon my front porch, He can just fucking wait there until I'm ready to host Him, cuz I have earned some goddamn sleep and I am going to have it.”
Wesley nodded as I spoke. I don't think he actually heard any of it; he was rapidly agreeing to whatever I said. I should have told him to go clean out the entire shelf of cookies at Mum's market in Ten Springs and bring them home to me.
I said calmly, “So you have ten minutes, Wes-Wasp, whatever your name is. I am only giving you ten minutes because, even though you are a soulless fiend now, you are still my brother. Speak now, and then get out.”
“Harry said time is different for revenants.”
“Harry doesn't like other guys’ privates getting near his stuff.” Clothing, towels, DaySitters. He was sort of territorial that way. “So I hope you're wearing something under that robe.”
“He said that I have to be two hundred fifty before I'd be strong enough to offer the Bond and get a DaySitter of my own. And he said that I have to be about six hundred before I could turn other revenants. He said I probably wouldn't develop my Talent for a year or two. That it takes that long for, uh, UnDeath to really settle in.”
I said tiredly, “He's the expert. Are you thinking I have information contrary to that? Information that you wanna hear?”
“He also said that sometimes young revenants go crazy. That UnDeath has mental health complications for some people, if they have a pre… per .. propensity? Predisposition? Like, if they have crazy people in their family tree.”
I narrowed my eyes. “If you're talking about me, buster, you better watch your mouth. You're already on thin ice, showing up here all glowy-eyed.”
“Marnie, either Harry's wrong about the Talent, or I'm going crazy.”
“Eat someone, you'll feel better.” I nodded thoughtfully. “Shit, drain me. I think that would maybe solve all my current issues.”
Wesley was shaking his head slowly, his eyes full of moisture, glossy with welling tears. Shit, another crying immortal. “You don't believe me.”
“It's not that I don't believe you,” I said, lowering myself to the bed beside him and letting exhaustion pull me right down into a ball. “I love you. You're my blood. But I just can't focus on this right now.”
“Why not?” His eyes flickered, like a candle wavering precariously in a drafty room. The Husky-blue intruded through the violet but only briefly, and together they made an inky mess of his pupils.
I hadn't explained all of the problems I was having. I doubted Harry had either. And certainly neither of us had talked about my sex life or lack of it, or my unfortunate not-so-secret not-so-professional attachment to Batten.
“So you are sleeping with him,” Wesley said quietly. “I thought it was just his fantasies. Not memories, not actual… God, gross. So, you guys actually fucked so hard you nearly broke a motel door? No, don't tell me, I really don't want to know if this shit happened or he just wishes it would.”
I sat bolt upright, shedding my tiredness all at once. “Who said so?”
“Other than him? You. Just now.” Wesley aimed a forefinger at his temple like a gun and pulled the trigger. “I can't not hear you. Right here. Everyone's thoughts. They're scrawling across my brain like stock market quotes.”
I let out my breath. “Holy shit. Telepathy?”
“Maybe,” Wesley said uncertainly. “If it's not my imagination. Think something at me.”
My eyes cut to my nightstand drawer and I thought, my vibrator is neon green and six inches long.
“No it's not, it's purple, I peeked,” Wes said, his grin lopsided. “And it's more like nine inches. Friggin’ horse cock if I ever saw one. Do you gals really need that much? Jesus.”
“Oh my God,” I whispered, grinning. I don't know why. It should have been bad news. But it wasn't; true telepathy was beyond rare. Excited, I tried again. How much of this are you hearing?
““How much of this are you hearing?” All of it. Exactly. And I'm hearing the shit you aren't trying to think at me either. Like, you have nervous gas and you're holding in a fart, wishing I'd go away so you could let it out. Which is kinda stupid, since I'm your brother. I've heard you fart like a million times.”
I threw my arms around his neck. “This is so cool, Wes!”
He laughed into my shoulder. “I guess this means I'm not crazy.”
I wouldn't go that far, I thought in his direction.
“Hey,” he poked me in the ribs, then hugged me back, harder. “If you're happy does that mean I'm going to be okay?”
You don't touch me because you don't want me to know… what, exactly? I thought at him.
Wesley tensed like he was considering pulling away. “Sort of hypocritical, eh? Since I can hear all your thoughts now.”
“My hands form the stronger psi-bridge,” I explained, showing him my gloves. “Hugging me probably isn't going to open the lock on your mental diary.”
“Good to know.”
“You, however, now have an unfair advantage over me,” I informed him. “What can I hide from a telepath?”
“I really
wish you'd hide something,” he said frankly. “Like maybe you could stop having sex thoughts. Altogether. Forever.”
I let out a sharp laugh then realized he was serious. “I'll make you a deal. I'll try to stop thinking along those lines, if you tell me every time you overhear Batten thinking along those lines.”
“You mean every time he thinks about nailing you?” Wes scrunched his nose up, and his perfectly angelic face crumpled. “Sick.”
“Fine, then I'll daydream about every guy I see, in vivid, perverted detail.”
“Ugh, okay, okay.” Wes mock-shuddered with disgust. “You have a deal. How do you want me to signal it?”
“Scratch your nose?”
Wes's shoulders quaked as he laughed and shook his head at the same time. “Fine. Man, you've got it bad for this dude. Weird, right, cuz he's a vampire hunter, and you're a revenant's midnight snack? I don't see how that would work, with Harry. Good thing Batten's moving away.”
My smile died. “Did you hear that in his head?”
“Chapel's. And yours.”
I nodded. “Your ten minutes is up.”
“I know,” Wes said, his grin widening. “You were just thinking how you couldn't wait to get rid of me so you could dive under your pillows and have a nice, long cry.” He paused at the bedroom door, cinching Harry's robe tighter. “I'm not going back to Mom and Dad's.”
“Oh yes you are,” I said tiredly, guessing that I'd been thinking that too, in the bowels of my brain where things bounced along without my knowledge. I stripped off my socks, wriggling my toes in the cool air. “As soon as possible. It's gotten nuts around here. I can't see how I can make sure it doesn't get worse. I need you somewhere safe.” When he squawked I put a hand up to silence him. “I mean it Wes. I need you to be safe.”
He leveled a long look at me. The shade of his pupils had slipped back to blue and softened around the edges. Staring into them was like gazing at Portland Bight on the coast of Jamaica on a bright spring morning. “Hey, I wanna be safe, too, Marnie-Jean. Why the hell do you think I came to you?” He pointed at my nightstand, where a familiar bottle of multivitamins rested. “Picked you up a new bottle, your other one felt light.”
He closed the door without a sound, and I checked the mirror behind me. The black-watch spell notified me of two intrusions: Ajax and the second debt vulture, assigned to Wesley, both high in the trees, both sleeping with one eye open. No ghouls, no invisible crazy ladies (I think), no legions of demons or a fat demon king. The crypt beetles must have found some dead thing to chew on elsewhere, because they weren't on my property. I saw no spitting carrion spiders slinking around in the dark. All was quiet.
Picking up the vitamin bottle and wrangling with the child-proof cap, I guessed Harry was going to have to reign in his temper before he came to fix our Bond. With no one to impress, I could throw on my grandfatherly plaid pajamas and big furry socks, and bundle myself up under extra quilts. My body begged me to do so as soon as possible. The cap finally screwed off and I shook a couple pills into my palm.
And blinked. These were not my vitamins. I frowned at the label. These were friggin’ horse pills if I ever saw them, huge orange things that looked nothing like what I'd been taking for years. I set them aside and slipped into my pjs, but something nagged me. I went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet. The same pill bottle sat there beside Harry's boxed oval hairbrush. Popping the lid, I saw the little white pills I was accustomed to taking, twice a day. My last thought before dragging to bed was: if they're not vitamins, what's Harry been giving me all this time? And why?
FORTY-SIX
I only woke up because someone was trying to kill me.
Batten was tapping me with his big knuckles, right in the center of my forehead, as though the place where a migraine was blossoming was a door to the office of my consciousness. I'd never been woken with such casual disrespect before. It made me want to pinch his scrotum until his eyes popped out. He was crouched beside the bed, and his fresh-brushed minty breath hit me in the nose. I swatted like he was a pestering gnat.
“Got news,” he said. “Get up.”
“Go choke on your own dick,” I advised, rolling over and shoving a pillow over my head, then a second, cramming it tight with one bare hand. Batten ran a finger along the back of that hand, rubbed my knuckles softly. I didn't have the mental wherewithal to wonder what that was about.
“Come on. We let you sleep in, it's late afternoon. Get a move-on. Chapel's waiting in your office.”
“Tell Chapel to choke on it, too. Alternatively, you could gargle each other's balls. Whatever's easiest.”
“We got a call…”
“Mark, I'm exhausted. There are gross and scary things out to get me. In completely unrelated news, I'm never leaving this bed again for personal reasons.”
I heard his knee hit the plank floor, and a shuffle told me he'd given up on the crouching and taken a more permanent stance. My only recourse would be to melt his face off with my morning breath. But then the chances of me sleeping with him again would be remarkably poorer. Still, it was something to consider.
His voice was tentative. “Forensic accountants found Neil Dunnachie's name in Ruby's books.”
A brand new level of headache started budding on one side of my face, right below my eyebrow. I knew this feeling. I'd fed Nazaire briefly, but I hadn't fed Harry enough; ms-lipotropin withdrawal was starting to kick in. Usually a good deep feed would fix it, or a handful of Advil, though I'd rather do the first. I burrowed further under my nest of pillows, sliding a hand under my belly wound to poke and prod curiously at the lack of pain there.
I asked hopefully, “Does Dunnachie do landscaping on the side?”
“Lump sum. Forty-eight hundred dollars about three weeks ago. Standard payment for a vamp staking. Or at least, it used to be when I was freelancing.”
I had no doubt that Batten had done work for Ruby Valli. Before they knew each other through Gold-Drake & Cross? After? During? Guess it didn't matter, unless the answer was still. Then I was in trouble. “You're thinking Neil Dunnachie fire bombed my kitchen?”
“I'm saying it's possible that he was the one.” His voice got more serious. “He's been missing since.”
“Did you know he was a hunter?”
“Still don't,” he said. “Assumption of innocence.”
“What does the Prince of Thieves say?”
A beat. “Who?”
“His partner, former Detective Sergeant current Sheriff Robin Hood.”
“Pretty sure Hood said his name is Robert.”
“You buy that?” I brought my hand back up to my temple and pressed on the divot. “Go get me some Advil. Medicine cabinet, second shelf next to Harry's extra strength Listerine.”
“Hood says he's got no idea about Dunnachie. I believe him.” He paused. “What do you think?”
“I think you need your hearing checked, because I told you to get me some Advil. Pretend I said please.”
“About Dunnachie.”
“My brain isn't going to work so good today. Especially since you make a fuckshit manservant.”
“You'd best remember that. And I'm gonna excuse the attitude because you're obviously in pain. Give me some insight, here.”
“Look, Hood didn't even buy the idea of revenants, never mind hunters, before he met Harry on the seventh. Empathically, I never felt anything from him but constant wariness and surprise. Hood's not accustomed to monsters.”
“That's a world of change for Hood. Meet first vamp on the seventh, see your first ghoul on the ninth, find out your missing partner's a vampire hunter on the tenth.”
I tried finger-pressure on the bridge of my nose to no avail. “Ruby paid Dunnachie three weeks ago, you say?”
Batten made an affirmative noise, thoughtful. It occurred to me, under the safe dimness of the pillows, that we were—for a moment—working together instead of fighting or fucking. Maybe I should drop the attitude and see where this brand
new phenomenon got us.
“If it was for a staking, Dunnachie's not new at it. He waited for you and Chapel to drive away before smoking us out. Not sure why he didn't wait for day light. Maybe he had faith in his abilities despite the time of day. Maybe he didn't see Wes arrive, or didn't know a new revenant when he saw one. Maybe he had to strike when the iron was hot, because you Feds were always around during the day.”
“Think Dunnachie's alive?” Batten asked me.
Man, I was glad I was hidden under down and cotton. I couldn't see how Harry could have lost him in the woods, on land, at night… that made no sense to me. I knew him too well. Human on a snowmobile vs. immortal's shadow-stepping and night vision? Chances weren't great for the human unless he was covered head to toe in holy water and silver crosses. Not to say he wasn't.
“You think Harry killed him,” I said, muffled under my pillows.
“Not necessarily,” Batten said slowly. “I'm saying it's possible Harry tried to stop your brother from killing him. New vamp threatened by fire, defending his sister, things get out of hand, thrill of the hunt triggers him, older vamp tries to step in but he's too late…”
My head exploded from the pillow pile like an erupting volcano.
“You've got some nerve, Mark Batten, to come in here and oww—” I hissed, putting one fist to my eyebrow to quell the shooting pain, “And wake me with a rap of your fist and tell me you think my brother, whom you've just met, is a murderer.”
His eyes flicked to the front of my plaid pajamas, an undisguised peek, maybe in hopes of sloppy buttoning. “You disagree with my hypothesis?”
“Heartily.” Shouting hurt my brain, so I dropped the volume. “With gusto.”
“Would you ask them?”
I opened my mouth to let out a torrent of insults then stopped, blinking. “I can't think of a reason why not. Harry will be very insulted, but I'll preface it with ‘Batten thinks this, not me’.”
“Wesley won't be insulted?”
“He already thinks you think he murdered Dunnachie.”
