Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  For my part, I waited until Golden returned to her painting before swiping my roller again. “So why is he here tonight?” she asked.

  “He’ll say he’s coming to help,” I guessed, “but what he’ll actually do is snoop around and make disparaging remarks about the state of Batten’s wardrobe.”

  “Care to make a wager?” Golden suggested. “I’m betting because I’m here, he’ll take over the painting. You know, rescue the damsels in distress from the dragon that is this job.”

  I smiled; I could see why she’d think that. Saying Harry was a little old-fashioned was like saying the Pope was kinda religious. That being the case, I couldn’t imagine my Cold Company doing manual labor that risked getting paint on his Anderson & Sheppard trousers, not for Golden, not for me, and certainly not for Batten.

  “You're on. Next check at Claire's?” We shook on it, and I tried to remember what the most decadent thing on the menu was. I think it was a chocolate croissant with maple filling. Maybe I'd get two, just to rub it in.

  When Harry did come wading through the maze of haphazardly-stacked cardboard boxes, wearing the high collar of his bespoke navy pea coat popped against the inclement weather, the temperature of the room began to sink; revenants carry a chill with them like an immutable cloak, and some mortals get an involuntary shiver crossing paths with the undead. His touch of the grave felt familiar and, oddly, my half of the office began to feel temporary, like my arrangement sharing office space at Batten’s was a short-term deal. Then again, to my Cold Company, Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, just weeks into his four hundred and fortieth year, most anything would seem short-term. Harry was waggling my cell phone at me urgently; I’d left it in my purse at the front door and hadn’t heard it ring.

  “The Orc Quarter is on fire, love,” he informed me without the preamble of a greeting. His posh British accent was crisply summoning, and laced with immortal power that likely set Golden’s goose bumps flaring. I couldn’t have ignored his voice if I tried. Few humans could, but certainly not his DaySitter. “The fire chief would like you to pop over and take a peek.”

  Normally I’d have said something cheeky, but the words “Orc Quarter” stomped my wit. I felt my brow knit. “I’m sorry, the what?”

  “The Orc Quarter in Schenectady.”

  “Schenectady,” I said, seeking clarification, “New York?”

  “Just the place, yes.”

  “Has an Orc Quarter?”

  “Well, I assume they must have, ducky, if the Schenectady Fire Department is ringing you up to attend to it,” he chided, then tried to hand me the phone. When I scowled at it, he clucked his tongue.

  “See, this is exactly why I stopped working for the feds and went freelance, so I can tell people who call me on Boxing Day with flaming orc problems to hop up their own ass,” I said. “Besides, there are two preternatural biology labs in Manhattan and a branch office for Gold-Drake & Cross. Why do they want me?”

  “One wonders,” he agreed. “Shall I inquire?” I rolled my eyes; Harry mistook this as a request, and spoke into the phone. “Might one inquire as to why you are requesting the presence of Ms. Baranuik of all people, Chief Fitchett?”

  I sighed, took my Dr. Pepper back from Golden, and downed it, wishing there was more. I had a feeling I was going to need it.

  Harry relayed, “Mister Fitchett says the Schenectady police have one resident in custody that is refusing to talk to anyone but the Litenvecht Späckkenhuggar.”

  I waited for the rest of it. When there wasn’t any more, I prompted, “And?”

  “Apparently, my pet, that would be you.”

  “I’m the Licken-Vicken Spackle-Smuggler?” I pointed at my chest with a gloved finger.

  “Quite so.”

  “What the hell is a Lite-Bright Spunk-Shucker?”

  “Since the Orc language is a largely borrowed tongue, and they originate in the area now known as Sweden, I’m going to translate the phrase roughly as either ‘small killer whale’ or ‘Little Orc-Killer.’”

  My jaw dropped. “But I’m not the little orc killer. Or a big orc killer. I've never met an orc, much less killed one. Unless they mean I'm little, which, I guess is true. But still, that's some bullshit.”

  “This I know,” Harry replied patiently. He continued to waggle the phone at my face.

  “I’ve never even seen an orc, except for blurry videos and a preserved fetus in an UnBio lab.”

  “This does not surprise me in the least. Nevertheless, they would like you on-site as soon as possible, and when you’re done with that, the Schenectady police have an orc in custody with whom you are to have what I hope should be an illuminating conversation.” When I made no move to take the phone from his outstretched hand, he noted, “My heavens, but your entrepreneurial spirit certainly does leave something to be desired.”

  I had started my own business as a private psychic detective, hanging my digital shingle online just the day before – a Yuletide present to myself, in a way – and until Harry had shoved the phone in my face, I wasn’t aware my number was even listed on the site yet. I was tempted to answer with, “How'd you finger my digits?” but that might not be good customer service.

  “Harry, you are the worst secretary ever.”

  He nodded his head in assent, but I could feel the mirth swirling through our Bond, so I pursed my lips and flipped him and Golden, who was trying to muffle some unprofessional laughter behind one fist, off.

  I listened for sounds of drooling or panting or chewing on the other end, and when I heard no such monster noises, I sighed and cleared my throat. “Bare Hand Services, how may I help you this evening?”

  Chapter 2

  I ignored a surprised snort-choke and a muffled oof from Golden as she kicked over a pail of paint on the drop sheet, and Harry’s haughty, “Shruff and cinders!” Neither of them had offered input when I was picking out my new business name, so I figured they didn’t get to criticize now. I scowled and waved a gloved hand at my Cold Company to help Golden clean up the paint before the rivers of brown reached the edge and leaked onto the floor, then put my ear back to the phone. The baritone voice on the other end wasted no comment on my choice of company name, which was good, because I’d already had twenty-three frillion business cards printed.

  “Ms. Baranuik, when can I expect you?”

  Whoah. “Easy there, Chief. That depends on whether or not I accept the job, doesn’t it?”

  His tone was as infuriatingly implacable as Harry's or Batten's could be when they felt like they already knew the answer was gonna be what they wanted to hear. “We have more than three acres of burning rubble to explore and I need your insight. The Orc Quarter was situated right in the heart of the old industrial park, mostly in the cellars of abandoned factories. We understand that when a tribe moves on, they put the torch to their old territory to prevent goblins from squatting there, but we also know that orcs don’t leave when they’re comfortable.”

  He already knows more than I remember. I murmured something affirmative while Harry took three graceful steps to circle around behind me, as if that would prevent me from seeing that he was eavesdropping. I took an educated guess. “Goblins are extinct, but old habits die hard.”

  Fitchett went on, “Orcs are long-term tenants. Something made them pack up and abandon the Quarter, and we’re very concerned about what that might be.”

  “I can imagine,” I said. “They're not easily spooked.”

  “They made quiet neighbors. Believe it or not, they kept trouble away and crime down. They ate our garbage. Took it away by the cartload. Saved the city millions.”

  Now I was picturing them as intelligent, mostly-hairless bears living in factories and chewing on old tuna cans, which was horribly un-PC, though I wasn’t sure whether it was more insulting to them or the bears. I gave my right earlobe a tug to try and get myself to focus, a habit I’d picked up from Batten. “Let me guess: your budget isn't the only reason you miss them.”

&nb
sp; “Ms. Baranuik, we’d grown accustomed to our tribe. Our city blossomed after a fairly short adjustment period. Once the human citizens of this town realized they were no danger, things were harmonious for both groups. If we had known there was a problem for the orcs, we’d have fixed it to keep them here. We still would, if it would entice them to return.” Fire Chief or not, this guy sounded like he was giving a press conference, not asking for help.

  “And what do you think I can do for you, Chief Fitchett?”

  “I want you to question the remaining orc, explain our dismay, and ask him if there’s any way we can help… he won’t speak with us. He keeps repeating your title.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t understand how you figured he was talking about me. I mean, I'm fluent in both gibberish and gobbledygook, but I've never heard of the Listerine Spacenugget or whatever the hell he's calling me.”

  “I Googled it,” he said. “Wikipedia entry.”

  “Right.” I sucked my teeth. Great. I’d have to read it; it was bound to be enlightening. I wondered how many other titles I had that I didn’t know about. The media had been calling me the “Great White Shark of Psychic Investigations” for years. My parents had been calling me a traitor and a disappointment. My brother had been calling me a free roof over his head. Harry called me about a million cute and sexy pet names. Claire just called me “Next!” No one had called me an orc killer to my face.

  “I trust my secretary discussed my fee with you?” I asked.

  Harry snorted indignantly, and I gave him a winning smile over my shoulder.

  Fitchett said, “He didn’t, but I’m sure it’s fine. Can I expect you tonight? Tomorrow? My guest seems to understand spoken English. I could at least tell him you’re on your way.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I promised, and listened to him hang up.

  “My dove,” Harry chided. “Do my ears deceive me, or did you just refer to me as your secretary?”

  “Dial down the sass, dead guy. The minute you answered my phone, you put on the mantle of my office assistant.”

  Golden returned to painting. “I ain’t sayin’ a word. But if I did say a word, it would be ‘yikes.’”

  “This is a nightmare,” I agreed. “I can’t interrogate an orc.”

  Harry paused to sweep the turquoise lock of hair out of my face, tucking it behind my ear. “Giddy theatrics aside, I should think this will be good for you,” he said. “To explore, perchance to expand those limited horizons of yours, and learn a thing or two.”

  “Yeah, sure, it starts off with, ‘Marnie, can you help us one more time with this little thing?’ but the next thing you know, I’m being shot at by invisible witches and there’s boggle snot in my eyes and I have goddamn ghost-hair.” I picked up the lock in question to make my point, which had, for the millionth time today, curled disobediently out of my jet black braid and hung in front of my left eye. My hair grew like a wild thing, now, and if I didn’t hack off the ends every other day, I ended up looking like Punk Rapunzel. I’d taken to darkening my naturally blonde eyebrows, because apparently when ghosts touch you and leave behind their own black-and-blue hair coloring as a reminder of their passage, they don’t take into account mismatching of the rest of your body hair. “Hello? Do I look like the best choice for this?”

  Golden wisely pinched her lips shut, but they twitched around some cheeky mirth.

  “More importantly,” I said, glaring at her until she went back to painting and minding her own business, “what's in it for me?”

  “Take Our Young Lad with you. He’s expected back soon, yes?” Harry suggested, motioning with a hand at Batten’s leather jacket slung over a chair. Any man under four hundred years old was a “young lad” to Harry, but lately he had begun referring to Batten as Our Mark, or sometimes just Our Lad. “You’ll share a hotel room. One should imagine he'll indulge your whims by sleeping sans vêtements.” When I blinked at him, he said, “Tout nu. En costume d’Adam. Au naturale,” Harry sighed. “Nude, dear.”

  The light bulb went on and I pictured Batten naked. Again. “Yes, that.”

  “Voila, c’est un fait accompli.” Harry gave an enigmatic shrug, casually, as if he hadn’t just won a minor victory by using someone else’s private parts like a goddamn evil genius.

  I told Golden, “Pretty sure I just got played. Batten’s not even in the country.”

  “Like I said earlier,” she replied, swiping the last bit of wall with brown paint, “'Yikes.' Now…” She held her roller over the drop sheet while pointing it at me. “What are we going to do about that business name?”

  She looked over at Harry and they burst into collective giggles. Harry squeaked out a sound that indicated he might laugh himself to tears, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with a pale thumb and forefinger.

  “What’s wrong with Bare Hand Services?” I demanded. “It’s how I do what I do.”

  “Bless the mark, my pipistrelle!” Harry cried merrily, dropping his hand; his cashmere grey eyes danced. “It sounds very much like a house of ill repute.”

  If Harry’s glee affected Golden the way it usually affected me, she hid it well. She nodded. “Nobody is going to want an invoice from Bare Hand Services showing up on their credit card statement.”

  “Batten will like it,” I shot back.

  “Oh, I’m sure he will.” Golden smirked. “But it’s not a good name for a psychic detective agency.”

  “We’ll see about that. I’ll ask him on the plane.”

  ***

  Kill-Notch didn’t appear the instant a woman said his name, which was a shame, as that would make my midnight fantasies a hell of a lot more interesting. A different young lad would accompany me to New York, with the understanding that he would help if I asked and butt out if I didn’t; when I got on the red-eye to JFK, I did so with my baby brother Wesley, who really needed to get out of the house and chose to risk sitting in business class instead of lurking in the belly of the plane in a travel casket. Wesley fancied himself a self-styled “dude-witch” now, and had been studying my grimoire day and night since his first taste of spellcraft this past summer; I hadn’t had the heart to tell him that it would be much more difficult to entice the Goddess to listen to the pleas of the undead. It was nice to see him showing passion for learning. He’d started growing his hair longer in front so that he could sweep long, Nordic-blond bangs across the scars on the left side of his face, caused by a holy water attack. He stole my peanuts and my copy of Sky Mall, hogged the armrest, and made me wish I was an only child. When I tried to order a vodka and cranberry juice, he cleared his throat disapprovingly and suggested chocolate milk. When I punched him in the arm, it was like slugging a bacon-wrapped cement wall, and he chuckled silently behind his magazine. Nobody likes a smug dead guy.

  When the flight attendant brought my drink, I asked Wes under my breath, “Are you reading minds right now?”

  “If you mean, did I hear you just call me something they wouldn't even print in Letters to Penthouse, the answer is yes.” He eyeballed my little plastic booze cup with his one good eye, a bright, natural, Husky dog blue. When he vamped-out, it turned a sickly, wilted violet color that bothered me less than it had the first time I’d seen it, but more than it should. The fact that my immature twerp of a baby brother was a psychic immortal and I was still bumbling around in a very vulnerable human shell was disturbing and wildly unfair, in my opinion.

  “You really shouldn’t drink,” he informed me crisply, affecting Harry’s fine British accent poorly and sounding more like a character from Coronation Street.

  “No?”

  “Dad drinks.”

  Our father was in serious decline, health-wise, but I hadn’t heard that it was attributed to his drinking. It wouldn’t have surprised me, but no one had remarked on it. “Dad drinks to excess. I’m having one pre-orc chill swill.”

  “You’re already chill,” he said soothingly. “You’re fine. You’ve only imagined bashing me in the
face with your iPad twice since the seatbelt light turned on.”

  “How ‘bout I punch your fangs all the way down to your asshole, would that change your opinion of how chill I am?”

  He chuckled, laying his head back against his seat and closing his eyes. “Marnie-Jean,” he sighed, as though that said everything he needed to say on the matter.

  “Waspley,” I shot back, making a face.

  He grinned but didn’t open his eyes. “Child.”

  “Fuckhorn.”

  “Snatchgoblin.”

  Worst. Vampire. Ever.

  He gave a little laugh and cracked one eyelid, sliding me the side-eye. “I heard that. You’ve been using the V-word a lot more since you started banging Batten again.”

  “Shut up,” I hissed, gulping the rest of my drink just to spite him. I’d have had another, but Wes had a fair point; probably I shouldn’t show up for my very first independent case completely schnockered. “I’m not ‘banging’ anyone.”

  “Lying to a Telepath.” He shook his head, clucking his tongue in a way that reminded me of Harry. “What do you call humping on a desk and ruining a keyboard with bodily fluids? Making love?”

  “Well…”

  “Ah, the romance of rinsing spunk off plastic,” he crooned at me.

  “I fucking hate you so much right now,” I informed him, feeling my lips twist into a rueful smile while my head ducked in retreat closer to my shoulders. I whispered, “I think the man in front of us heard you.”

  He raised his voice. “Hey, there’s no shame in blowing your coworker’s load all over your keyboard. Just keep handy wipes in your desk!”

  The dude in front of us turned his head and snuck a peek at us between the seats.