Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  Uh, thank you? “I am pretty scary. I'm the only one you've staked more than once, so I can see how terrifying that must seem,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. I thought it might be important to mention, “Harry’s given me his blessing.”

  “Not that you ever wanted or needed permission.”

  Point: Batten. I made an uncertain noise. “Yeah, but, I feel like he wants us to.”

  “Fuck,” he grumbled. “I need a drink.”

  “Karsk?” I recommended, and when he nodded, I got out of bed to fetch some. Dear Diary: relationship talk is the ultimate cock block. Yours faithfully, eternally immature, Marnie.

  Chapter 13

  The circle of clear, empty space beneath pale grey cliffs formed a magnificent wind break, and it was a good thing, too; the savage night gale at the wharf registered a wind-chill of minus fifty-three degrees Celsius. A modern carriage with curtained glass, made to look like a classic covered stagecoach, met us at the harbor. We disembarked in a hurry to escape the wind snatching at our clothes and shoving us off our feet. The only light was offered by stars against the utter darkness of wild skies; with no city lights and no urban light pollution, the black, empty space and the pale splash of the Milky Way above it were our company. Rushing into the warm confines of the motor car, I shifted across the bench seat to make space for Harry while Batten chose to sit on the bench opposite, facing us. The warmth of the interior was nearly overwhelming after the bitter cold outside, and my face flushed and my nose started to run, so I rummaged in my pockets for a Kleenex. I caught the driver’s eye in her rear view mirror as she checked out my bright pink leather gloves. The Blue Sense was already starting to stutter back to life; having been deadened by the effects of the mare tenebrosum for the entire night, and after being unable to Feel any of Rask’s crew, it was a nice sensation, like hearing the laugh of an old friend. The driver was human, the type accustomed to the presence of revenants. I didn’t Feel she had Talent of any sort, and I wondered what her reason was for living on an island full of revenants was if she wasn’t a DaySitter. Surely, mortal humans weren’t trusted to live and work on Svikheimslending? Was the financial gain enough to sacrifice having a normal life in a livable climate? Then I remembered how much people can suck, and envied her, just a little. I was pretty isolated in the cabin at Shaw's Fist, except for all the people who stopped by or left severed heads in my mailbox or tried to blow up my kitchen. Maybe I should ask if she wanted a roommate.

  I adjusted my go-bag and glanced back to watch Konrad Rask managing his DaySitting crew of stevedores as they brought out luggage and supply crates and loaded it on the rear of the carriage with practiced, nearly choreographed efficiency. The way they moved, liquid and lithe, was fascinating. None of them had the Stormbringer’s abilities, Harry had said, but they moved like the wind on the waves.

  Captain Rask’s formidable form dominated the gangplank as he gave his orders with quick gestures that couldn't be stolen by the tearing wind, and then, after assuring himself that we were properly handed-off from his supervision, he checked his pocket watch and performed an oddly snake-like twist— his head turning, then his shoulders, then finally in an oily swipe, his hips swiveling to match the rest of him— to walk back up the gangplank and disappear onto the Meita.

  “When we arrive at Felstein and spend time in the prince’s society, let us not flutter the dovecots, my pet,” Harry advised as supply crates thumped the rear of the carriage.

  “Maybe the dovecots need fluttering,” I answered.

  Batten asked with the lift of an eyebrow, but I answered with a shrug; our matching Harry-humoring shrugs were becoming a habit. Batten seemed more bemused than irritated by the baffling phrases with more constant exposure, or maybe he just wanted to marshal his reserves for bigger fights. Whatever it was, he stared out the window with a funny little introspective smile as the car began toward Felstein, the stronghold of House Dreppenstedt, while I fidgeted with my used tissue.

  Felstein was more mountain than fortress, with a ground floor entrance that made me wonder just how many stairs it would take to get to the top; whatever the answer was, it was definitely too damn many, and despite my training with Hood, I’d never make it. The flag of House Dreppenstedt snapped so high above us that the sound of it was lost to the wind. In the morning, the sun would struggle up to the horizon, but it would not breach the sky, and I wouldn’t see it from within Felstein. There wasn’t a window in sight until the very top.

  How many years had this ridge of stone stood against the waves and wind and time? How long had this shadowy crypt played shelter to residents undead and UnNatural? Who put these blocks here in the first place, up on this godforsaken ice? Whose back strained as they carved out a hollow in crag and cliff for these creatures? Surely not the revenants themselves. People of their era would have owned slaves. Did they still? Were there mortal men and women somewhere in this stronghold, chained and shivering, hungry in the dark? Or had the Falskaar Vouras outgrown the practice? Primeval revenants didn’t tend to shed many of their old habits, the cynic in me proclaimed, but the Blue Sense didn’t report suffering here, not a lick of it. It did report the expected appreciation, a symbiotic form of affection, of need and a natural underlying jealousy and possessiveness that I often found when meeting other DaySitters and their companions.

  The Bond is not an enlightened thing. It reeks of ownership, plain and simple. So maybe there were slaves here, after all, but which camp was truly owned? A DaySitter could walk away from the relationship; it was rare, but it wasn’t completely unheard of, though it was physically, mentally, and emotionally difficult, and hardly something I could imagine attempting. A revenant, on the other hand, was deeply and desperately linked to his living advocate; as long as the Bond to their DaySitter was solid and intact on their end, they would not replace that Sitter, would crave their advocate above all others. In the event of the sudden severing of the Bond, an unprepared revenant was delivered a bone-deep strike like no other. There had been dozens of accounts of heartbroken revenants ending their own ancient lives at the loss of their Sitter. It was a tricky thing when a DaySitter died, whether of accidental or natural causes, and the life of their revenant was often at risk for years following. I ran a gloved hand up the blocks, thinking it might be the revenants who were, in the end, content to be owned, despite outward appearances. And it had been so for longer than we had written histories. When we ducked inside the hall, I wondered what the results of radiocarbon dating would be on the thick torch marks on the stone.

  Batten joined me while Harry made arrangements with the driver outside. Stepping inside was like going from a cold, gray crypt to the back room of the strangest antique shop ever; there were elements of a high-end jewelry shop in the cut glass lanterns, a genuine, fifteenth century French suit of armor with deep dents, a set of threadbare Edwardian chairs, and a Mughal miniature painting on the wall, like a tide crested through the whole world and left flotsam from centuries past against the wall.

  There were two women in the hallway arranging a vase of white roses. The younger was a slight Korean girl who appeared to be about twenty. She wore silver latex from head to toe; a black stripe down her pant legs was studded with chrome spikes. Across her shoulders was a thick white fur stole, complete with a fox head. The color of the fur matched her hair, which was shaved to the skull on the right side and fell in a long waterfall over her left shoulder, spilling all the way to her wide, black elastic belt. The tips were dyed blood red. On the shaved side of her head, a crisp black tattoo began beneath her hard jawline; half a raven, its wing flapping up to caress a hauntingly fair cheek, feathers splayed proudly. This was no casual bleeder; this was a lifer, a dedicated full-timer. She touched one of the roses with a fingernail painted silver, delicately teasing a petal open. Every finger was stacked with chunky platinum rings. She picked up on our scent and turned her head slightly; shockingly pale grey eyes flashed like a cat in headlights. Wrong. Young revenant, too re
cently turned to emanate enough of the void of mortal warmth, the cold cloak that usually accompanied an immortal for me to pick up without looking for it. Probably wasn't even a decade undead, yet, and maybe much less.

  I was floored. I thought Remy Dreppenstedt was the only female revenant. This was a new development; surely Harry would have mentioned it if he had known? Normally, someone’s sex or gender identity wouldn’t matter much to me, but in the case of revenants… it was important. Very, very important. A female revenant was inherently in possession of all nine Talents. If you’re going to dance among the undead, you'd better know exactly who or what you’re dancing with. This androgynous young man had me wrong-footed from the word go.

  The other person appeared to be around thirty and was wearing blush pink ballet slippers under an ankle-length, multicolored hippie skirt complete with beaded tie strings and a smattering of hawk feathers. Over her shoulders, she wore a proper wool cardigan trimmed with freshwater pearls, closed with seashell buttons at the cuffs. Her sandy hair was gathered in a high, loose ponytail that swished with every move she made. Tiny crystal earrings tinkled in silver enclosures dangling from tiny earlobes. The first word that struck me was cute, but it was an eclectic cuteness that was clearly not randomly thrown together; each piece was clearly chosen for nostalgic purposes. The cardigan itself looked like it came from Sandy Olsson’s wardrobe on the set of Grease.

  “Phew, what smells like orc?” she said, looking around and then checking under her left armpit with a sniff. That’s when she caught sight of us, peeking under her raised arm, and her bow lips made a perfect O of surprise.

  There was a moment of hesitation before she approached us, her small feet making soft pats on the uncarpeted stone. The Korean gave us an unhappy once-over and shadow-walked down the hallway and into the nearest room, blinking in and out of view. Trying hard, bless his boots. He didn’t manage it half as well as Harry did, but I appreciated his attempt to impress us mere mortals.

  “Hi, I’m Tara,” our greeter said, flashing two dimples and nearly smothering me in sincerity. “That was Junior. We’re the welcoming committee.”

  Despite her smile, that sounded ominous. The Blue Sense reported genuine welcome and some kitten-like curiosity as she tried to work out who we were and why we were here. Her face was a wide, bright circle of unblemished, sun-starved skin, and her eyes were light, fern-green pools beside which laugh lines stretched. At first glance, she seemed a young woman, but there were signs of age here, little lines and a bit of sag and the flicker of wisdom behind the youthful animation. Tara was in constant motion, like she had an excess of energy, and even standing still she swayed to some internal music; from the way her shoulders grooved, I suspected the bats in her belfry were doing some funky jive, or maybe a little Mambo Number 5.

  I saw the light bulb go on and the gears catch. Tara gasped and looked me up and down with something new, her excitement approaching surprise-party glee.

  “You’re Marnie,” she accused happily, and gave a fancy-footed hop-and-clap. Then she lunged forward and grabbed Batten around the bicep, wrapping her arms around his and squealing up at him, eyes full of naked adoration. “That makes you her Second. Ohmygod-ohmygod. You’re here, you’re really here!”

  She released him and danced backward on her toes, a graceful two skips, before rocketing down the hall, trilling over her shoulder, “I’ll go let the others know!” Her sandy ponytail bobbed behind her as she bounced along. She overshot her aim for the door, skidding in her ballet slippers, her skirt beads clattering; she threw out one hand to grab the door frame and hauled herself out of sight into that room with an infectious giggle.

  “That was... enthusiastic,” Batten said. I didn’t have to be psychic to pick up his extreme skepticism; his hand was easing away from his holster.

  I smiled up in open-mouthed wonder at Batten. “I saw you flinch when she pounced at you.”

  “Thought she was a monster,” he said. “Nearly shot her in the face.”

  I laughed from the belly. “What do you figure is wrong with her? Too much serotonin? Not enough vitamin K? Routine wallops to the side of the head?”

  “Never seen someone so happy.”

  “Maybe she’s soft in the noggin.”

  Batten gave me a tolerant smile and lowered his voice. “Maybe she’s just a nice person, Snickerdoodle.”

  I felt my upper lip peel off a canine and whispered, “Gross.”

  He glanced behind us. “Where’d Tall, Limp, and Pasty go?”

  “Scared?” I smirked. “Need your security blanket?”

  He drew a deep breath and let it out while staring me down. “Any living human being who isn’t nervous walking into a den of vamps is an idiot.”

  I mouthed V-word at him and patted his arm. “I won’t let anything hurt you.”

  He mouthed at me: “Any…thing?”

  Point: Jerkface. I stopped the reassuring patting and gave him a swat. “No one will jump you. Except me. If you’re lucky. Despite what you may think, revenants have stringent rules of etiquette and honor. Harry may be just some dead guy to you, but here, he is Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, Lord Baldgate, turned at the knee of Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, Crowned Prince of the Blood. This is Felstein, the sanctuary of our prince, stronghold of House Dreppenstedt. You might not like this, but while you are here under Harry’s banner, you have an entire house of immortals who would kill to protect you. There is no safer roof for you to be under than this one, right now.”

  I let that settle in for a moment then added, “Also, you should consider this: I protect what’s mine. You are my Second. That makes you my responsibility on Svikheimslending, Mark Middlename Batten. Hey, what is your middle name, anyway?”

  “Kill-Notch.”

  “No, but for real?” I said.

  “Drink some fairy wine with me and guess it,” he replied, content with dangling the unknown over my head. “Give you a clue: it’s not Aengus.”

  “I can guess it,” I said. “It’s Ludwig.”

  “So close,” he deadpanned.

  “Humperdink.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “Is not,” I said, adjusting my go-bag on my shoulder. “I’m in the right area, though. It’s a combo. It’s Humperwig.”

  “Just so,” he answered.

  “Now you sound like Harry, Mark Humperwig Batten.”

  My Second. I hadn’t let that sink in too deeply myself until right this minute. My Second. Mine. I snuck a peek up at him: shoulders like a mountain range, arms that could crush boulders, resting jerk face, calculating eyes that took it all in, missing nothing, behind which an intimidating intellect devoured the details. I felt the sudden urge to get him the hell out of here, but couldn’t imagine why; he was, as Harry often pointed out, a veritable killing machine. His jaw did that clench-unclench dance and his trim goatee bristled with the movement. I flashed back to a time, not so long ago, when he and I ducked into the boathouse to escape an invisible Ruby Valli and quick-hatch a survival plan; I remember watching the blood crusting in his nose, his nostrils flaring as he caught his breath. I had vowed then to give up cookies if the Dark Lady would get his ass out of the situation alive. She had, and I had, for the most part, unless a gingersnap is a cookie, which it totally isn’t, because it’s a snap, obviously.

  If anywhere on Earth was beyond the sight of the goddess, it was here on Svikheimslending. There would be no junk food vows to barter with beyond the mare tenebrosum. We were on Harry’s good graces, now; only our link to House Dreppenstedt and the favor of our prince would shelter us. It was imperative that I impressed this upon Kill-Notch so that he didn’t do anything too balls-stupid while he was here.

  It took us twice as long as it had taken Tara to get down that same hallway, taking our time, mentally preparing for what we might find around the corner. I could hear another voice questioning her, and Tara’s tremulous voice answering.

  “Thank you, DaySitter,” said a familiar voice, and my b
elly unexpectedly turned to jelly.

  I recalled the owner of that voice, and the first time I had seen him in the woods beside the cabin at Shaw’s Fist. Harry’s maker had once appeared halfway across the world by phantom bilocation, his shade tall and gaunt, narrow-faced, his chin coming to a point. Pale to the point of being bluish, he’d borne a mantle of honest-to-goddess wings, black-feathered and magnificent, a drape that spoke entirely of post-angelic grace. Slipping out of the darkness in that otherworldly glide that reminded me so much of Harry, wearing ermine, velvet, and fine leather, he’d made a gripping first impression on me mentally and physically, setting all my nerves on fire. The fact that he'd arrived on the heels of some serious sexytimes with Harry might have colored my opinion and skewed my judgment a tad, but I'll never tell.

  Our first meeting had seen Wilhelm’s sharp features soften when he looked upon me, making me feel known, completely known, right to the core, and very welcome. There was no estimated age on record for the being currently going by the name Wilhelm Dreppenstedt, but there wouldn’t be: this creature had existed before humans began recording their histories in writing.

  For safety reasons, Batten knew none of this; I hadn’t shared a thing about the prince of the Dreppenstedt line beyond that he was Harry’s maker, and the Master revenant of this house. The vampire hunter in Batten knew that if he staked Wilhelm, every other revenant under him would fall to ash immediately without exception; Wilhelm was the source of their continued existence, the wellspring of power that kept these undead animated and at full strength. Any suffering to befall Wilhelm would trickle down the bloodline and attack each and every Dreppenstedt on the planet.

  I wondered if Mark was thinking that now, as we approached the room that contained Harry’s maker. The importance of keeping Wilhelm safe grew stronger and stronger in me with each step I took toward the man. Man, Marnie, yes, that’s right, I told myself. Remember that. Not a creature, but a man. This correction, and my urge to protect him, were the Bond’s doing, I knew. Knowing didn't change how overwhelmingly imperative that urge felt.