Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  “Espresso. Cookies. Monsters.” Rings. Blood. Death. I tried not to look at Malas again, and succeeded by glancing at the Sarokhanian banner, and then Prost’s banner, and away quickly. Too many scary dead guys. “You know, the usual.”

  Together, we watched Aston Sarokhanian enter the room; I could tell it was him by the instant stiffening to my left, and Batten’s tight inhale, which he tried to disguise as a sniffle after the fact. He didn’t look as scary as I’d expected, not gnarly and wizened like Malas. Nevertheless, catching a glimpse of Sarokhanian was like spotting a venomous spider skittering up the wall of a special tank at the zoo; the horror was real, and the safety was illusionary, because the only thing keeping us safe was as breakable.

  “Sorry you came?” I asked Batten.

  He took a long moment to think about that before answering, and I could see the consideration in his deep blue eyes; of course, there was some influence from his being raised by his grandfather, Colonel Jack Batten, but did the colonel’s disappearance keep him motivated to continue the work? Was there something else? There had been a time when I was sure Batten was a closed book, sure that he’d never choose to confide in me. One morning, in the Starlight Dreams motel, after an aborted drunk seduction attempt on my part, he’d taken the first step to sharing; he’d shown me the knotted scar atop the femoral artery in the crook of his groin. It was an ugly reminder of a forced feed after the attempt to stake Sarokhanian had gone terribly wrong; Sarokhanian was a precognitive, had known the team was coming ahead of time, had prepared for them. Now, Colonel Jack was missing in action, presumed dead, just like the rest of the team had died. I'd never found out how Batten escaped. I wondered if Sarokhanian would recognize him; once a revenant had the taste of someone, he never quite forgot. I knew that Harry still craved the taste of Chapel’s blood from some illicit feeding they had done behind my back years ago. Would Aston’s taste buds alert him to the scent of Batten in the hall? Was Aston just playing coy in ignoring Mark?

  For a moment, I didn’t think Batten was going to answer. Then the corner of his lips turned down as he dropped his gaze from the Sarokhanian banner.

  I repeated, “Sorry you came with me?”

  That made Batten nod. “Very.”

  Chapter 17

  I thought it odd that the vaulted ceiling was hung with silver chains and a hundred thousand rowan wood stakes; fat ones, needle-shaped ones, some carved into the shape of the cross so that they looked more like daggers, some tipped with silver for extra killing power. They made a sky of death looming high above the guttering gas lanterns scattered along the pillars. Golden’s overheard comment about the “rowan wood sky” made a whole lot more sense to me, now. When the orchestra dropped, people began to scatter into their places, houses collecting bodies. Watching the colors fall into their corners, settle behind their masters, reminded me of an old candy commercial where the candies swirled into patterns.

  At equal intervals along the walls there hung the banners of each immortal house, and I craned up to admire the white-on-silver banner of House Dreppenstedt, a mystic eye of Horus-type shape flanked by spreading black wings, the falling bird of the chasseur inepuisable, going in for the kill, the inexhaustible hunter. Beneath it sat Crowned Prince Wilhelm, no mere phantasm now; in the flesh he was knee-cappingly magnificent, sweeping into his wide, velvet-padded seat with a grace and poise that made Harry look like a fumbling klutz. I felt the weight of Wilhelm’s mind settle on me, and tried to dodge him. Nope, out of my head, please. I have ideas. They’re all mine.

  Wilhelm cocked his head in a move that reminded me of a raven examining something shiny, flicked his flashing chrome eyes at me, and bore down only slightly harder. My resistance slipped away as if I’d been holding back the tide with a tissue, and in a clumsy attempt to distract him, I mentally confessed a modest adoration for him, like I was bashful about this new worship I felt. Satisfied enough not to probe further, he settled into his throne and closed those terribly ancient eyes, eyes that judged me against eons of humans that had come before me, eyes that made me feel entirely worthless and warmly craved at once. I wasn’t good enough, those eyes said, but he wanted me, and his Younger wanted me, and so I was his, and he was mine, and under his roof was where I belonged. That’s where I kept my focus, and would do so as long as I had his attention, just in case. I had secrets to guard, now. My nervous tummy did a little quivering tap dance. Or maybe it was trying to Moonwalk; I wouldn't have blamed it for backing out of this whole deal, either.

  His voice purred into my skull. Good girl. That praise was conditional on my not screwing up the meeting, and I hated that I hungered for Wilhelm's praise.

  I watched Malas struggle to rise from his seat while Declan stared at his shoes, frowning. Something had them stirred up, something the pair of them didn’t understand. They smell subterfuge but they can’t place it. They would, in time; they were both too familiar with me. Sooner or later, they’d know I was up to something.

  I shifted my attention to the elder revenant sitting under the banner of House Duchoslav; his brow was furrowed deeply as well, and his grey tongue lashed at his lips repetitively. He sensed artifice, too, and didn’t like it. Would he track it to me? His face turned slightly toward Malas’s restless shifting, and the gaslight caught the immortal gleam in his eye like a cat in headlights. One peek at Aston Sarokhanian confirmed my fears; they all felt mischief, and it was only a matter of time before they sniffed me out. Sarokhanian’s left hand cupped his abdomen, high on his belly where the gastrosanguinem is located, a well-documented revenant protective gesture, though by the look on his face, he didn’t yet know the source of danger, just felt it in his bones. With so many warm bodies in the room, the undead, even the eldest ones, were having trouble sorting us; our hot and ready hearts were a cacophony that teased their fangs out from hiding, our mortal heat a seduction that stirred their thirsts, and that was my only hope now… that so many willing, eager warm bodies crowding in this court would hide my skittering pulse, my trembling hands, my certainty that I was about to throw a wrench into their primeval gears.

  If you believe you’re innocent, you’re above suspicion. Feigning ignorance, I nudged Mark and whispered, knowing I’d be heard by every ear that wished to, “Problem.”

  “What?”

  “Look at them.” I jerked my chin subtly at the eldest ones, and Batten’s careful gaze caught what I’d seen. “Something’s not right.”

  “There’s a lot of ‘not right’ here,” he said, as if he couldn’t resist digging at them, but his tone agreed with my observation. The revenants were restless, and if Kill- Notch wasn’t already on high alert, he was now. The skyrocketing of his anxiety was smelled by every revenant in Skulesdottir, and they all swung their faces in his direction like spotlights aimed at the glaring problem in the room: the vampire hunter. Batten’s jaw clenched and unclenched, but he returned to staring at the empty throne before Harry could whisper an admonishment at us. I did, too. Through the Bond, I felt Harry relax a touch.

  A late group of people entered in matching hooded robes of rough brown wool. Trailing behind came a thin, square-shouldered man with a narrow head topped with a tangle of windblown, platinum blond hair. The blond man wore white cotton surgical scrub pants and a heavy white straight jacket with fat silver buckles that held his arms tightly around his back. His canine teeth gnawed anxiously at his bottom lip, over and over, back and forth, wearing one spot of skin until it was open, red, and raw. His right eye twitched a couple times and he ducked his head as if to hide this, coming to stand under the banner of House Sarokhanian.

  The little bench in front of the throne was suddenly and anticlimactically filled with a small, grey figure – a tight, prim little goat-like man with a wretched gargoyle face and warped claws for hands. His beard seemed to be made of the same flesh as his face, an extension of splotched grey skin, gnarled like the exposed roots of a hawthorn. His bobcat ears were frayed at the tips, like matching bunches
of wilted arugula. His legs were crossed tidily, though they were as twisted and knotty as aged, sun-weathered vines, interrupted by huge kneecaps of shiny grey bone, and ending in cloven hooves. His wee hooves swung in unison nearly a foot off the floor. In one hand, he held a thorny obsidian mace. The stink of brimstone began to permeate the massive, echoing hall as the jumble of voices drifted to a respectful and curious silence.

  The feeling that pushed out from the wee figure was a gaping emptiness of personhood, not the revenant void where a soul had been, but the chasm where a soul had never existed, the calling card of the demon, something that had never lived and never could, something that had no right to exist on the Mother’s Earth with Her children. But here he was, a lesser demon, a tiny slice of Hell. It had been clear that the Lord High Treasurer in the Bitter Pass had been a creature of the light, and it was equally clear that this lesser demon was a being of pure and gleeful darkness, reveling in the heat of terrible, eternal suffering.

  He was not alone. Beneath the wide, plain, mustard-yellow banner of the First Turned, there was a dark figure, lurking between the unhallowed throne and the line of cloaked guards, a portly three-headed phantasm that could only be the lesser demon’s puppet master; I smirked at my own observance and then forced that off my mouth. Lesser demon or not, this was The Stonecaller’s playground. At the very least, he was the representative of the king, and of Asmodeus of the infernal below, the Overlord of lost souls, master of the First Turned and creator of immortality. I glanced over my shoulder at Harry, but Harry’s concern was once again pasted on Batten. Was he sensing the subterfuge now and misplacing it to Kill-Notch? Or was Harry sensing some urge in Batten that I couldn’t?

  Batten was doing a fairly good job of pretending to ignore the fir green banner of House Sarokhanian and the heavy chair in which Crowned Prince Aston now sat, but Harry was empathically picking up intent from Kill-Notch that had him on edge. Batten wouldn’t rush Sarokhanian across a throne room full of revenants, would he? He couldn’t be that ballsy. A move like that would be flat out stupid. I’d never known Mark to lose control like that, at least not with his pants on. If he started away from our house’s banner, Batten wouldn’t get two feet before someone would put him through the floor. Besides, I knew he’d never betray Harry and me like that. Would he?

  My stomach churned anew, the knots twisting, the acid bubbling up to burn my throat. I put my gloved hands behind me so I could squeeze them together hard and release, squeeze and release, attempting to calm down. I couldn’t worry about Batten’s intentions; I had my own plots to fret over.

  I resisted glancing at Declan, and hoped Harry just read my nervousness as the typical anxiety I’d have felt facing a court of immortals for the first time, and not anything more. I felt the cool shadow of him on my right hand side and wished I could step into his the reliable shelter of my Cold Company’s arms and hide. After I said what I had to say, I knew a hug would not be forthcoming. I’d be lucky if he didn’t blow his top completely.

  The little demon sat forward on his bench and gave the court a sweeping, expectant look. Then he went still and spoke, his screechy, pinprick voice like needles in my ear.

  “You come to Skulesdottir to stand before the Unhallowed Throne under the watch of mighty Den, First Turned of the Falskaar Vouras, Blood King of Night, Death’s Adversary, Great Voice of the Fallen, Lord of the Undertide, to nominate a new ruling house.”

  Harry moved a hair closer to me, and the reminder of his nearness settled a bit of my nervousness. This was not Harry’s first rodeo. He knew the drill. Though the king of the Falskaar Vouras was not on the throne, hearing his official titles (and his true name, at long last) set all my nerves to their tightest setting. Den. Such a small name for such a massive influence in my life and Harry’s. Through the Bond, I felt a push of calm and confidence from Harry, or perhaps from Wilhelm. I tried to reply in kind, but my worry bubbled to the surface yet again. Could Harry suspect what I was planning? He knew me better than anyone, could absolutely sense my being on edge.

  The little demon spoke again. “I am Aristoxenus, the Stonecaller. When I summon your house, each advocate will stand before me to nominate a revenant. The house that reaps the most nominations will ascend the throne. In the case of a tie, the DaySitters of each qualifying house will battle flesh to flesh in the Olmdalur to prove your worth and the worth of your house.”

  Huh. Elm dollar? I thought. Is that like the hay penny after inflation?

  Wilhelm’s voice cut into my thoughts. Olmdalur, the wild valley.

  Sounds like a nice place, I thought. Not too big on the flesh to flesh bit, though.

  “The Olmdalur will challenge every facet of your Talents, be it your shared Bond, your ability to call upon the blessings of the Father, your physical prowess, or, in the event of your death, your ability to have attracted a competent Second. This will be a battle to the death. Only one house will reign at Skulesdottir.”

  Cheerful thought. I glanced again at Batten. In an event like this, I didn’t doubt he’d be good physical backup for me, but if I died, how eager would Kill-Notch be to put his neck on the line to place House Dreppenstedt upon the throne? His loyalty was not to Harry, not to my prince. I looked past Harry to Wilhelm; Wilhelm did not wish to be on the Unhallowed Throne, and Carole Jeanne was probably not eager to be trapped in Skulesdottir for the rest of her life. I looked at my own Cold Company. Harry was doing a good job keeping a stiff upper lip, but beneath my own anxiety, I felt his dread thrumming through the Bond. Exalting Harry to the throne above his own prince was a possibility, and one that Wilhelm would approve of, but strapping Harry to the throne would be like trapping a moth in a gas lantern. He and I would both flame out.

  Aristoxenus scanned the room before continuing. “All houses that do not qualify will throw their unwavering support behind the ruling house and will present a united front against all enemies of the throne. If there are no questions, I will begin the reading.”

  I had questions. A million of them. I looked at the other DaySitters to see if they understood what was happening. I read some confusion, but in general they were ready for anything. Did the revenants know about the troll scout, the orc prophecy? Was this why they were replacing the king now? I heard BugBelly’s words in my brother’s voice once again: The portal is slipping away. Away into madness and chaos.

  “Call House Vulvolak,” Aristoxenus said.

  Alastor Vulvolak’s DaySitter was also his wife, a tall, painfully slender brunette with a nearly concave chest and cheeks to match, with dark eyes recessed beneath hooded lids. Her gown was ankle-length, made of soft grey chiffon that swam in a cloudy drift around long, gazelle-thin legs. She passed under the white, green, and red flag of her house, as fearless and tranquil in her environment as a wolf in the forest, the timber wolves on the banner. Wearing white ballerina flats that made no sound on the marble, her agile swagger gave the impression that she could outrun every mortal in the room and give some of the revenants a real run for their money.

  I reviewed what I knew of House Vulvolak, mostly limited to what Harry had told me over the past few days. The Vulvolaks always married their DaySitters, and marked them with a visible, possessive tattoo; Elana’s was a timber wolf smack in the hollow of her throat so that it faced you when she did, half white and half black. You couldn’t miss it. It matched the one on Alastor’s own throat. He was a Crowned Prince of the Blood, and looked every bit as regal as that sounded. I could easily picture him saving the Dacian people in the town of Dausdava from Mithridates, the last male manticore, more than two thousand years ago. He was a bald man with an olive complexion and a clean-shaven face. Large, dark eyes were soft and kind beneath heavy, dark brows that reminded me of Batten’s; I wondered if they had a tendency to quirk upward playfully the way Mark’s did. Alastor did not take his eyes off his DaySitter, but I felt his mind flutter across mine curiously when he felt my attention; his focus was a warm weight between my eyebrows before it move
d away, and I got a brief taste of the age and power of him.

  The Speaker nodded with satisfaction as Elana approached his bench, as though he’d been expecting House Vulvolak to disappoint him, but they’d pulled it together at the last minute. He said, “Declare your intentions, Elana Vulvolak.”

  Her voice was an interesting mix of soft and husky, and betrayed an age that was not reflected in her face. She offered a lithe curtsey and addressed him, “Greetings, Stonecaller. I am commanded to nominate Aston Sarokhanian and stand for him in contest. I name as my Second Lyubomir Yordanov.” She indicated a bored man with a long, pointy nose standing under the tri-colored Vulvolak banner.

  Huh, I thought, keeping my expression blank and my attention on the being before the throne as Harry had instructed. So Vulvolak and Sarokhanian are buddies. Good to know for future reference.

  Speaker Aristoxenus nodded, and excused her with a little brush of his hand through the air. She returned to her immortal companion, who was oddly more interested in the sky of stakes covering the ceiling than the proceedings. His long pianist’s fingers on both hands drummed the armrest of his chair, and only when his DaySitter returned did he draw his gaze back down from the stakes.

  “Call House Prost!”

  The large, winged chair beneath the black-on-grey Prost banner was empty, and there was a rumble of condemnation around the room. Of course Prost had disobeyed the summons. Jeremiah Prost was a psychopath; he wouldn’t enjoy being told what to do by any authority figure, not even his king. But his prince had also not attended. Perhaps the psychopathology had been a trait inherited down the bloodline, or an environmental factor, with Jeremiah. Perhaps Jeremiah, as a mortal man, had been just a regular dude before being turned.

  The Stonecaller did not look pleased, but he also did not look surprised. The shadowy form behind him muttered something.

  “House Prost is absent, and will be reprimanded. Call House Van Solms!” the Stonecaller said.