Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  The Blue Sense told me the feral didn’t like that I’d stopped running. It – He? Was there enough mind there to elevate it beyond the bestial? Maybe there was – vibrated on the edge of pouncing at me, and though he was wound up, he wasn’t panting like Batten. Holding preternaturally still but still radiating anticipation, shoulders hunched, head cocked, studying my throat with intense interest. He wanted to chase his dinner, play with his food. This one didn’t like a submissive throat, and even in his madness, his preference broadcast itself; he wanted fight or flight. I wondered if adrenaline made our blood taste different. As long as I was standing still, he was going to wait. Unfortunately, he could effortlessly maintain this standoff for days until I collapsed from exhaustion, exposure, or hunger. Judging by the length of his fangs, he was older than Harry, and had probably grown very good at waiting for mortals to move the way he wanted them to. A single thread of saliva hung from his chin and swung in the fitful breeze, which was creepy as fuck against the absolute lack of movement on his part. Intensely watchful statue impersonators shouldn't drool, ooze, or want to tear my face off.

  I took a deep, calming breath, not daring to take my eyes off this one even to check if anything else was coming up on me. I could hear the sounds of bodies in motion and ice crackling, but I didn’t have the guts to glance to either side. There was at least one DaySitter and a werefox in the area, and more ferals.

  “Okay,” I whispered at the feral, whose bottom lip trembled. The Blue Sense flared to offer his excitement, but I’d have to be pretty dense to have missed that already. His primal need spilled into my veins, and I felt a moment of sympathy; I knew what it was like to ache that badly.

  “Here’s what we’re gonna do, you and I.”

  Moving nice and slow, I showed him my bare, empty hands. He seemed to taste the cold air in front of him, cocking his head to one side. I sensed Batten moving to my left but I didn’t want him involved. I heard that horrible yipping again behind me, and knew Folkenflik was nearby.

  The feral’s attention was not entirely fixed on me; his preternatural senses swept his surroundings with ease. Batten couldn’t sneak up on him, but the hunter knew that. Furthermore, Batten had no weapon besides a gun; bullets would just piss this thing off. My legs trembled with tension, waiting for the feral to dart forward, or to decide Batten was a better meal. I pursed my lips and let out a long stream of hot, moist breath in his direction, moving one careful step closer. A hungry shudder rocked his lower half. I didn’t dare meet his pure white eyes, but staring at his slavering fangs wasn’t much better for my confidence.

  My throat tightened, but I kept inching forward toward him. “What’s your name, sir? Do you know it? Do you remember?” I made sure my Keds were gripping the ground well in this area in case I had to move quickly; I had no delusions about outrunning him, but I could dive and dodge in a last ditch attempt. “What’s your house? You’re out here because you’re out of control but they can’t afford to kill you. What house, sir?”

  His clothing showed me no clues: plain grey that might have once been beige or white. Much of it was frayed and gaping. Frostbitten flesh showed through, spots that were slowly healing with sluggish, underfed revenant magic, and spots that were freshly injured. I knew how badly Harry felt the cold, how it ached in his bones. I had a sudden protective urge toward this feral, even as his flashing eyes trained in on my throbbing jugular. I wondered if Batten’s holy water cologne on my throat would give him any pause; his animal appetite might just ignore the burning of his lips.

  “We’re gonna put you back in your place now, sir.” I bit down hard enough on my bottom lip and was cold enough not to feel too much pain. The hot tang of blood filled my mouth and I used my tongue to lace my lips with it.

  Now I had his undivided attention. I tensed to run, taking one last second for a mental pep talk. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Keep your eyes averted. Another feral wailed in the distance, a high, keening alert. The one in front of me answered on the wind then growled at me from deep in his throat. He felt my preparations, eager for me to run.

  I pitched into motion, but my damn Keds slid and I went down hard on the ice. I flipped over to my back with a desperate squeak, arms up to defend myself, but he hadn’t given chase.

  Instead, I saw Declan squaring his shoulders at the feral revenant beside Batten. The feral had pressed in upon an invisible wall so hard that his nose had flattened, his short black hair was mashed to one side at the hairline, and his drool was dripping straight down instead of spraying in frustration at the dhampir.

  Declan’s arms shook with effort, and he ground out, “Go, both of you.”

  We didn’t wait to hear more. Batten watched to make sure I was on my feet again then bolted for the coastline, pelting over the uneven ground. We leaped over several long, snaking mounds in the crusty ice, one after another, making like we were doing Olympic hurdles over octopus-like snow dunes.

  A high shriek cut my running short and I skidded to a halt.

  Chapter 22

  Despite the fact that she’d just tried to punt me across a snow field, I quickly retraced my steps to double-check that Georgina Harris wasn’t lying in a broken heap in the ice. Or maybe all I’d find left was a crimson stain and a shoe. I heard Batten bark a censure at me for not following orders, but I couldn’t just leave a fellow DaySitter to die. She may have been a homicidal buttroach, but I hold myself to higher standards.

  Georgina was on her back, spread-eagled, her red hair spread around her like a halo of spattered blood, knotted with snow. She writhed beneath a voraciously-feeding feral whose excitement had him trembling and pumping his hips. I admit, part of me thought, that’s what you get for turning them loose, dumbass. There was a split second that I considered leaving her there, but that wouldn’t be the capital-R Right thing to do. I bolted behind the shipping container and nearly collided with Declan, who was propping the door closed with one shoulder and breathing heavily.

  Throwing off my go-bag, I tore open the zipper. I fished for herbs, tossing baggies of garlic cloves, dried blue buttons, arbutus, and hellebore berries, until I got to my extract of vervain. Then I put my gloves back on.

  “What are you doing, Dr. B?” he panted.

  “What are you doing? Nosy.”

  There was scratching and shuffling in the shipping container and against the corrugated metal door at his back. “The first feral is—“ Bang! “Contained.”

  “Nice work. How come you didn’t tell me you had inherited some of Malas’s telekinesis?”

  He shook his head as if to say not important now and his unruly black curls bobbed in the fierce wind. “When Georgina and Folkenflik opened this lock, he released two others. I don’t know where Sayomi is, but she could be near. Possibly with Georgina’s Second. They’re clearly working together. We’ve got to get to the coast.”

  “Go. Be on the lookout for the werefox,” I told him sharply, “and keep his furry butt occupied.”

  “Occupied how?”

  “I don’t know.” I flapped a hand in the general direction of his brain. “Use your impressive new telekinetic skills there to drag him into the container with the ferals.”

  Declan already looked worn out and we hadn’t really even begun our trip. “I haven’t been feeding Malas long enough to gain enough of his Talent to fight a lycanthrope. The feral was one thing; he was weak, starving. I could give a werefox a shove, maybe…”

  “Fine, shove him around if you have to, just get Batten to the coast. Don’t trip on the little snow-dune thingies and I’ll join you as soon as I can. But keep moving. I may have company on my tail.”

  I knew I would. If I could distract the feral away from Georgina, he’d be on my ass next, and twice as angry. I popped a garlic clove in my mouth and chewed until it was pulp and spit it in my gloved palm, adding the whole vial of vervain extract.

  “Now or never, Baranuik,” Batten shouted as he took up a shooting stance. I could see his shoulders vibr
ating with the need to blow something up, typical Kill-Notch reaction. I was aiming at a zero-casualties solution, because it was the capital-R Right thing to do. Probably also because I was a capital-D dumbass. The not-shooting-people thing totally works for Batman, right?

  “Go with Declan, I got this,” I shouted, launching from my cover to bolt toward the feeding feral.

  If the feral noticed me coming, he was too busy feeding to care. I threw myself on his back and slapped my garlic-vervain pulp in his eyes, squishing it in like a stinky facial scrub. The feral roared and threw his head back, smashing it into my nose with an unfortunate crunch. My eyes watered instantly. He rocked to one side, blinded; whether it was for a moment or for good, I had no idea. I grabbed Georgina by the elbow and hauled her roughly to her feet, where she did a wobbly shamble on rubbery legs. I gave her a shove toward the cemetery, back toward the relative safety of Skulesdottir, though stumbling into a whole clan of revenants while bleeding profusely from a rough forced feed wasn’t my idea of safe.

  “Go,” I urged her, my head throbbing too much to yell forcefully. “Go!”

  A yip-yowl to the north told me that Folkenflik was fighting off the last feral. The one in front of me was shuddering, drooling off the tips of his fangs, but he’d be blinded at least for a few minutes by the garlic and vervain. I took my opportunity and booked it to the snaking dunes where the snow was all churned up from Batten’s boots.

  I caught up with them slumped against a pile of rocks topped with a big bell near the shore. There was a ribbon of pain running from my whapped nose to the shovel-wallop forming a knot at my temple, connecting them in a very unpleasant way. My left eye leaked continuously. At some point during my run, the cold air and uneven ground had conspired to rattle my knee joints, and my shoulders were jacked up high and tight under Harry’s navy wool coat. I was seriously considering whipping out his cigarettes and taking up smoking.

  “I’m gonna die.” I whimpered, hobbling over to him. “Remember me fondly.”

  “You okay? Walking funny,” Batten said.

  “Probably the half-dozen DaySitters I have up my ass. You?”

  “A feral nearly took off his kneecap before taking off to chase the fox,” Declan said, examining Batten’s torn jeans. “Is Georgina Harris going to be okay?”

  I nodded wordlessly, catching my breath, checking to see if my nose was bleeding from the head butt. I dabbed at it with my gloved fingertip. It came away clear.

  “What the fuck, Baranuik?” Batten demanded. “You should have left her.”

  “I couldn’t,” I said shortly.

  “She won’t appreciate what you did for her,” Batten stated.

  “I don’t need her to.” Harry would be pleased. I’d not only saved a human life, but I’d protected at least one feral from being dusted. There was a reason that feral revenant was in a shipping container. The oldest at Svikheimslending didn’t want to dust him, which could mean only one thing: he had Youngers who were innocent of whatever crime he’d committed. He’d been banished to the cold wasteland of the Olmdalur.

  I hunkered down behind the big rocks, making sure my Keds weren’t going to slip on the cold, slick stone, and took off my gloves so I could prod my fat lip gently.

  Batten had a length of Quick Clot bandage and was busily wrapping the wound site with it.

  “How deep is it? I could do a little…” I made witchy fingers at him meaningfully.

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Fine, Mr. Tough Guy. Get infected. Have your knee fall off. See if I care.” I craned up at the bell. It was bigger than I was, hung on a rusty iron axle that looked like it had probably endured centuries of sea spray. “All right, Rask. Let’s see if you answer the Bat Signal.”

  Declan sent me a worried glance. “Are you sure that’s wise, Dr. B?”

  Am I ever? “It’s an unscheduled stop at a bad pick-up spot,” I acknowledged.

  “The noise may draw the remaining ferals back.”

  “It’s this or go back to the original drop-off spot through the Olmdalur past the ferals again. We don’t have much choice. Not my fault Rask's the Venetian cabbie of the undead.” I grabbed the rope that hung from clapper, feeling a bit like I was about to milk a metallic cow, and pulled.

  Nothing happened, save for a fine shower of rust wafting down from inside the top of the bell. I yanked in the opposite direction, eliciting a teeth-grinding screech of metal against metal, but the clapper moved a few inches and stopped, frozen askew.

  “Declan, give me a fucking hand here. This thing is rustier than Chapel's chastity belt.” He reached over, looping the rope around his fist, and pulled hard; the mechanism resisting for an instant before swinging free and striking against the inside of the bell. It made a deep, sonorous bong that nearly knocked me on my ass, and I was sure must have been heard over the ice and water for miles around. No doubt, the ferals were turning in unison to pick up our scent and track us here. Once the clapper swung freely, I rang the bell again and again, feeling my eyeballs jitter in their sockets and the bones in my elbows vibrate from the noise. It hurt my head. Still, I'd rather be deaf than dead.

  Barely a minute passed before a ship appeared through the building fog, as though the fog bank surrounded the ship and traveled with it. I let go of the clapper rope and tried to un-clench my ears. Batten lurched to his feet, favoring his injured knee, and we all hoisted our go-bags on our shoulders as Declan kept a lookout back the way we'd come. I tried to scan the ship, but couldn’t see Captain Rask; it could have been a ghost ship if not for the Meita scrawled on the side. There was no indication of activity on deck, save for one of the boats being lowered, a rower already inside, bracing his arms on both gunwales.

  I heard a bark-yip and a snarl and drew my gun; though I didn’t have silver bullets, I could at least slow the werefox down. I waved Batten and Declan closer to the shore.

  “Do not fall in,” I said, though I didn’t think I needed to. “Watch the ice. I hear it's slippery.”

  The boat hit water and the rower made quick work of freeing the ropes while I could see two DaySitters now up top, preparing a rope ladder. Now I could see Rask standing at the bow of the big ship in his bright yellow slicker. Why are his arms in the air like that? Did someone score a touchdown? I craned further up and watched in awe as the clouds began to darken and swirl into a lazy coil under his command. Stormbringer. The air crackled with electricity and the sting of burnt sugar hit my nose as if I had been thrown into a vat of boiling molasses; it was like nothing I’d ever encountered before. Rask was incredible in his intensity.

  The yipping got closer, but so did a long, guttural howl that made my eyes widen. The ferals. Overlaying one another, their hungry wails sent my guts sailing up into my throat. “Oh, Dark Lady,” I said, and heard the fear mounting in my voice. “Declan, we gotta go now.”

  “The rowboat’s almost here,” he said, nodding as if to convince himself. “It’ll be here.”

  Batten warned, “We’re running out of time. They sound close.”

  Declan nodded sharply. “Okay. I’ve got this.”

  I opened my mouth to argue with him, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. Batten was nothing but a warm sack of blood, and so was I. The dhampir had the best chance to survive. I could feel him drawing some power, what little he had gained from Malas, and stress bunched both his shoulders and his fists. The rowboat was close, but not close enough. We couldn’t fall in that water; the dark ocean sparkled with the reflection of brittle stars, cold and deep and unforgiving.

  I heard thudding footsteps approaching in the distance, preternatural strength and speed pelting across the hardpack. The Blue Sense limped back to full power and I Felt their wild, untamed hunger rushing toward us. No time, no time, I thought frantically, on the verge of panic. Batten had his gun aimed up the ridge, his stance solid, looking for motion, waiting for it. His wounded knee was as still as the rest of him except his eyes, despite the injury.

  D
eclan dropped his bag and scrambled back up the slippery ridge. When he crested the top, the ferals let loose an excited yowl. Declan gave a war cry and disappeared from view just as the boat clunked behind us, close enough to get into. The rower shouted something at us in another language but we hardly needed a translation. I grabbed Declan’s bag and tossed it in the boat, followed by mine and Batten’s, while he covered me. I jumped into the boat and got seated while Batten backed toward it, not wanting to take his eyes off the ridge.

  He was just about the turn and step into the boat when a feral revenant launched over the ridge, snarling.

  Boom! The clouds above split loudly enough to make my shoulders jerk with surprise. The sound of the lightning strike rolled through me to my toes. Lightning took the top of the ridge off with a crack and a plume of ice and powder and rock chips fanned into the air. The ferals both bounded to their feet as Batten threw himself the rest of the way into the boat and the crewman started rowing back to the shit.

  One of the ferals shook his head like a stunned dog and wobbled to his feet. The other one rebounded quickly and paced the rocks, frothing. This did not seem to alarm the man who was rowing; perhaps he’d seen feral escapes before, or he trusted his master’s Talents more than he feared any other revenant. Between my own panic and the swirling tempestakinesis sparking burnt sugar streaks through my focus, not to mention more than one head knock, I couldn’t think past getting four of us on Rask’s ship safe and sound: me, Batten, the rower, and—

  “Where’s Declan?” I shouted, aiming my scared glance at Batten. The cold sea frothed under the boat but the rower powered through, strengthened by his master’s “Where is he? Where is he?”

  Batten shook his head and pointed behind us as the ship got closer and closer. “As soon as we’re near it, you get your ass up that rope ladder.”