Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  A green missile, then another and another burst from the brush and attached to Sayomi’s knees and an ankle, wrapping bodily around her. She squawked and did a little dance backward, shaking her leg as if to dislodge a humping mutt. When the first one reared his head back to strike, I had a brief second to wonder if those pointy teeth would make it through the latex; her hair-raising shriek confirmed it. The other two began gnawing viciously. Sayomi’s hands started slapping at them, but she might as well been trying to pry off a great white with a Q-tip. Not thinking, she fled directly into the fiery bush. The spriggans climbed higher up her legs, leaving ragged little circles of pale skin, quickly welling with blood, showing through her leggings. The smell of melted plastic told me she’d better retreat the fuck up out of there before she was melted into her own pants. Her shriek rocked up through the octaves until only dogs and her stupid fucking were-Folkenflik could hear her, and she turned and ran to the edge of the snow to dive in. Folkenflik forgot his post and chased after her, his tail low, a feral growl trapped in the back of his throat as he nipped at the little green men. The spriggans were relentless in their territorial punishment, squeaking angrily as they nipped and chewed, little arms flailing for a better grip when they slid on her snow-slick latex, little feet kicking the air before latching around her again. Their attack was eye-blurring in its speed and fury. I’d been on the receiving end of a female spriggan’s wrath; these males were equally alarming. I was suddenly glad I’d tried negotiating.

  Fighting off one of her three attackers, Sayomi regained her feet, her dark eyes full of fury. The spriggan in the uniform had crawled up to the nape of her neck and was enthusiastically chomping at her earlobe. As Harry’s singed coat fell off her shoulders, she set her sights on the outhouse. One of her big clunky black boots stomped the butane canister with a loud crunk, and a stream of lighter fluid shot across the small yard, spattering the outhouse door.

  I yowled. “Don’t you dare, bitch.”

  She ignored the gnawing, crunching her lovely face against the pain. She aimed a single punch at the back of her neck, but the spriggan was faster and zipped around to hang on her shoulder, striking at her collarbone with tiny needle teeth. She strode toward the outhouse, brandishing Harry’s JB-engraved lighter. She flicked it once more.

  “Fuck!” I grabbed at my lanyard in a last ditch effort and blew into the dog whistle in three short bursts.

  Folkenflik left the spriggan at Sayomi’s thigh and darted to the outhouse door.

  Sayomi shouted, “Gunther, come!”

  I blasted the whistle again and Folkenflik leaped up at the door.

  “Come, Gunther!” Sayomi barked.

  I blasted my whistle desperately and then yelled, “Get her, boy! Sic her! BITE!”

  Folkenflik whipped around and launched at Sayomi’s chest, both front paws hitting solidly, knocking her back. The lighter flew out of her hand and slid across ice into the flaming bushes. In the light of the fire, Folkenflik’s shadow had, not one, but three tails. Last I saw the pair, Sayomi was running for her life with her own werefox on her heels and two spriggans abandoning ship, leaving her torn and bloody.

  “Jiminy jaggoffs.” I pushed away from the door, back aching with tension, and stood on the bench seat for a second to catch my breath. I checked myself with gloved hands: not singed, not bitten by a lycanthrope, not nibbled by spriggans. My legs still throbbed weirdly with the need to gallop around. Outside, the fire crackled against wet snow. Maybe there would be a few seed pods left? I could see smoke billowing upward through the crescent cut-out. Maybe not, Glenda. But I was still alive, and come the next full moon, I wasn’t going to get furry. Well, not any more than my Lady Bic was used to handling.

  I looked up at the sky to show Aradia proper gratitude for this blessed moment and my eyes caught a curled tangle of vines pushing into the space between two of the pieces of the outhouse's warped siding. I had to blink several times before I believed what I was seeing: two golden pods hanging from between the crevice. Lilith’s Heart. Maybe it wasn’t a total clusterfuck after all. I stood on my tiptoes and reached; it wasn’t enough. I took off my gloves, put them in the pockets of my jeans, and stood on the fractionally higher rim of the toilet seat. I stretched way, way up, my fingertips brushing the dangling pods. It just wasn’t the right angle. I leaned to the left slightly, felt my wet sneaker slipping, and tried to recover but my other foot slipped, and I felt myself falling. Into the shithole.

  I jumped and flailed my arms in a last ditch effort, slapping at the pods on my descent. Half-grabbing them, I lost my grip as I fell. I threw my elbows out to catch myself, landing with the seat up to my armpits. I grunted, wincing as the old wood slammed under my arms. My feet dangled in empty space, and was obscurely if painfully grateful that three spriggans just don't poop that much. I was glad the hole was a snug fit, because I wasn’t going down into the old waste. However, when I tried to haul myself up, my hips did not want to cooperate. I wriggled, but to no avail. I wasn't going to fall in, but I wasn't going to lever myself out without some help, either.

  Letting out a long-suffering sigh, I considered my options. Declan and Batten were magic-smoke-muddled on the floor of the pub. Gareth Granger had made things clear: I had to get the pods by myself. Sayomi was gone, and she wouldn’t help me even if she was here. Folkenflik had likely recovered himself and was again on Sayomi’s side as her Second.

  Time to call on the ankle-high cavalry. I began whistling, calling their names, raising my voice louder and louder. I heard the spriggans chattering outside, as if in conference. The door rattled a little. They’d never break it down. They were vicious, but not very strong. I heard the pitter-patter of little green feet disappearing.

  “Le sigh,” I said aloud, swinging my Keds to the front to see if I could find ground to prop my feet on and push. “Stupid stoned Batten. Stupid stoned assistant. Stupid trickass clurichaun. Stupid hot Japanese DaySitter.” I grunted as I tried to haul myself up, but the toes of my Keds slid on ice-hard ground. “Goddammit, Folkenflik!”

  Smoke began to seep under the door, and I saw the two gold seed pods resting on the floor. The crackling and spitting noises outside had intensified. Any second, it would catch the last blast of butane Sayomi had shot at the outhouse. The old wood would go up like kindling with me inside. I rested on both elbows, arms shaking with the effort, and wrested my dog whistle free. There were chattering noises and little feet again, and a dragging noise, but I was in a hurry; I blew in the whistle again, hoping the werefox would be close enough to hear it and heed my call.

  I heard a groggy murmur that turned into a horrified bellow and some slapping.

  “Batten?” I yelled.

  “Fuckin—“ The sounds that followed were boots and scrambling and clinking and a howl of pain. “Burnt my… ow.”

  “Batten! Get me out of here!”

  “Urrrrrg,” he said, and I heard retching.

  “Batten, for fuck’s sake! Hurry!”

  “Dr. B? Are you in the sh-shitter?” Declan hiccuped. “Hey, the garden is on fire!”

  If I burned to death in this outhouse stuck in a poop chute because of these two idiots, I was going to come back from the dead and clunk their heads together like the vengeful spirit of Moe Stooge. “Get me out of here! Break the door down!”

  Someone attempted to comply, with little result. They tried again. The lock rattled. The wood gave a warning creak.

  Declan said, “Got this,” and put his dhampir strength behind an elbow.

  The door crashed into the little space in flying splinters and projectiles spinning at my trapped upper body. I threw both gloved hands over my face.

  “You’re in the toilet.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “But you’re… in the toilet.”

  “No shit. Get me the fuck out of here, Irish.”

  Batten came to see, leaning woozily against the frame.

  “Guys, fire,” I yelled at them, waving my glov
ed hands as best I could while holding myself up on my elbows. “Come on, my shoulders ache and I—“

  Batten danced backward. “Something bit me!”

  “Well, get me out of here and I’ll talk to them for you.”

  “Little green fuck!” Batten cursed. The grass near his feet caught fire and began to race toward the outhouse. It seemed to sober the guys up as they watched its direction.

  “Guysssssss,” I yowled. “Get! Me! Out!”

  Declan spun around to see Professor Pfaffenzeller prodding him with a stick and motioning at me. The dhampir nodded once. “Right. Hold on, Dr. B! We’re coming in!”

  He stomped over the wreckage of the door, ankle-deep shards of broken wood, and grabbed both my hands by the forearms. He gave a twist and a shake and yanked. I popped out suddenly, falling out and into the clutter of busted door. Quickly, I searched the debris for the two seed pods, found them, and launched to my feet.

  “Get away from the outhouse, it’s gonna burn,” I warned, chasing them as they backed away. The spriggans cheered and danced back and forth on tiny green legs. I caught my breath. Turns out, I had another minute and a half before the butane caught and the whole shithouse went up in flames. We stomped out the flames in the garden, though admittedly my stomping looked more like Highland dancing, and left it a smoking ruin. I reclaimed Harry’s coat, slapping the snow and ash and charred greenery and trampled slush off of the back. I checked the pockets; Sayomi hadn’t stolen the fairy coins, but she had kept the cigarette lighter. I vowed to punt her in the coochie when I retrieved it. Maybe light her hair on fire if there was time. Nothing too rash and spiteful.

  The spriggans followed me as I weaved behind Batten’s stumbling, running little circles around my feet like Bob the Cat sometimes did. One of them was really rocking out to the music, and the second was clambering all over his back, trying to snatch an earbud. The bigger one, who seemed to be their leader, stuck right next to me, trotting along, his little legs doing triple-time to keep up with mine. I stopped and sighed loudly.

  “Professor Pfaffenzeller, let me make myself clear. I don’t need a weird little Irish sidekick.” I patted a dopey Declan atop his unruly black curls. “I’ve already got one.”

  Declan launched into a thickly accented “Hi di-diddlee idle dum, diddlee-doodle-didle-dum, diddly-doo-ri diddlee dai day!” from the Real Old Mountain Dew, as if to prove my point. He cocked his elbows and began a little jig that would’ve been downright adorable if he hadn’t nearly so much vomit on his chin.

  The spriggan didn’t get it. I crouched near them and offered them one of the jiekngasaldi coins. He nibbled on it thoughtfully. I poked the iPhone until it began to play Fleetwood Mac’s “Go Your Own Way.” Professor Pfaffenzeller scrambled to the other two and started a snowy rumble for an earbud. When I last saw them, they were swirling around, kicking up little puffs of snow, and squeaking angrily at one another. Pfaffenzeller claimed one earbud and started hip thrusting to what he was hearing, grinding and humping the winter air enthusiastically. I couldn’t leave fast enough.

  There was only one thing left to do. Well, two things.

  I pranced back into the pub as Batten and Declan headed to slump woozily at the bar. I peered into a few glasses on tables as I passed. White wine. I smiled benevolently at the clurichaun behind the bar.

  “I’m going to buy a round of red fairy wine for the bar.”

  “I don’t have any red wine.”

  “Oh, I think you do,” I said with a warning tone. I tucked my golden seed pod away, and showed him the second one, dangling it from my pinched fingers. Granger hissed at me, his eyes going small and beady. “Now, you will release these patrons in exchange for the Lilith’s Heart. That’s the deal. The spriggans agreed to clear out of the garden and move onto greener pastures once the bar is empty. Next summer, alllll the Lilith’s Heart will be yours. In addition to this one.”

  He blinked rapidly as though he couldn’t believe it. “You got them to agree to leave my garden?”

  “They heard the voice of reason.” So what if that voice happened to be Stevie Nicks', rather than mine?

  Granger took a deep breath and exhaled hard. After I gave him the seed pod and he checked to see the spriggans leaving the garden, bopping along to their musical prophecies, he promised to release his patrons. The Blue Sense wriggled to life to report that I could take his word. He offered me the bottle of absinthe as a parting gift. I took whiskey instead.

  “The spriggans dragged your friend, there, out to help you,” Gareth told me. “I see he got burnt a bit.”

  “He’ll get over it. Now, may I have a bit of your best fairy wine to free my friends from the magic smoke?”

  “How about a dance number first?” he asked. Since I had requested the same of Speaker Aristoxenus yesterday, I found it amusing. I gave him a knowing smile.

  “My prancing legs are feeling much better, thanks for asking, but my assistant is fairly nifty with his hi-diddly-dai-days, even when he’s stoned. Declan!” I clapped at him. His head came up from a puddle of slobber on the bar, his black curls flopping in his face. “Some entertainment for our host, lad!”

  Granger and I shared a smile and a quiet moment of toe-tapping while Declan showed us his best footwork and sang the praises of wheat and rye and taking a bowl at the top of his lungs. I was reminded of my boozy silliness with Irish at the Starlight Dreams motel, where he taught me about whiskey and sea shanties, and a big grin split my lips. My clurichaun friend passed me an empty glass and I poured myself a couple fingers of whiskey.

  Batten sat in a chair near the bar. He looked like he was beginning to sober up and rejoin my reality. I could tell, because under his weird, scraggly, singed eyebrows, he was glaring at me.

  “What are you doing?” he asked me.

  I swigged from the whiskey bottle. “Getting shilleighlied and undressing you with my eyes. Drunk Marnie still gets after it.”

  Batten groaned and rubbed his forehead. His fingers gingerly patted his brows.

  I held up the gold seed pod. We’d finished one task. “That wasn’t so bad,” I said.

  Batten flipped up counting fingers as he listed. “Severely hung over. Drugged by a leprechaun. Burnt off my eyebrows.”

  It had been a clurichaun, but I thought correcting him might not help.

  “You’re still pretty hot.” I considered his dark brows; big stripes were singed right off. “Okay, maybe not. But I’d do you with the lights off. If I keep drinking.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Hey, a guy with a face like yours should take all the offers you get,” I teased.

  “Now what do we do, Dr B?”

  “Gareth is going to release the patrons. They’ll need medical attention, but I think they can handle it. We need a place to sleep, and I don’t like the idea of getting a room from this guy, so we’ll have to grab the car back in Grimston, hit the motorway, and drive until we find a motel.” I put Harry’s singed coat back on and grabbed my go-bag. “May I have my gun back, please?” Batten handed me the mini Cougar. “Swell. Can you guys walk as far as the car?”

  We hoofed it back to Grimston, past the long hedgerow and the little wall of skulls. I should have asked the clurichaun what made the people of Undercroft think building a wall of skulls was a good idea, but maybe he was the only being living in Undercroft at all, and if it was his design, maybe I didn’t want to know about it.

  The men wobbled after me, their heads clearing of the clurichaun’s smoke. My own legs felt strained, my knees stiff, but my nose no longer hurt from the feral revenant’s head butt. We could take it easy once we drove back to Belfast. Maybe get some dinner, find a warm hotel room. We’d certainly earned a good night’s rest.

  But that was not to be. Whoever had taken Declan’s keys out of the car had come back to steal the car, too. I stared at the spot where it had been as though I could maybe see it if I looked hard enough.

  It could have been any nimble-fingered thi
ef, but it had almost certainly been someone waiting for a chance to fuck with us. I liked blaming the bitch-vixen's werefox for things, so I snarled, “Goddammit, Folkenflik!”

  There was a rustle in the bushes next to the parking lot and something shot out with a flutter. I swung around, pulling my gun with one hand and shoving a still-wobbling Batten behind me with a perfectly executed arm bar in one smooth movement. It was only a bird. I holstered my gun and followed the bird’s flight: white rump, dark wings, calling out in tew-tews. Tringa nebularia, also known as the Greenshank. There must have been a creek nearby. I adjusted the knit hat on my head and thought of Constable Patrick Schenk, my Canadian cop buddy, with a fond smile.

  I turned to identify the bird to Batten and found him glaring at me. “What?”

  “Don’t like the idea rattling around inside that head of yours,” he said, “that you need to rescue me.”

  “Don’t be a cock,” I told him. “You’re recovering from magic smoke. Besides, it was just a bird.”

  “This time. I’m serious, Baranuik. Scrub that idea out.”

  Uh oh. “Baranuik.” I was back to being one of the boys. Hadn’t been addressed by my last name in a while. “I will not,” I said. “And you’re welcome. Nutlocker.”

  He frowned at me for a long minute, but I managed to mostly ignore it, catching the gist of the glower in my peripheral vision. When it was clear I was not going to accept the glare or the sentiment behind it, he gave up with a growl-and-huff combo that was sort of comical.

  “So, if the motel here is not going to be open tonight, what with all the patrons slowly waking up in Undercroft, where are we sleeping? I don’t know about you, but this hiking all night stuff has to stop. I’m exhausted.”

  Batten patted his go-bag. “Tent.”

  “Outside,” I said. “In Ireland. At the end of December. Are you nuts?”

  “We’ll dress for it.”

  Declan rejoined us, rubbing his groggy head. “How are you, Dr. B?”

  “I’m irritated that Batten brought a tent. Who thinks of bringing a tent? His go-getter attitude is going to deny me a nice comfy motel room tonight.”