Wrath & Bones (The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 4)

by A. J. Aalto

  “Makes you wonder what else he brought in his go-bag,” Declan agreed, yawning.

  “Makes me wonder what you brought in yours,” Batten said, and snatched my go-bag to fish around. “Wig. Fake glasses. Oregano?” He held up a baggie of dried leaves.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Valerian root, smartypants.”

  “Silver scissors?”

  I grabbed one of my black-and-blue braids and waggled it at him meaningfully. The last thing I needed was to trip over my crazy ghost hair every day.

  He pulled out my Kitten Kewt Pussylips Pink nail polish and set it down on the snow, then swept a displaying hand at it like he was proving some point. The only point he was proving was that he was a dick-kabob.

  “I’m going to set up the tent,” Batten informed us. Declan and I didn’t disagree as he wobbled over behind us. The dhampir didn’t look capable of walking another ten feet, and my prancing legs were sore.

  “I’m upset that I lost all my music for the trip,” I said, watching Batten go Boy Scout. “On the other hand, the thought of three wiggle-tushie spriggans taking 'Uptown Funk' as literal prophecy makes for an amusing mental image. I bet they’re really knockin’ that out right about now.”

  Declan said, “I need to sleep. I need water. I need…” He looked at our frosty surroundings. “I need a fire and a nice, long rest.”

  I snorted. “All you nitwits did was get a little stoned and pass out. I negotiated with the clurichaun and the spriggans, got chased into a dilapidated shithouse by a werefox, was attacked by Sayomi the fetish firebug, and fell in a toilet. And I still got the fucking golden pods.”

  Declan offered, “Think positively, Dr. B. You also freed an entire town of Irish folk from a clurichaun’s spell, returned his garden to him by ensuring future crops, and learned that the dog whistle turns Folkenflik into your momentary best buddy. And you did it all without any help whatsoever.”

  I pointed Declan out to Batten. “See? Positivity,” I said.

  “And you never once punched Gareth Granger in the face.”

  “People skills,” I added. “Holy rolling shitballs, I am one red hot mama today. How you like me now?” I spread my arms and made come-at-me-bro hand motions at Batten. “Who do these punkass DaySitters think they’re messin’ with, eh?”

  Batten didn’t look too impressed, but that might have been butt-hurt or a magic smoke hangover, but was probably both. The tent was a super-easy pop-up dealio, and he’d set it right off the parking lot beyond a curb, where there might have been grass under the snow. It still looked like a cold, hard place to sleep.

  “Crack open that bottle of whiskey, Glenda Hasenpfeffer, and give me a swig.”

  “You after me,” I said, and took a careful sip from the bottle, watching Declan collect twigs and such for a fire. He was yawning some more, and his step was still unsteady. I handed my bottle to Batten and dusted a dry spot off the curb to plant my arse. I fished my Moleskine notebook out of my go-bag and tried not to compare the usefulness of Batten’s tent and his foresight to my packing a blonde wig and some clean froggy-print knee socks.

  While Declan built a fire and Batten nipped whiskey straight from the bottle, I made notes and tried to fit my quests in with what BugBelly had told me. I reviewed my notes from that meeting and found them disappointingly scanty. If I were going to run my own business successfully, I was going to have to take better notes. I’d jotted worm forge and gold and mummy’s honey pot. Bone chewing trolls was also noted. I laid the Overlord’s instructions on my lap and copied down: Undercroft, collect one (1) pod o’ gold and “misfit” canopic jar and Golden Sap of Huxtahotep.

  “This was a bad idea,” Batten sighed, which didn’t stop him from taking another pull on the whiskey. Declan half-smiled and took the bottle when it was offered.

  I looked around at the quiet parking lot. The only sounds were the crackle of fire and the occasional swish-glug of whiskey being drained from a bottle. Grimston was still a ghost town, though I was betting by midnight, we’d be rousted from our tent by activity. How long would it take Gareth Granger to wake all his patrons from their slumber, now that the spriggans weren’t there to demand an audience? I didn’t know. The magic smoke seemed to clear from the men fairly quickly; maybe fairy wine took a bit more time.

  Sayomi and Folkenflik were gone for now. I knew those spriggan bites would sting, maybe more than her stinging pride, and Sayomi didn’t have her revenant nearby to help her heal or comfort her. She did have her Second, if she was still speaking to him after he'd literally turned on her. I slid Batten the side-eye and thought, friggin’ Seconds.

  “We should take turns watching,” Declan said, yawning greatly. Batten agreed with a mutter that sounded affirmative but was not a successfully-enunciated word.

  “I guess that makes me first watch,” I said, pointing at the tent. “To bed with you. Or whatever is going to pass for a bed.”

  Batten grumbled something negative, but I was in no mood to see what the combination of booze and the recently worn off magic smoke would do to his reaction time, should anything else attack us tonight. I pointed again and when he tiredly limped to the tent, once again favoring his wounded knee, I followed to make sure he was complying.

  He attempted to remove his leather jacket but needed a hand. That done, I unfolded the silver emergency blanket he’d brought in his go-bag. The varnish of booze slightly smoothed the splintery surface of Batten's mood; his tongue slowed, and his gaze lingered on me a bit too long, and I knew if I didn't leave the tent again soon, he'd try something, and I'd not be able to say no to that offer, and in the morning, he’d be mad that I took advantage of his vulnerable state.

  When I shuffled on my knees to leave, he grunted as if to say, I knew it.

  "Problem?" I asked.

  "Running away," he accused.

  "You need your sleep," I told him, my hand already seeking the tent zipper behind me.

  “I fucked up.”

  It was true, but in his case, that was so rare. “I once saw you get thrown down the stairs and through a wall, get up, chase the perp twelve blocks, and make the arrest without swallowing your chewing gum.”

  “Your point?”

  “You’re allowed one fuck-up. You’re super-badass. But now you need sleep. We both do."

  "Right. Sleep." The anger drained out of his face, and he just looked old. Tired. Defeated. It broke my heart.

  "If you promise not to molest me, I'll tuck you in."

  His brows pinched together, causing a pucker of skin between them. Then he burst out laughing, strong at first, weakening to defeat.

  "Share the joke," I said, helping him lie down with both my gloved hands. "What's funny?"

  "Twelve mouthfuls of whiskey," he groaned, "Magic smoke hangover, jetlag and a throbbing knee, and you still think I could get it up. Flattering. Unrealistic, but flattering."

  "Probably you should stop talking soon before you manage to convince me you're not an omnipotent sex god." I reconsidered. "You're prone to whiskey-dick?"

  He flipped onto his side, curled up in the fetal position, face half-buried in the pillow. "You're not?"

  I smirked, working at the laces of his standard-issue boots. "I don't have a dick, so... no?" I threw his boots in the corner of the tent.

  He sighed wistfully. "Lucky guy."

  I grinned in the dark. "Is that what I am?" The blanket was thin and metallic; I pulled it up around his mountain range shoulders and tucked it in around him.

  “Let’s stay friends no matter what,” he murmured. Or at least that’s what I thought he said.

  I promised, “Deal, weirdo.”

  He made a happy, sleepy noise, after which I had no choice but to climb closer and spoon him for a minute, snuggling up against this back. Soon, he started snoring. I smiled, patted his dark buzz cut, and left him to sleep.

  Chapter 25

  Declan stayed by the fire with me for a few hours while Batten snored. I wondered if Batte
n always snored. It seemed like something I should have known before now. It did nothing to squelch my desire to boink him, not even when it got rough and guttural. The snoring, that is. I liked the boinking that way just fine, thanks.

  The firelight got low and hissed and popped while we relaxed. A couple times, I became aware of movement in the shadows, but while it remained at a distance, it didn’t seem to be a problem. I checked my mini Cougar and found a full clip, six rounds.

  “Are you hungry, Dr. B.?”

  “You brought food?”

  “There’s a vending machine on the other side of the petrol station. I could get you something? Chips? A candy bar, perhaps?”

  I dug in Harry’s pockets for change and finger-counted the jiekngasaldi coins I had left: five. I had my wallet in my go-bag, but no cash in it. I nodded gratefully, and Declan got up and ambled off to fetch some chocolate. I propped my elbows on my knees and let my face sink into my gloved hands. The excitement of fairies and wine and fire and sexy Japanese attackers and magic smoke and shapeshifters faded, and fear began to creep back in. I was tired. I was tipsy from the whiskey. I missed Harry something fierce already and dreaded the morning. I needed a little boost in morale.

  I didn’t know what time it was back home, but I also knew it didn’t matter. Elian de Cabrera would answer. I dug out my phone and texted: Positivity?

  His reply was so quick that his speed alone made me smile. You’re alive to text me. Miss ya, chica. Everything okay? Tears sprung hotly into my eyes. Good old Elian.

  It will be, I texted him. I got this.

  Damn skippy, he replied.

  That’s when I saw the white fox sitting just beyond the bright circle of the fire. I dropped my phone and reached for my gun, and he stood, retreating a bit, but not entirely out of the firelight. I eased my hand back, knowing I couldn’t shoot fast enough to beat a lycanthrope at this distance; between having preternatural speed and the ability to heal a gunshot wound, if it wasn’t a silver bullet, it was pointless.

  We stared each other down, and my eyes kept being drawn to the triplicate shadow of his single tail. His eyes were remarkably human in the otherwise entirely vulpine face. He had thick, short ears that looked as soft to the touch as the rest of him. He cocked his head one way and then the other. Experimentally, I reached up to touch the lanyard around my neck and drew out the whistle to show it to him. When shapeshifted, how human were his thoughts? It was an area of preternatural biology that was still tantalizingly poorly-researched. I mimed putting the whistle to my mouth just to see what he’d do. He lay down and dipped his head under his front paws, covering his ears as if I'd threatened to sing a medley from Les Mis.

  “Okay, Folkenflik,” I said under my breath. “Where’s your latex-coated sidekick, the foxy lady?”

  His head popped back up and he was on all fours again in a blink. I spared a moment to look behind me to make sure she wasn’t creeping up on me, and noted Declan was returning; he’d spotted the fox and was choosing each of his slow steps carefully, unsure, as I was, of what was up.

  “Okay, so what do you want?” I asked the fox.

  He started a slow, wandering pad around the fire, casting me glances when he got close to where I was sitting, not approaching into my comfort zone, though to be honest, I wasn’t comfortable with any of it just yet. I liked my personal space, and when it came to monsters that could kill me or infect me, my personal space bubble extended pretty damn far. Not quite to Mars, but a good bit of the way.

  “Was any of this your idea?” I said quietly. “Or are you just along for the ride?”

  The fox stared at me with those human eyes and lowered his snout, sniffing the ground between me and the fire. He put one paw in front of the other, creeping closer, keeping a careful watch on me. I stayed very still. He caught Declan’s scent, and froze for a second, but he soon resumed his slow creep to the very tip of my Keds.

  He gave my shoes a sniff. Since they’d been kicking around in an old, rarely-used outhouse, I couldn’t imagine how they smelled. I sure wouldn’t be sniffing them, especially not with a canine-quality schnoz.

  Folkenflik whipped around suddenly, dropped his furry butt and lifted his tail, and peed on my right foot. Then he darted away in the direction he’d first appeared.

  My jaw dropped open and I used my left foot to kick off my right shoe at the heel as quickly as possible before the spray could sink in to my sock. “Damn you, Folkenflik!” I shouted.

  Declan ran over, both hands full of chocolate bars, which he promptly dumped on top of his go-bag. “Did that fox just scent mark you? Are you his now?”

  Oh boy, a werefox boyfriend? “I can’t date a man named Gunther Folkenflik!”

  “Why not?”

  “He sounds like a cartoon villain.”

  He snorted. “You’re not honestly complaining to me of all people about names?”

  “How small a font would I have to use if I hyphenated my entire name on my business cards as Marnie Baranuik-Folkenflik-Dreppenstedt? You'd need preternatural eyesight just to read the damn things.” Nope, no way was I going to be Mister Fox's sidecar sweetheart. “Also, in case you hadn’t noticed, he runs on all fours and pees on me.” Granted, this was arguably not worse than any of my other boyfriends had treated me. Probably, it was an improvement on several of them, if I cared to examine that closely and do a point-by-point comparison. I didn't care to.

  “He likes you,” Declan offered.

  I retorted, “That almost never happens. Wait. I’m agreeing with you. How did that happen?” He made a valid point. Since when did guys like me? Maybe I should take it where I could get it. Maybe Folkenflik wasn’t so bad. “Wait, we are still talking about the guy whose own family keeps him in a straightjacket?”

  There was a beat of silence during which we both stared at my wet shoe and considered the ramifications.

  “He sounds perfect for you,” Declan said and then went off into a fit of giggles. “What would Harry say?”

  I rubbed my shoe vigorously in the snow then propped it on a stone next to the fire to dry. “Froo-fritty-froo-froo yammerty-hammerty.”

  “Paraphrasing?” Declan asked.

  “See, you get me.” I saw his smothered yawn. “At least we know that Sayomi and Folkenflik haven’t driven off. I’ll keep an eye out. Go get some sleep.”

  “Maybe Folkenflik is watching over us. Would be good for all of us to sleep.”

  “No need,” came a sleepy voice from behind us in the tent. A shuffle preceded Batten’s hand unzipping the flap. “I’ll take watch. What did I miss? What are you two Stooges giggling about?”

  Declan and I exchanged guilty glances and smothered grins. “Nothin’.” Declan said.

  “Why is there only one shoe drying by the fire?” Batten noted with annoying, detail-oriented sharpness.

  “No reason,” I lied, snort-laughing into my gloved hand. “Uh, heads up, I’m pretty sure the dynamic duo is still lurking about. Maybe sleeping in our car nearby. Keep your ear to the ground.”

  Having given my warning, I hopped on one foot after a sleepy Declan to the tent, keeping my right sock dry. We tried to get warm under an emergency blanket. There was no pillow, and my neck felt cocked at a weird angle no matter how I tossed and turned and contorted myself. Declan was out like a snuffed candle, snoring away more delicately than Batten had; he only sounded like an asthmatic moose. Up close, he smelled faintly of whiskey, yesterday’s cologne, and the scent of his unique brand of preternatural magic, whatever kept him ticking away at his great age: the fragrance of anise and wormwood. As my heavy eyelids sank closed, I vowed that the next time I slept, it would be in a nice, warm, comfy bed, with no snoring dhampir in my face.

  I was almost asleep when I heard Batten’s low rumbling voice outside the tent.

  “A gun?” Batten asked. “Unexpected.”

  “Why’s that?” his female visitor said. My eyes popped open and I sat straight up with alarm. Sayomi.

  Ba
tten noted, “You didn’t shoot Baranuik.”

  “I wanted to stop her, not kill her,” Sayomi said. “I’d rather you die.”

  “Because?”

  “I want her soul.”

  “Mine’s no good?”

  The Blue Sense flared hot under my palms; Sayomi didn’t like that one bit, but I had no idea why. I smelled fur. Folkenflik was around. How did he feel about Batten? On a subtle pump of psi, I Felt his conflict, but that wasn’t entirely helpful, since I had no way of knowing what it was over.

  I overheard her purr at him and every thought flew out of my head except for kicking her in the throat. I crawled as quietly as I could to the zipper and began to slowly tick-tick-tick it open without shaking the tent fabric.

  “You aren’t here to back her up,” Sayomi said. “Let’s be honest. You don’t care about the politics of the Falskaar Vouras or the ascension of a house. You weren’t meant to come at all, as I understand it. Rumor says, you were not her chosen Second. Yet here you are. We both know why.”

  Batten said nothing.

  “How long will you pretend to help her before you chase what you’re really after?”

  Again, Batten was comfortable in his silence.

  “You know, I met your grandfather,” Sayomi said.

  The Blue Sense reported flatly and immediately: lie. I had to see what was happening. I laid one eye up against the tiny space I’d made in the zipper, closing the other eye, and the first thing I saw was my go-bag, way over on the far side of the fire. My gun was in it. My herbs were in it. All my stuff was in it. Dammit.

  She continued, “Colonel Jack was such a generous benefactor.”

  “Benefactor,” Batten said tightly. “You make it sound optional. Willing.”

  “Oh, it was, in the end. The human body cries out for ms-lipotropin after being fed a constant diet of it.” She sounded smug. “He’d beg my master to feed from him. He shook like a virgin offering up her maidenhead the first time, but after a while, he would tremble desperately in his restraints like a junkie. And that’s what he became.” She moved further into the firelight and it shone on her glossy latex outfit, accentuating the puckered places the fabric had melted like slashes against her thighs. “He was our whore; our eager, whimpering whore.”