by A. J. Aalto
“Probably under a heavy cloud of painkillers,” I said. “How many of these people knew they were coming to feed a revenant? And how come they're mostly chicks?”
“Malas has always managed to surround himself with beautiful ladies.”
“Sorry I asked.”
“The eldest of my kind always find compatible hearts. Understand, my own darling: about mortal thirsts, they are never wrong, the old ones. How well they ferret every nuance, dredge up every shameful desire, unfold the protective arms of every naked secret. To be sure, each of the mortals knew to whom they were coming, and unto what purpose. The Prioress and her adjutant knew that Malas was here. The others were merely party-goers with a bent for bleeding. A group feed is not an uncommon event. One mortal body simply cannot safely spare enough blood to sustain a revenant of Malas’ age. The DaySitter normally arranges volunteers, and Malas’ Master of the Revels would have organized the parties.”
“I'm confused,” I admitted, blowing out a puff of air that moved my bangs off my forehead in a swish. “Where are the three missing people from Fur Con? Did this Prioress have a problem with the Furries, or just with Malas? What's the abomination? Who's this John Spicer guy? Does he have anything to do with the missing Furries? Does he have anything to do with Stuart the DaySitter?”
“I suppose Agent Chapel's investigation continues.”
“And who the hell did call Batten, if not you, Harry?”
The voice that came out of his throat then was ever so slightly altered; I'd have recognized it, but only by gut reaction through our Bond. His crisp London accent slid into an upper-crust Massachusetts accent. “That would be Mistah Harrick, my darling. Guy Harrick, Esquiah.”
He swept down the front steps, three paces ahead of me, pulling out the eye-boggling slip-glide shadow-stepping of the old ones. Hoo boy. Harry was really pleased with himself when he bothered showing off for the one person who had seen all his tricks a hundred thousand times. I smirked, shaking my head at his dancing eyebrows.
“Batten won't forget again,” I warned.
He gestured with growing self-satisfaction to the persimmon-red Kawasaki motorcycle waiting just around the side of the garage. When he reached it, he tossed me the spare helmet. I caught it, but before I could plunk it down on my head, the back of his cool hand hit my forehead, then tucked behind my ear strands of hair that had escaped my ponytail.
“Darling, are you ill?”
“It's just a head cold.” I snarfled.
“Charming. Do get rid of it,” he advised, “you're positively drippy.”
“Gee, I'll get right on that,” I drawled. “Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Guy Harrick, Esquire?”
He beamed down at me, flashing a straight white smile without a hint of fang, and if it weren't for the inhuman flash of silver streaking through his grey eyes, I'd have sworn Harry was just a man giving a woman a sultry gaze.
“Oh yes, my angel, there certainly is, but it will have to wait.”
He kissed the end of my nose, surprising a little blush into my cheeks. Then he winked smugly over my shoulder.
I turned my head in time to watch Mark Batten's boots on a stretcher disappear into the back of an ambulance.
I lifted chiding eyes to Harry's, folding my arms.
He affected a guiltless smile. “Shall we be off?”
CHAPTER 6
BEING IN A CAR DEALERSHIP long after it's closed feels like you're up to something nefarious, even when the owner is personally showing you around. The buzz of sales activity is long gone, the phones are silent, the copier, fax, and printer aren't shooting out papers. The welcoming waft of coffee brewing in some unseen staff room is missing. Pity; I could have used a jolt. Too much activity for this nutty squirrel, and not enough caffeine.
Seeing Batten again had put the Cops TV theme song in my head, and it's hard not to bop when Inner Circle is boogieing around your brain. The silence put the shrill geek-squeak of my Keds center stage, echoing off the struts and ceiling as we walked past row upon row of shiny new automobiles. Most of the lights were low, except those over the Ferraris. I might imagine myself a fearless cat burglar about to make off with four hundred thousand dollars’ worth of Italian engineering, but the only thing I was apt to make Gone in 60 Seconds was a pan of brownies.
I was currently without a car of my own, but still didn't want to be there. The prospect of working for Chapel at the PCU office in Boulder seemed, at first, like too great a burden, but putting him off got too tricky. The “it's storming and monsters broke my car” defense had melted with the snow. By May, I was running out of excuses, and began blaming my reticence on vaguely-stated female problems in a crampy voice with just a hint of PMS bitchiness. A couple weeks ago, when Harry left for London, I'd caved and had gone to take my unofficial place at his lab.
I'd put off replacing my crumpled Buick, choosing instead various borrowed SUVs from Chapel's office. I wouldn't need to be here if my revenant companion and my newly-undead brother hadn't thrown my beloved brown tank around the front yard like a couple of caber tossers at the Highland Games. I resented the fact that we weren't at the Buick dealership or a used car lot to buy me a new tank, but Harry had other ideas.
Three paces ahead of me and thirty degrees cooler, Harry spoke enthusiastically about his former love affair with gullwing doors to the indulgent owner of Rocky Mountain Luxury Automobiles, Ted McCrackin. Ted sold more high-end cars annually than anyone else in the state of Colorado. Though he had imported Harry's Bugatti from Italy, Ted hadn't made the initial sale; that had been done overseas, but he'd shipped the car here for Harry free of charge, expecting that when the four hundred thirty-five-year-old aristocrat was ready to buy a new car, he'd look fondly on his dealings and perhaps return. Ted's patience was about to pay off.
Harry enjoyed living up to people's expectations. If you thought you'd see fangs, he flashed them. If you were sure he'd try to sway you with his revenant gaze, he'd lull you a bit for your entertainment; at his age, Harry could easily take most folks wherever he wanted, mentally, with an effortless glance.
I expected many things of him over the years; as his DaySitter, I expected him to rest during the day and stay out of my hair. At night, I expected him to have my back while I slept. And if he found the time, I expected him to bake me brownies. It was my new junk food obsession, ever since I promised the Goddess that if she got a certain hunky vampire hunter out of trouble alive, I'd give up cookies. I make idiotic promises like that on a frequent basis, and am now stuck trying to convince myself that throwing Oreos in a blender to make an ice cream topping doesn't technically count as eating cookies.
Since our last run-in with trouble in December, Harry and I had hunkered down in the Rockies at our lakeside cabin on Shaw's Fist. All winter and long into the spring, my brother Wesley rested in his brand new casket while Harry and I enjoyed each other's company in solitude, letting the past settle into memory and our relationship take baby steps into a fragile intimacy. Now that sex with Harry was a possibility, I was like a cat watching a scrabbling mouse hooked by the tail in a trap, biding my time, ready to pounce when his mood was right.
Harry and McCrackin remembered I was with them, and I remembered I was supposed to be feigning interest in expensive cars.
“MJ, won't you please sit?” Harry invited, swinging open the door of a high-gloss red convertible. He was still dressed for an evening at the opera: grey velvet and high black lace collar, perfectly glamorous right down to the French cuffs and garnet cuff links. His 4711 cologne had mostly worn off during our long motorcycle ride, but I could faintly smell the menthol cigarette he'd flicked aside before coming into the building. Beneath that, barely noticeable to mundane senses, lingered the scent of burnt molasses, a scent associated with revenant magic and the mysterious power that drove immortals from their caskets every evening as the sun sank below the horizon.
I slid into the leather seat and wondered, if I took my leather gloves off to
compare the two hides, would the Ferrari's seats put my calfskin to shame? I left them on, of course; one of my psychic Talents, known as psychometry or “token-object reading,” is most easily performed by a psi-bridge between the skin of my palms and the item. It's often done unintentionally; the gloves block most of the influx. The Ferrari's leather felt butter-soft under my jeans, and I squished my bum around to get comfy before laying my gloved hands on the steering wheel.
“Scuderia Spider 16m,” McCrackin offered; I instantly took to calling him “Phil” in my head because of an old dirty joke. He launched into telling me the specs, none of which I understood in the least. He said something about a streetable track car, and I wondered if he made that word up.
“Streetable,” I repeated, like I knew what I was talking about. “Bitchin’. How much?”
Harry pressed his lips together and studied the spotlights above to hide the roll of his eyes.
Ted, on the other hand, seemed taken aback. “Lord Dreppenstedt and I can certainly negotiate on price, since he's purchasing two.”
“Oh no, just one tonight,” I corrected. “I'm buying a 2005 Buick Century from the used lot across the street.” It went without saying that, outside of lottery winners, nobody was likely to be trading a Buick in at Rocky Mountain Luxury. It looked like the biggest beater on the lot was some kind of Japanese Godzilla-coupe with a huge spoiler and about a million gauges on the dash, and it was still six figures.
Ted made sounds like a walrus choking on a sea urchin.
“We shall be taking a matching pair, Mr. McCrackin, I assure you,” Harry said soothingly, “my ducky is just being difficult.”
“Quack,” I replied.
McCrackin recovered to smile; it was disquieting how quickly he changed masks, and I wondered whether it was his decades in sales or a sub-clinical sociopathic condition.
I clutched the steering wheel hard enough to make the leather creak. “I'm the one writing out the money orders, gentlemen. How. Much.”
McCrackin quoted a figure of nearly half a million dollars. I did my best to stifle the sticker shock that burbled up in the back of my throat because it would have come out pretty foul. I totally had people skills now.
Ted's mental calculator was precise from years of practice. The figure he gave Harry in British pounds, then in Euros, did absolutely nothing to put my eyes back in their sockets. But the gleam was in my Cold Company's eyes, and I knew no amount of reasoning would talk him out of his purchase. Since being parted from his Bugatti Veyron Sang Noir, Harry claimed to be toyless and joyless. A bored revenant, I had discovered, had waaaaay too much time on his hands to aggravate his DaySitter. Half a million for some peace and quiet was beginning to seem like a bargain. Technically, it was Harry's money, but it was in the bank under my name, and the thought of writing a check with that many zeroes on it made me queasy.
“Okay. One. In black,” I said. “But spare the bells and whistles.”
Harry let one pale hand light on the headrest behind my short ponytail, into which his fingers burrowed until he had a firm hold of my head in a way that seemed to satisfy him. He dropped his chin nearer my ear; the cool air that always surrounded him sent a chill along the nape of my neck, bristling all the little hairs there. With him so close, I could see the blood — light blue revenant nectar — still drying on his collar. I was certain if Ted saw it, he'd never say a word; we could have used corpses to measure trunk space and he'd have helped lift the legs.
“A pair,” Harry corrected, “in rosso corsa red, with all the bells and whistles.”
McCrackin backed away to a less intrusive space, watching the exchange with a sharklike appetite caged behind his professional mien. I thought for a heartbeat while Harry's unnecessary breath brushed the side of my face in steady streams. Even though Ted was well aware that my companion was a revenant, Harry considered it rude not to fake-breathe in front of mortals.
If we were going to fence over this, I wanted to strike first. “The boathouse isn't big enough to store two cars. Whose Ferrari do we leave out in the driveway to get covered in bird crap and bug spit?”
He parried. “The boathouse is large enough, my love, this you know.”
I pursed my lips, wrapping my gloved hand around the stick shift, and went with a fancy riposte. “Driving a sports car to and from work on these mountain roads is impractical, Harry. It's bad enough I have such a long commute, do you think I'm going to make it in this thing? How would I navigate the snow and ice? It'd be like wearing heels on a hiking trip.”
“You managed without complaint in the Buick.”
Touché. “The Buick was a low heel. Or a Mary Jane. Or soccer shoes, you know, with the grippy bits? And it was four thousand pounds of front-wheel-drive practicality.” It was a clumsy fillip, but I scored a hit.
Harry's eyelids squeezed shut. “You may have something else if you stop using that ridiculous metaphor and say yes to the Ferrari.”
“I'll bet you a million dollars that Batten won't roll up at the field office in the Bugatti.” That was a low blow, reminding Harry he'd given his prized possession to Kill-Notch. I should probably have felt bad, but I was too busy reveling in actually winning an argument with my Cold Company to care. I was tired and cranky, and wanted a cup of espresso and about nine hours of sleep.
Harry winced, but tried to stop-thrust. “Such a fuss you make, when all I'm trying to do is supply you with the basic needs,” he said with a tsk. “For once in your life, would you kindly let me care for you?”
And then I saw it, the coup de grâce. “Oooh,” I murmured appreciatively, pointing. “What is that?”
Both men turned their heads to the vehicle I was pointing at; lurking in the shadows like the Hulk in a bad mood, olive drab and chrome, it looked like it should only be owned by a badass, and, boy, did I want to be that badass. Harry did a double take at me; thanks to our Bond, I picked up a wave of dismayed horror… and just a hint of admiration.
He whispered, “Monstrous.”
“No, it's a lovely choice,” Ted assured Harry, who didn't hide his uncertainty. “Hummer H1, bulletproofed by Texas Armoring. It's a few years old and previously owned by a certain musician I'm not at liberty to name. Immaculate, only driven twice.” He proceeded to do his sales pitch, not rushed and pushy like the used car guys I'd been secretly courting during Harry's holiday, but suave and assured of a sale. At two hundred thousand, it was much more reasonable, or less insane, although nowhere near the fifteen thousand I'd had in mind for a half-used Buick.
In the end, I got an approving nod from my revenant; it mollified Harry that I had at least chosen the luxury aftermarket upgrade package. I'd high-five myself in the mirror later. The numbers now marching across the inside of my thrifty little skull were interrupted by the trilling of my cell phone, and I stepped into the shadows by the Porsches to take the call.
“Baranuik, forensic psychometry — you rope ’em, we Grope ’em.” My greeting was met by silence; I assumed it was one of my bosses trying to figure out how best to chide me. I strained to listen, and was promptly sorry I did. What came over the line was a barely audible gurgle that rattled all the little nerves in my chest and ballooned my heart with anxiety.
“Hello?” I said, ignoring Harry's inquisitive glance. “Who is this?”
A slightly familiar voice, tinged with an unfamiliar accent. “Mêle-toi de tes affai— Gluck. Gurk!”
“Sir? You're breaking up. Can you say again?” I dug out my Moleskine and No. 2 and scribbled phonetically what I heard, including the choking noises. “Is that French? Sir, I don't speak French.”
Was there an app for that? I quickly thumbed through the options and found a cheap translator that came with helpful emoticons.
“Graaaaaaw—ne monte pas sur mon ananas!”
“Relax dude,” I appeased. “I'm not gonna punt your banana, or whatever the hell you just said.”
He insisted, “Ne monte par sur mon ananas! Gak!” After a second, the
translator reported stormily: Do not mount my pineapple. I scowled at it.
“Mêle-toi de ton Maquereau,” he said.
The translator's emoticon changed to a bright smile with toothy grin and informed me: Mind your own mackerel.
“I don't…” I shook the phone as though it were a misbehaving Magic 8 Ball. “I don't like fish. What are you—”
“Toute la nuit! Toute la nuit!” Again, an angry elephant gargle. “Tu baigne mon caniche!” The translator made bedroom eyes at me and reported: All night, all night, you bathe my poodle.
“I do not!” I squawked. I had to write pretty fast to get it all down, and by the time I was writing the last word, the person on the other end of the phone was spitting mad, gasping and coughing. The Blue Sense blasted me in the ear with the caller's rage and frustration and I had to hold the phone away from my head.
“Okay, wow. Is this about dry cleaning the squirrel suit? Send me the bill, care of the Boulder FBI field office—”
The gurgling went silent abruptly, and I hung up too. Harry was at my shoulder.
“Who might that have been, angel?”
“Some pissed-off, kinky French dude. Who do I know who speaks French, other than you?” Malas, my brain piped up. But the caller wasn't raspy. My pesky grey cells were only too happy to supply an impossible alternative: Gregori. “Doesn't matter. Wrong number. Let's just pay and get out of here.” Harry looked at me doubtfully but didn't press.
After tallying up all the accessories, taxes, and delivery costs, we left Rocky Mountain Luxury Automobiles more than a million dollars lighter. I tried not to dwell on it, but I was pretty sure I was getting very expensive hives.
The night sky had deepened and cleared to reveal an abyssal ceiling full of summer stars and cool planetary bodies. Around the parking lot in the well-trimmed hedge and wildflowers, crickets and noctivagant insects trilled in the warm air. I snuck a sideways peek at my Cold Company.
