2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

“I'm sorry. He should have blocked it.”

  He could have, and we both knew it. “Harry wanted me to hear it so he wouldn't have to tell me to leave.”

  “He won't ever tell you to leave. He wouldn't dare cross me like that.”

  “He doesn't have to say a word. It's true, you know. I'm making him… sick.”

  “You don't have to go. But he's right. You need to drink the blood we got you from Shield. This isn't optional, Wes. I'm not gonna keep letting you leach our energy away. Look at me, I'm all sweaty and boogery. I have a goddamned summer cold because you'd rather mope and eat pizza than drink blood like a real revenant. You may not grow old, but you sure as shit need to grow up.” I hadn't meant to be quite that blunt, but I was sick, I was tired, and Wes was doing exactly nothing to improve any aspect of my mood or life. I felt more than a little justified in unloading on him.

  He stood, yanking his plaid shirt back into place where it had ridden up to reveal his growing stomach and previously nonexistent love handles, about which he was starting to get self-conscious. “I want to help.”

  “Help with what, exactly?”

  “You know.” He shrugged. “The case and shit.”

  I laughed, incredulous. “You can't! You're not—”

  “I'm telepathic, Marnie,” he reminded me. “I may not always be able to filter out all the thoughts flying around, but I'm learning. Maybe I can tell you things.”

  “Legally, Agent Chapel can't hire the undead, Wes.”

  He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “He doesn't have to hire me. I can help you. Secretly.”

  I thought about that. “I don't need a hero, Wes. I got this.”

  “Do you?” A flat stare.

  “Well, not yet, but I will. Besides, I can't put you at risk. Harry is worried about this Bavarian vampire tracker working for paladins, and Malas is just…” I scrounged for the right word to describe my feelings, “Wrong in every way, and I'm being stalked by a tooth, and people are missing and one of them got gobbled up. Did I mention that part?”

  Wes tapped his temple to answer that.

  “Right,” I said. “Then there's wacky pink webs everywhere, and the ogre with the tongue, and an irritating assistant with a caramel laugh.”

  “Marnie, what does any of that have to do with me?”

  I spun one finger around my forehead. “It's all connected right here! You should be gone. Home. Somewhere else. Anywhere else.”

  “Well, fine. Fuck you for thinking I'd take off on you while all this is going on. Is that all you think of me?”

  “Wes, I didn't mean—”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” he said with finality. “I will find a way to make up for all the shit I've caused you.”

  “You haven't—” I stopped, because the truth was rattling in my brain, easy pickings for his Blue Sense. “You don't have to make up for any of it. You came here for my help. I invited you knowing full well that you'd be a ginormous pain in my ass.”

  One corner of his lips quirked up, but his blue eyes still spiraled down to sickly, wilted violet. He ducked his head so I wouldn't see. He'd learned how to recognize the signs of his own vamping-out, another thing he seemed to be growing self-conscious about. He couldn't control it yet, but at least he knew when he was tipping over.

  “Maybe you don't need a hero.” There was more. I saw it in the tension around his lips, but he shook his head and didn't voice it. Instead, he reminded me, “I could be a lot worse. By the way, you should mention your weird phone calls to Chapel.”

  I half-smiled. “Stay out of my head, Wes.”

  “I'll try,” he promised, and slipped out of the room.

  CHAPTER 16

  ONCE THE DEAD GUYS went back to casket and my guts calmed from the inevitable cold punch they always took when Harry stilled to rest, it was finally quiet enough to get some work done. I schlepped my feverish ass to the study. There were three piles of crime scene photos from Cosmo Winkle's death spread out to cover my desk. The first officer on the scene had taken his own pictures, which I had stacked at the left; rough, hurried shots, raw and red, details blurred by the emotions of a rookie with a basic camera. The forensic photographer's shots, taken at the fish camp, were in the middle; tight, close, and clinical, lit by the morning sun. On the right, the autopsy pictures from the morgue; cold, bright, lots of chrome and steel, and all that white flesh: Cosmo's drained by death, and the hands of the medical examiner pale behind latex. In some pictures, the ME and his assistant had clearly double-gloved, making their capable hands even less human as they hovered, here above an open cavity, there over a skull cap, like rubbery robotic probes.

  My eyes kept returning to the rookie's pictures; they were too honest for comfort, almost obscenely graphic, but that made them more intriguing to me than the official ones that would be kept on file by the Bureau. I wondered who the local officer was and if he was okay. Was the scene he'd captured keeping him up nights, adding an extra shot of whiskey to his evenings, thrusting extra monsters into his nightmares?

  I sat forward and my chair complained with a creak; in the dead silence of the cabin, it was as loud as a gunshot. For an uncomfortable moment, the flesh at the nape of my neck crawled, and I felt watched again. Residual paranoia, I told myself, from Ruby Valli's invisible geezer routine. Who knows how many times she'd hung over me, unseen in my own home, walked between me and Harry in the kitchen, lurked in the corner of the room listening to our conversations, polluting the air with her emotions, disembodied emotions I could have Felt or Touched if I had known I was supposed to be pinpointing an intruder. And I should have known. I should have been paying attention. If I'd been less obsessed with Jerkface McHotass…

  No. I rubbed a hand over my face. No more of that. Ruby Valli is gone.

  Related and unrelated clues, the few that I had so far, appeared in the front of my skull, as though some kid had tossed two boxes of puzzle pieces into my third eye, where they hung, taunting me. Three Furries, two of whom met in a heavy metal vamp-fan bar (“Do those look like fang marks to you, Doctor?”); one body, eviscerated; an abdominal cavity showing a tiny black smear that was likely one of the undead plagues; paladins and Priors and revenants, oh my; a missing DaySitter; a pervert in a unicorn suit; a French caller; this stupid fever, surely caused by Wesley's eating disorder; a magic tooth (it's a fucking tooth, oh Dark Lady); a brand new assistant of unknown powers; and Batten, who would be returning the Kawasaki soon. Several warring parts of me lurched sharply at the mental image of him astride the motorcycle's taut leather saddle.

  Again, distracted by my unruly loins. Angry, I grabbed the bottle of vitamins in my desk drawer, turning the bottle over in my palm, resenting the effects of the bremelanotide and the creature who fed me both the pills and the lie that had swallowed with them.

  “If I keep taking these, somebody's gonna get hurt,” I murmured to myself, popping the cap. “How ’bout we accomplish something useful today?” I plunked the bottle on the corner of my desk and pulled an image of Gary up on my laptop while I searched through some familiar, trusted spell websites, looking for some answers I had been procrastinating asking the pertinent questions to. I forgot about taking my vitamins as my brain went back into work mode. Nothing like an image of straight-cut Unflappable Chapel to cool the ol’ libido.

  Time to release my dhaugir from his bond, if I could. The spell was embarrassingly easy to find online; I wondered how many times Chapel had Googled it, found it, and prayed I would, too. He'd never once asked to be released. He was the un-squeaky wheel that never asked to be oiled but needed it badly, the solid one who never complained, just soldiered on, accepting the consequences of what he had done. His stoicism seemed more like masochism to me.

  It had been wonderfully useful to have a vessel for my pain, but Harry was right: it was unfair. Chapel had given me a gift, but it had only been meant to prop me up during the physical strains of our last case. It wasn't a forever deal. It was time to clear my conscie
nce and let my poor boss off the hook.

  Avoiding the grimoire cabinet itself for fear of tainting my mood, I searched for the things I'd need to endow a candle with the essence of my boss and set him free. Most of the ingredients were easy to put my hands on. I dressed a candle — black for transition and reabsorbing a negative effect — with oil of wormwood for protection and my own anchoring oil of lilac. Then I gathered up a bundle of heliotrope, rue, skullcap, yarrow and meadowsweet to remove the disharmony of the dhaugir bond. I didn't have any essence of horehound, as my usual supplier had trouble keeping it in stock, but I substituted with the vivid red resin of dragon's blood on the twine that I wrapped about the candle. Removing my gloves and setting them carefully apart on the window ledge, I crammed a handful of nutmeg pods in my front pocket to strengthen my powers and began drawing on the well of dormant psi resting just under the surface of my palms.

  “Mental science, bitches,” I whispered. “You bet your mystic brain-farts.”

  I gazed steadily at the picture of Gary on my laptop and focused my intentions. “Here stands the wax image of my dhaugir, devoted whipping boy, given to me of his own free will. It behaves as Gary does, thinks as Gary thinks, feels as Gary feels, and is as Gary is, obedient to me above all others.”

  In my belly, an unhappy twinge; I squinted at the spell on my computer, wrinkling my nose. That “obedient” part made me feel squinky, but if it was just for this moment, to free him, I supposed it wasn't too odious a phrase.

  I did a quick re-dressing with oil of elecampane, wondering if the wormwood was old. Something felt off.

  “Thou art mine, wax image of my cherished dhaugir, to shape and ruin, to fill and empty, to pull and pitch.” Yikes. I hurried through the words of the spell, feeling my shoulders ache from being hunched around my ears. Relaxing them, I drew a deep breath in through my nose and tried to remain hopeful. The smell of the elecampane was pungent, like orris and camphor, and the rue in my bundle, though dried, now emitted an unpleasant odor. My attention strayed, only for a heartbeat, to the lock on the cabinet, behind which Ruby's grimoire seemed to stir. I replaced my unease with good intentions, sweet thoughts, kindness toward my boss, this stalwart legionnaire who always trusted me despite every warning that he probably shouldn't.

  “Bound once each to each, now find your own path, Gary Chapel. Your unexpected strength and steadfast support I honor here. With my gratitude, I release you, my Bonded One.” Heat rose from my lower belly, and I welcomed the familiar purl of power spiraling in my core.

  “Goddess of the darkest night / Send our troubles all to flight. / Burn them in thy sacred fires / replace them with our hearts’ desires…”

  I was sweeping the twine around the candle counterclockwise when my wrist hit the pill bottle; it dumped into the circle, spilling tiny white pills everywhere. The candle flared and licked greedily into the air.

  I heard a muffled whump and a squeal in my eardrums like lunatic shrieking; a green nimbus growing out of the blue light of the computer; the image of Chapel morphing to include a zip-lipped gimp mask; the mask bursting into flame. Alarmed, I bolted backward out of my seat, squeezing my eyes shut, slapping both hands over my face. I hit the office wall and pressed my back there, knees shaking.

  The spell, though it seemed simple and felt near-effortless, must have taken a lot out of me. I didn't remember returning to my desk or laying my head down on it, but woke from scrambled half-remembered dreams of running along a familiar forest path, dodging puddles of blood that darkened the canvas of my red Keds to black. With a papery sort of whisper, I came to, semi-coherently pulling my head off my desk. Of course I'd drooled on it, because if there's a way to make something even more lame and embarrassing, I'll manage to do it. I swiped at the side of my mouth with the back of one hand blearily and winced.

  My lower back reported that I had passed weeks in crimped-up slumber in my chair and let out an unpleasant series of crunchy noises. The light outside had faded, making me wonder at the hour. Harry's grandfather clock, a curved, pot-bellied long case Comtoise behemoth in the corner of my office, had wound down days ago and I had “forgotten” to start it up again, mostly because the noisy pendulum interfered with my thinking, reminding me of every second I continued to fail.

  By the time I found stability on my feet, the day's events filtered back in, not a little at a time but as a face-full of projectile elephant sick. I groaned and swayed back on my heels before getting my gloves back on and staggering into the kitchen for more caffeine, to stop short at the jarring déjà vu at the kitchen table.

  The table had been laid with a crisp white cloth overlaid with a lace runner and set with grandma Vi's fine china and silver, complete with heavy silver candelabra and winking white candles. Harry paused mid-scoop with a ladle of what looked like his signature soup, to gaze at me over Agent Chapel's head. Chapel glanced up mildly over his tortoise-rim glasses. His crystal wine glass was full of white wine, and an open bottle of Zinfandel was on the countertop behind him. From my bedroom, I could hear the distinctive early strains of Vivaldi's Four Seasons; “Autumn”, one of Harry's favorites for whistling; he managed to combine his pursed lips and tongue to make the perfect wind instrument.

  Batten swiveled in his chair to give me the full messy-hair-to-bare-toes inspection. His eyes lingered on my face, which may or may not have been creased with the marks of the files I'd passed out on. He still had his navy slacks on from the office, his white shirt half-unbuttoned and rumpled from his shoulder holster, he looked uncomfortable but fairly delicious. I rubbed my eyes and hoped I'd gotten all the drool off my cheek.

  His lips twitched into an almost-smirk.

  “Careful, you'll sprain your goatee,” I warned.

  Batten turned his back on me as Harry served him a plate overflowing with meat, potatoes and gravy.

  “There's one two and a splash for our hunter,” Harry said with a private smile. “Undertaker's special, that. Then, there's One Foot in the Grave for Agent Chapel. Mind the droplets.” He dabbed at the side plate with the corner of his apron before putting his soup ladle aside. “And perhaps a lacy cup for my darling?” He offered me a big mug of hot cocoa.

  “Enjoying yourself, Harry?” I asked, not so much a question as an observation.

  “Please, MJ, sit and feed your ravenous tummy. I can see by the sleep creases that you've been hard at work, perhaps with the task we discussed?”

  I smiled weakly, and he nodded. “Where's Wes?”

  “He awoke and began asking me ridiculous questions in a very inexcusable manner about women and clothing, until I finally became vexed with the lad and sent him back downstairs.” His pale hand flicked at the pantry then indicated our guests. “As you can see, your charming agents are over to visit.”

  “Over? Visit?” I pressed a hand to my temple, scratched my scalp, winced at the sore spot where my head had been jammed against the corner of my keyboard. “Charming?”

  “Your agents have rented the cottage next door, so as not to intrude on our privacy.”

  Not my agents. “So, you're having a dinner party?”

  “Simple honest fuel for the important work ahead.” Harry waved me off, pretending not to be flattered by my noticing the work he put into dinner. The heavy-lidded glance he cast me over his shoulder said otherwise; his grey eyes damn near sparkled with mischief. Harry wanted to play. I was happy to oblige. Anything to keep my mind off the … nope! Not going to think about it. Not right before eating. Pot lids rattled with steam for Harry's attention and he swept them aside, stirring and seasoning, dishing out potatoes and ladling soup.

  “You always cook for us,” Batten noted, his face laced with suspicion. “Every single time we come. If it isn't a meal, it's baking cookies.”

  “Not anymore,” I said sourly.

  Harry reached swiftly across the table, wooden spoon a blur, to rap my knuckles. I jolted upright with an injured cry, which Chapel echoed reflexively. Then, with an expression of surpri
sed relief, Chapel looked at his pain-free hand. I was glad he didn't look at me just then; with chastised knuckles and no dhaugir or cookies to assuage my pain, there was no way I'd be able to gracefully accept any kind of thanks. Especially the sincere kind.

  Harry set a bowl in the spot on the table my hands had vacated, smiling at me knowingly. “My hearty congratulations to Agent Chapel, for it seems he is free of you. ’Twas long overdue.”

  “The dhaugir bond is gone?” Batten asked, eyebrows lifting with surprise. It was a little insulting.

  I stifled a yawn, sipped my cocoa. “Took a bit out of me, but it's done.”

  Chapel took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Thank you, Marnie.”

  I gave him a wan smile over the rim of my cocoa mug. “I'm sorry it took so long.”

  “As I said.” Batten turned his attention back to Harry. “You cook for us, but don't eat food.”

  “How astute of you to have noticed.” Harry smiled slowly and deliberately, flashing a sizeable amount of fang, his enamel jarringly white above the cardinal red of his apron. “I had always measured you a day-brained jackanapes, Mr. Batten, but perhaps I have misjudged you. Consider me your merry innholder. It gives me incalculable satisfaction to feed you.”

  If the display of fang was meant to intimidate, it must have succeeded, for I felt a flush of satisfaction from my Cold Company. As always, I felt nothing from Batten while he watched with seeming calm detachment as Harry sat at the head of the table, then tipped the neck of his beer bottle at the revenant to punctuate his question. “How come you sit with us if you don't eat?”

  I muttered, “Spanish Inquisition Two: Wrath of the Dillhole.”

  “Just asking,” Batten said.

  “Maybe Harry likes our company.”

  “Unlikely,” Batten said.

  “I always feed my hostages, lad,” Harry said, but Batten wasn't buying that either. “Very well, you'd be wise to learn the lesson: he who rises first runs most risk of ruin.”

  I tried with a subtle widening of my eyes to warn Batten; he shook his head at me, furrowing his brows to say he didn't get it.