2 Death Rejoices

by A. J. Aalto

  This was getting us nowhere. I could see a grey uniform ahead, and above that, the back of a short blond buzz cut. The gap between us was getting wider with each stride. For a moment, I considered circling back the other way, around the lake, and letting the guy come to me. Then I realized he was circling back. This angle was taking him to the snowmobile path, and I heard Hood's warning in my head (“Not deeper into the woods, dummy!”) just under the sound of Batten's cursing.

  Batten was slowing down, and it didn't take any psychic Talent to know what he was thinking: even if we caught him, there was nothing for Batten to do. The guy had done nothing illegal.

  He was going to get away with… whatever he'd done to my little brother. Fuck a whole basket of that.

  We needed a boost. Lunging over a log, I corrected myself. I needed a boost.

  As we came into a flat space where the trees were sparse, the brush thinned out enough for us to pick up our pace to a healthy jog and look around a bit further. Batten confirmed my suspicions about his change of heart by falling behind. I stripped my gloves and tossed them aside, focusing on the evening warmth.

  Swooping above the edge of the clearing was a reddish brown owl, an Eastern screech-owl; the words just blurted from my mouth. “Mighty Morrigan, Battle Maiden, ride with me,” I pleaded.

  With an eerie, horselike whinny, the owl took a spiral dive out of the sky, and I jolted ahead of Batten like I'd been blasted from a cannon. Green, vigorous Earth energy soared into my muscles and I took flight, shedding the weight of worry for Wes, losing my frustration, feeling like a thoroughbred on an open plain.

  Batten shouted something I didn't hear, but in seconds I'd left him so far behind that it didn't matter. I homed in on my target with new vigor and determination, dodging bushes and flying between saplings. He'd reached the snowmobile path, and my sense of direction put him not too far from my house. There was a van with a Shield logo parked on the trail, hugged tight on either side by trees. Uniform guy was fishing out keys.

  He heard my branch-snapping, dirt-thumping approach, glanced over his shoulder with wide eyes, and whipped around.

  I charged, sprang over a log, and with a cry of “Heeeeyah!” that would later seem comical, karate-chopped him in the collarbone.

  It did not, alas, have the effect I had hoped. He dropped his keys, but didn't even flinch from the blow. My hand reported that I had slugged a brick wall, and immediately began to throb.

  “Careful, minion,” he said, picking his keys out of the dirt. “I don't hurt humans, but I will defend myself.”

  “Who are you calling minion, fucksock?” I stood there, wishing I had my gun. “Nice Shield van. No revenant would distrust a delivery from Shield.” I took a half-step back and had a revelation. “You're what's-his-dick, Spicy the Prior's flunky.”

  “I've done nothing illegal.”

  “The fuck you haven't.” I put up my dukes. “That's… unwanted window washing with shitty aim, maybe.” I hated the lack of legal standing revenants were afforded, like they were mosquitoes or leeches or weeds.

  “So was your attempt at fisticuffs. Do you really want to pursue this with your FBI friend right behind us? You haven't lost him, you know.” He put the key in the van door. “Besides, an old-school vampire hunter like him? Whose side of vampire law do you think he's on?”

  Anger blended with the energy from Morrigan's gift still surging through my hot muscles. I ran at him and slammed him bodily against the van, knowing it wouldn't do much damage, but needing to strike out.

  He stumbled slightly, frowned, and made an altogether insulting shooing motion at me. “I'll be going—”

  I brought my knee up sharply and felt it connect with his balls. His words left in a breathy squeak. “The word is ‘Revenant,’ dickbag.” Delicately taking the keys from his hand and tossing them into the woods, I asked, “Want to hit me yet? C'mon, I might like the rough stuff.” I wiggled salaciously.

  “You're—”

  I grabbed him by the ears and yanked hard, pulling him close enough to get a better hold, two fists full of hair at the back of his head.

  “What the fu—umph?” He made confused and alarmed noises as I pulled his head against my chest burying his face in my modest but mighty cleavage. He held his hands out to the side, indicating any refusal to fight back. Frustrated, I fell onto my back, dragging him on top of me (and maybe kinda accidentally on purpose catching him in the junk with my hip as I went over). He wasn't going to stay in that position. He rolled us until I was straddling him, then grabbed my wrists and tried to get my hands out of his hair.

  I was having way more fun with him between my legs than the situation warranted. Then I felt the Morrigan's heat flare anew, squeezing his torso between my thighs as I licked my lips.

  “Marnie! Get off him.”

  I craned around, and through the wild tangle of my hair I could see Batten with his gun raised, glaring at me. The other man's hands fell away from my wrists and he went limp and submissive beneath my thighs, body soft with relief: the law was here and it was on his side.

  I scowled. “He attacked me.”

  “Is that why you're on top?” My legs may have humped the fallen man slightly. I was uncomfortably aware of the proximity of Batten's bod, and the suggestion that I get off seemed increasingly likely whether I wanted to or not. Morrigan apparently needed to get laid even more than I did.

  “It was a reverse attack,” I tried. “He's shifty like that.”

  “Marnie, I'm not going to say it again.”

  “Good, because I don't want to hear it again.”

  “Let him go.”

  “Fine.” I let go of Blondie's hair and crawled off of him. “We'll play by the law. No problem, Special Agent Batten.”

  The Prior sat up, running his fingertips into his hair along his scalp. “I have been sexually assaulted by a madwoman, agent. She hit my head on the ground and forced my face against her breasts. There may have been humping.”

  Batten holstered his gun and propped his hands on his hips.

  “What'd you do that for?” he muttered at me.

  “I was angry. Smothering seemed like the thing to do at the time. The humping wasn't my idea, though.”

  “You never smother me,” Batten shot back. To the Prior, he said, “If you wish to press charges, I can contact the local sheriff's department on your behalf, mister…?”

  The Prior shook his head. “Never mind. It seems you have the situation under control. I'm done here. ”

  The Prior turned to kick around the dark bushes for his keys. I heard them jingle, but made no attempt to help him.

  “You ought to be more careful, Agent Batten, about the type of people you spend time with,” the Prior advised, kicking some more with the toe of his boot. “There is great evil in that house, great evil surrounding this minion and her Companion. The fate of your eternal soul is not something you should take so lightly.”

  “You let me worry about the company I keep,” Batten said. “I will advise you to stay away from Miss Baranuik's home. She is a human being, and has rights under the law. I could, at the very least, charge you with trespassing and harassment.”

  The Prior stared at Batten shrewdly. “I've heard that people who harass this family tend to go missing. Perhaps it's Miss Baranuik you should be chasing around in the night. Or maybe you already do…?”

  Batten opened his mouth to snap something but I interrupted him with the wave of my hand.

  “The law can't touch you tonight, Prior, because you've technically done nothing illegal. But this isn't illegal either…” I stabbed my finger in Blondie's direction. “Dirty fungus/dirty rhymes/haunt your headache/for all time.”

  The feeling of it must have been bizarre when the first one wriggled out of his scalp, because the single-eyed squint he did, combined with the sour puckering of his lips, was a facial expression I'd never witnessed before. There was movement in his blond hair, and the push of a smooth, soft cap. Batten's hand
s readjusted on his gun, his shoulders went up as though he wanted to aim at something, but wasn't sure what. When the next one began to grow, pushing up among his follicles, the Prior's half-squint became a full-on scrunch.

  “What the—”

  I said, “Totally edible. I think. I mean, I can't be sure… who could be sure? Bet they're nice in a salad, though. They'll only grow during a headache, but you'll have a lot of those in the coming years.” I paused, drew another ounce of psi from the Earth, drummed up my pink web spell again, only this time, I focused on the glint of keys in the moonlight. “As I will it, shall it be / Bright your arching path I see.”

  A faint light flashed through the dark. I wondered if the mundane eyes saw it, too, but it didn't matter. I stomped past him in that direction, bent to retrieve his keys, stared down at them, turning them over and over in my bare hand, ignoring the mushrooms that sprang from the Prior's scalp to peek over this hairline.

  His fingers grasped them and pulled; they crumbled, as fresh mushrooms are wont to do, but more sprouted in their place.

  I tossed him his keys. “You come back and visit me anytime. You're a real fun guy.” Look, I'm not proud at the best of times. When I'm pissed off, horny, and have just been deprived of some Goddess-infused sexy violence with a side of this spicy flunky slagging both my Cold Company and my sex life, I'm going to resort to absolutely shitty puns.

  He made no attempt to catch the keys; they hit his chest and dropped down between his boots. His mouth worked angrily but futilely. I waited for him to reply, lifting my brows and imitating Harry's politely-inquiring blink. When it was clear he wasn't going to recover the power of speech any time soon, I marched back in the direction of the cabin with an equally-speechless Fed on my heels.

  “Don't know what the fuck you did back there,” Batten's big legs tromped vines and bushes beside me, “but don't do it again.”

  “What, hump a flunky?” I asked. “That fucknozzle is going to grow mushrooms from his scalp every time he has a headache. Big ones. Forever. I know that won't help Wes at all, but it makes me feel better.”

  “We don't need your weirdo powers.”

  “In case you've forgotten, your goddamned femur was sticking out at the Fur party, which I mended with my quote-unquote weirdo powers. By the way, you're fucking welcome.”

  “I'm fine without your help,” he insisted. “You've got enough trouble taking care of your own ass.”

  “Well, if you'd take care of my ass…” I trailed off, not wanting to commit the double-whammy cliché of playing the victim and turning an argument into sex. I held up my hands. “Fine. I'll never help you again.”

  “If he presses charges…”

  “For what? Farming without a permit? Assault with a magic fungus? Come on, we've got to get back to Wes,” I said, worry rushing back to fill in the void left by frustration.

  “Will Harry be able to fix it?”

  I didn't know the answer to that, so I didn't try. The last thing I wanted to hear was doubt in my own voice.

  * * *

  When we hurried back into the house, Declan was still kneeling over my wailing brother in the hall beside Harry, with his doctor's bag open on its side, contents spilled on the floor. I quickly forgot Batten and the Prior, moving to grab Harry's shoulder.

  Harry rasped, “Doctor Edgar's salve is not working. Someone get the pantry door,” and heaved my rigid brother up in his arms. Wesley's body contorted against him but Harry managed. I raced ahead of him to throw the pantry door open, took the stairs three at a time, using the railing to vault down the last five. I burst into Harry's bed chamber with my shoulder; in two loping steps, I was at my brother's casket.

  Harry was right behind me. With both hands I flung the halves of the lid open. They banged against the wall with a crack, but I'd worry about that later. Harry rolled Wesley into the satin confines of the casket and said hoarsely, “Blood, silk, grapple plant, white wax. Hurry, love. Dr. Edgar, hold him firmly by the shoulders.”

  I charged up to my office, not questioning the requests, pushing past Batten's bulk. Wesley's shrill howl followed me up the stairs, an air raid siren pushing me faster. The grapple plant was easiest: I always keep the herb otherwise known as devil's claw in the terrarium atop my herb cabinet. The white candles were accessible enough, though I had to jump to reach them on the bookshelf. The blood was in the fridge and the silk I grabbed from my bedroom, a dark chocolate-colored nightie. I hit the pantry at a sprint, nearly took a header down the stairs, righted myself in time but dropped my armful down the staircase. Batten stooped to help me collect everything at the bottom, and we hurried to Harry's side.

  Harry's voice was unnaturally augmented to speak to Wesley over his cries. “Cleave to your inner strength, now, lad, for the cure will be no more pleasant than the injury, I'm afraid.”

  Harry looked up at me. The naked terror in his eyes hadn't come across in his voice but it hit me now. Things were worse than my hammering heart could comprehend. “My lighter. Quickly, pet.”

  I snatched it from his dresser and he went to work, holding it under the candle's length to melt the wax. He tore a hole in the bag of blood with his teeth.

  “What's happened?” I asked, but no answer was necessary. Only one thing caused a revenant this type of trauma. I didn't wait for him to ask; I tore the silk into strips and soaked them in the cool blood.

  Harry held a pale hand out. It trembled. “Grapple plant?”

  I handed him the leaves obediently, one at a time, my own hands shaking as much as his.

  “Now, love, while Declan holds him down, I need you to part your brother's hands from his face.”

  Wesley's wail had settled into a constant, repetitive whimper, like an injured animal crawling into a culvert to die. His forearms hardened as he resisted my touch. If he didn't let go, I'd never be able to pry them apart; I'm no match for revenant strength.

  “Wesley, let me take your hands,” I said gently. His little noises flooded my eyes with unwanted tears. I blinked them away. “Let us help you, Wes. Come on.”

  He moaned a negative, tried to roll away from us onto his side, hitching and swallowing painfully.

  “You'll have to do it, Harry,” I said, but Harry shook his head.

  “Only another immortal may apply the remedy. Manage him,” he said sternly, coating the hairy white undersides of the grapple plant leaves with melted wax. “Do what you must.”

  I set my teeth together and reached into my back pocket for Chapel's folder knife. I didn't think about it, because I knew what Harry meant; with a decisive jab I opened the flesh at my wrist and thrust it against the iron grip of Wesley's knuckles.

  His swiftness shocked me into a squeal; Wesley's vice-grip hands clamped down on my arm and his suck was tremendous as he sank his fangs into my arm like I was a life raft in the rapids to Hell. The pain was astonishing; another cry leaked from my throat. Batten made an unhappy noise beside me. Declan held Wesley down more firmly.

  Wes's parted hands had revealed the runny crater of his ruined face, spotted with hardened black crusts, and there was nothing left of him, nothing left but a penny-red gelatinous wasteland surrounding split-crackling black lips and the white shock of fully extended fangs. Exposed veins stood out across the meat of his face in sharp relief, laid like throbbing strings wrapping a side of beef.

  I slammed my head to one side and it found reassurance against Declan's shoulder. I buried my face there so I wouldn't have to watch as Wes fed, staying still as his mouth worked greedily at my shuddering wrist.

  “Harry, do it,” I ground out. “Hurry the hell up!”

  Harry said softly, “Brace yourselves,” and laid the first blood-soaked strip of silk across Wesley's forehead.

  The fangs in my wrist dug deeper, shoved in so far I thought they might come out the other side. I shouted through my pain. A low growl started purling up from deep in the back of Wesley's throat.

  “Easy, young one,” Declan soothed, repe
ating it in a low, comforting tone.

  “Wesley, I know you hurt, but could you let up?” I grunted, panting. “Wes, please!”

  Wesley's grip loosened and his hand started rattling against mine. Soft granules of ash that had once been skin dusted his fingers. They slid across my knuckles and I pinched back a horror-struck sob. Harry laid strips of waxed leaf in quick succession atop the bloody silk on Wesley's injuries, drawing more barely-recognizable sounds from my brother's throat. The sucking pull at my wrist lightened enough for my face to unclench and I breathed in deep, finally letting the tears fall.

  “He gonna be all right?”

  I jerked my head around. Batten stood at the threshold of the room, as far as he could get from us and still watch, his face unreadable. I'd forgotten he was even there. I shook my head helplessly.

  “Simply put, Agent Batten, no.” Harry's voice was flat. “Wesley will never be the same.”

  CHAPTER 19

  HARRY CUT ANOTHER BROWNIE and slid the plate across the table at me. “You should not hold hope to the contrary. Wesley is going to lose the left eye.”

  I grimaced and pushed the plate away with my gloved hand. Harry frowned, put two pale fingers on the plate, and pushed it adamantly back in front of me. I let him win, but made no move to dig a fork in it; at this moment, with my brother looking worse than Two Face downstairs, I couldn't possibly eat without it coming back up. I stared dazedly at the brownie, visually dissecting its ingredients, like I had seen the makings of my brother's face. Muscle and fat and vein and tendon and bone. Skin makes us beautiful. Without it, we are walking horrors.

  The cup of espresso macchiato Harry had insisted on brewing was cooling in front of me, similarly untouched. A matching cup was in front of Declan, and a beer Batten hadn't bothered to open sat near my elbow. Harry continued to pile edibles before us, fussing around the kitchen. Condensation from Batten's beer bottle puddled on the aqua blue Formica and crept toward the chrome seam of the table leaf.