by A. J. Aalto
The wind picked up momentarily, stirring the long coattails of the blond figure to Timepiece's right. The revenants themselves did not; they were like alabaster statues in the sand. Immortals managed a stillness that breathing, blinking, twitching mortals couldn't.
Fuckanut. “Stay in the car,” I said, opening the passenger door. When I heard him disengage his seat belt, I shot him a look. “Seriously, Longshanks. Stay in the car. Let me handle this.”
He grumbled, “Like hell I will,” and the car creaked as he drew his bulk out. Part of me wanted to curse him, but realistically, if five revenants wanted to tear the big man’s throat open, something as flimsy as a car wasn’t going to get in their way. Neither was I, frankly.
This called for ExtremeTM diplomacy. Good thing that’s my specialty.
I slammed my door, snugged up my black leather gloves, cracking my knuckles as I did, and strode out into the bright splash offered by the Sonata’s headlights. Evening mist swam around my knees, the moisture filtering through the cool white glow.
“Death Rejoices, glorious elders,” I began formally, receiving only silent stares in reply. I gave them a full five-Mississippi pause to be polite before continuing, “Cherished masters of the grave, keepers of the gift of immortality.”
Nothing. Behind them, the lake rode up on the sand noisily and a large bird let out a single crawk — probably one of their debt vultures, waiting for an opportunity. A whisper of a breeze cast the night’s mist into a lazy swirl around my calves.
Uncomfortable, I tried to focus my Talents in on the five figures. Between Navy Guy and Timepiece were three blondes with military bearings and blank faces, though the one next to Timepiece had a harder time controlling how often his gaze strayed to my large, warm-blooded companion. Summoning a whisper of psi to test their moods, I kept my approach respectfully distant.
The dead were not well-mannered in return. I’d finally granted them the attention they required, and they were going to make sure I understood their point of view, no words necessary. The shock of their frigid influence sluiced through me from three sides, turning my veins to slush. Their invasive probing ran up my back like icy needles.
Schenk did not miss my shift in posture. “Cinderblock?”
I sensed him tense for action, and knew he had no idea how ridiculous that notion was — there were small revenant communities in Niagara, but they were relatively quiet, stayed under the radar, and didn’t mess with the law. Schenk had little experience with immortals, well-behaved or otherwise, and I wanted to keep it that way. I’d seen what dealing with the undead had done to other cops in my life, and we’d just established that our showdown with some unruly spirits had gotten Schenk twisted up already. I put one gloved hand down to my side, open palm facing back towards him as a signal to stay back, not sparing a glance away from the undead to see if he did.
Their probing ended as abruptly as it had begun, leaving me winded and frankly a little aroused. One of the Blond Brothers made a low, hungry noise, responding to his perception of my willingness to submit and my traitorous libido. I steeled myself against any further bodily reactions, but dealing with the undead isn’t always a matter of personal restraint — sometimes, a gal like me hungers in the face of so much power, a product of my metaphysical programming, and no amount of self-discipline can punch that down entirely.
I bluffed some courage and took a full step towards Mr. Thirsty, giving him my chilliest, most business-like smile. “Slow yer roll, there, Cap’n Fangtastic. This snack ain't for you.”
Timepiece slid him a chiding look that did what my sass didn't, clearly in charge. Despite none of them advancing towards me, I was sweating, trying to imagine possible escape scenarios thanks to Hood’s defensive tactics training. Hood liked me to run from trouble, but you can’t outrun an immortal. I didn’t have many options. I’d come to see Schenk completely unarmed, not that a firearm would do much more than piss a revenant off, or maybe slow him down a little.
The undead stood as a unified front in the sand just beyond the concrete barriers, shoulders squared against me like a line of celebrity bodyguards preventing me from getting Lake Ontario’s autograph. I faced Timepiece, careful to keep my gaze hovering around his chin. “Well? Do we have a problem, Slim Shady?” His mouth showed a pucker of confusion, so I said, “Eminem. He’s a rapper. Trust me, it was funny. You’d laugh if you weren’t mumblety-hundred years old.”
Finally, he gave me the expected reply to my greeting. “Hail, honored DaySitter.” His voice was a warm baritone, soothing, quiet enough to force me to pay close attention. “Centuries untold celebrate your gift of submission.”
Okay, baby steps. I waited to see what he might say or do next, not wanting my big mouth to ruin the progress.
“I am Ghazaros Merzyan.”
“Can I call you Ghaz?” I asked. “Ghazzer? The Ghazmeister?” So much for my yap full of sass. I expected the long, meaningful blink from a creature that did not require blinking to be my final answer. I’d seen those before, and I realized I’d been distracted enough to look directly at his face and see that blink. Sloppy, Marnie.
He surprised me, then, by inclining his head slightly, allowing: “If it pleases you.”
“Thanks, Ghazmeister.” Trying to keep things light, I shot a thumb at him and said to Schenk out of the corner of my mouth, “Canadian revenants, super accommodating, eh?”
“In my Master’s absence, I am the eldest in the territory encompassing Butlersburg and Shipman’s Corners,” Ghazaros told me, referring to St. Catharines and Niagara-On-The-Lake by their old-timey names.
I pegged his accent as Eastern European, something similar to but softer than German, and lingering with more nuance in his cadence, as though he made frequent trips to the country he’d once called home.
“Your Companion,” he continued, “has entered my territory without announcing himself or presenting his reasons for doing so, DaySitter. This is a breach of etiquette.”
I sifted through the clues. Aston Sarokhanian had always been the elder revenant in the region, and hadn't been usurped or staked, last I'd heard. Was Ghaz a Sarokhanian Younger who had chosen not to take his Maker’s surname? He wasn’t old enough to be a Crowned Prince of the Blood among the Falskaar Vouras, and thus was likely a fledgling master of his own branch of the bloodline. As a Sarokhanian, he was likely precognitive, and conceivably a Soul Caller like his master, though I’d only ever heard of Aston being in possession of that Talent. Even the slight possibility of having my soul leeched into another body sharpened my caution.
Okay, no more sass. Emergency de-sassification commencing. Respect was the right tactic, here. “You have my sincere apologies, Master Merzyan. I was under the impression that Aston Sarokhanian was resting beyond the Pass with his entire House, as is his custom this time of year. In his absence, I believe Lord Dreppenstedt is free to come and go as he chooses, without announcing his intentions?”
“Are you suggesting,” he said stiffly, “that Lord Dreppenstedt did not know I was here as your plane approached?”
Whoops. I’d just implied that this revenant’s power wasn’t such that he made an impression on the region. If Harry had noticed Ghaz, he hadn’t thought him worthy of mention. Probably shouldn’t say that. A lie would be tasted, and surely he heard my heart skip a beat guiltily.
“My companion has, unfortunately, not chosen to share his thoughts or observations. What can I tell ya? He forgets how important it might be to put the right goddamn words in my mouth. Probably, he was too busy being a sour-lipped old nagburger, sayin’ shit like, ‘fine words butter no parsnips.’ Seriously, what am I supposed to do with that?” I showed him my gloved palms in an honest gesture of helplessness. “And now I’ve unintentionally insulted you. Lord Dreppenstedt has a lot to apologize for.”
“About this, we are in agreement,” he said, somewhat mollified.
“On the other hand, you thought gathering your squad and spooking his DaySitter and her
cop friend in a deserted parking lot was a great way of expressing your displeasure,” I finished.
At the word “cop,” the dark-haired revenant on the far left flinched, and while he didn’t move away, he attempted to become less obvious next to the others, physically shrinking inside his Royal Navy suit. I cast Schenk a meaningful smile.
“You lookin’ for a naughty vampire, Constable Schenk?” I asked, using the politically incorrect V-word just to make sure Schenk understood what we were facing. “Fishyknickers on the end there seems kinda sketchy.”
Still behind me, Schenk replied with silence.
“Please,” Ghazaros said, and the Blue Sense prickled to life on a wave of his impatience. I respected how adept he was at examining his emotions and choosing which he wished to pursue. When he moved closer to me, his step was sinuous, gliding like a snake over soft sand. The movement, graceful and lithe, was hypnotic. Now, as he approached, silent as a slip of fog off the lake, I pegged the specific fragrance of him — vanilla and bourbon beneath the more familiar molasses scent of revenant power. “I mean no disrespect, DaySitter,” he purred.
“Marnie,” I corrected. When he paused politely for me to go on, I added, “My friends call me Marnie.”
“Surely, Marnie, you understand why I cannot allow this challenge to my authority go unanswered. I did not mean to frighten you.”
Oh, you meant to, all right. And he was doing a decent job of it, despite his soothing tone and courtly tongue. It was difficult to hide my fear from a creature such as this — man, not creature, Marnie, I reminded myself, hating that I was thinking of a revenant as a thing and not a person, even when Batten wasn’t around — but I did my best with a confident nod. “You’ve made your views perfectly clear, and I respect your position on this matter, Master Merzyan.”
“Ghaz,” he corrected. “My friends call me Ghaz.”
Startled, I chanced another glance up at his face in time to catch a glimmer of teasing in a pair of large, brown eyes and, somewhat lower, the daunting sight of a pair of fangs. He could have captured me easily in that moment, pulled me under his preternatural influence, but he made no attempt to do it. Instead, he rewarded my trust with an almost submissive flutter of dark lashes. Charm instead of force. Point: Ghaz. I reevaluated my estimation of his age accordingly; this one had several centuries of effortlessly manipulating mortals and knew when to take a step back. His good-natured smile betrayed no conceit, nor fang, any longer.
Continuing to show trust might please him, so I took a chance and let my gaze remain on his face, sharing a tentative smile of my own. “Would you like me to relay an invitation to my companion, to attend to your satisfaction at your earliest convenience?”
He inclined his head slightly once more. “I will expect him on the morrow at this address. For drinks,” he added, his dark eyes lighting in such a way that something deep inside me curled up in a ball and hugged itself. The thirsty blond at Ghaz’s right produced a small calling card from up his embroidered sleeve and, holding it between two pale fingers, extended it toward me. A rush of anxiety flooded my belly. In order to accept it, which etiquette demanded, I’d have to move a lot closer. I so did not want to do that.
Schenk solved the dilemma for me, perhaps not fully understanding the physical risk, and took two long-legged steps forward with intention, making an impressive if useless meat shield between me and the undead.
Instead of handing the card directly to the cop, the blond set it on the concrete barrier and then quickly tucked his arm behind his back before backing away, as though he didn’t quite trust himself not to snatch Schenk bodily. I noticed, however, that the blond revenant’s eyes fixated on Schenk’s throat, where a veritable feast of blood pumped.
Schenk, who was all but certainly unaccustomed to being stared at like a literal piece of meat by humans or revenants, palmed the card and stepped back impassively.
Ghazaros' companions turned their backs on us and walked into the darkness on the beach, striding across dry sand in their antique boots to where the headlights could no longer find them, leaving Ghazaros to stand alone. The clouds shifted, allowing the delicate light of the moon to play halo above him, and for a long minute, this ancient being studied me. I wondered what he saw, what sort of impression I made. Probably, not fabulous. Hopefully, not helpless.
Ghazaros cupped his hands together before him and bowed slightly. “All shall fall before the Raven of Night,” he said, his accent soft.
House Dreppenstedt’s words. I didn’t know the words of his house, of House Sarokhanian or anything Sarokhanian-adjacent. Do I? Maybe I do? My mind reached for them, and I drew a blank.
I fell back upon the generic, “As all have fallen before the Father and the UnHallowed Throne.” An exchange two members of House Dreppenstedt would have given one another. I hoped it was good enough.
He chuckled. “Do you realize that your words invite me to become friends, DaySitter? That you offer me allegiance on behalf of House Dreppenstedt?” He answered his own question. “No, you do no such thing. Still, it is a pleasure to hear these words, even if they are a mistake. You must guard your words more carefully in future. Others of my kind may misunderstand.”
“Yeah,” I said with a wry smile, “I get misunderstood a lot.”
“This does not surprise me,” he replied. “I hope we see one another again. Goodnight, Marnie.” He melted into the shroud of night after his companions, leaving behind a faint whiff of beeswax, bourbon, and sweet vanilla.
Lake Ontario was the only noise for a moment until I heard Schenk’s blasted exhale. “Jesus. What was that about?”
I didn’t glance back at him, instead watching the blackness where the sand met the ridge and the tree line, where the five dead guys had disappeared, jittery in their absence and anticipating an after-credits scene that didn’t come.
Finally, satisfied the encounter was over, I answered, “Whenever you get a bunch of undead guys in one region, they’re like dogs pissing on fire hydrants.” I knew the immortals weren’t far enough away to miss my comments, but probably wouldn’t be cranky enough to double back. “These ones want the other ones to know they’re here, and they’re big and bad, blah blah blah. Whose dick is the biggest? Whose fangs are the longest? Who sinks the most ivory? Who gets the most ass?” I sighed. “Harry should have taken care of this political nonsense when we landed. I’d like to bop him right in the yambag for this. Did you hear what I had to do?” I whirled to face Schenk and showed him my grossed-out face. “I had to grovel and beg and give Ghaz the ol’ Death Rejoices gibberish. Please, sir, can I leave with my throat intact, sir? Ugh.” I ended with a throaty gurgle aimed skyward.
A smile flickered across Schenk’s face. “I sense Harry is going to pay for that.”
“I mean,” I said expansively, walking back to where I’d parked Mr. Merritt’s hearse, “foot rubs and cookies and everything.”
Schenk snort-laughed. “Be in touch, Cinderblock.”
True to form, he got in his car then waited, pretending to dick around with paperwork and adjust his mirrors until I pulled out, and his lights tailed me for a handful of blocks as I made my way back to the dead guy I expected to be waiting for me.
Three
Byron Merritt was a short, lean, white-haired man who looked about a hundred going on a thousand, but unlike the undead in my life, this estimate wasn’t accurate; he was somewhere in his late seventies, with eyes that appeared wise beyond the eons. He used that tolerant gaze to carefully not-judge me or my luggage, sweeping from my barely-there hair to my snow-dampened Keds with a hole in the toe. His greeting was quiet and polite, cautious of my mood and the occasion, having earlier welcomed home both his master and my brother, and subsequently being brought up to speed. He took my puffy pink parka, bundling it under one frail arm like a novelty-sized marshmallow. When I removed my scarf, I heard his sharp intake of breath; I’d forgotten he hadn’t seen the demon king’s scar yet, wound like a thick, gnarled collar
around my throat. He collected himself quickly and without comment, relieving me of my scarf, hat, and purse, not waiting for me to remove my leather gloves, deftly assuming I wouldn’t.
He was right. I didn't need the Bond or my Talents; my nose was enough – Batten had been in North House, and I wasn’t emotionally prepared to psychically Grope anything he had touched. Not yet. Not tonight. As much as I missed him, I was enormously glad that we’d never been to North House together. It was hard enough to live with the memories of him in my cabin and at the office. At least I could look at these walls, these couches, these beds, without remembering the hard-assed sex bomb that was Kill-Notch Batten plastered all over them.
North House hadn't changed, not that I expected Mr. Merritt to give it any kind of dramatic makeover; it still emanated traditional, if slightly opulent comfort, with wide, old-growth flooring, cream walls, an amber crystal chandelier overhead, and not a speck of dust on any of it. Lining the hall, there were framed black-and-white photos of old owners and staff since departed. An oil painting of Grandma Vi lived in the Winter Room above the hearth, her eyes forever twinkling with mischief in the glow of the candles beneath. Sometimes, it still felt like her place, not mine, washing me in outsider’s discomfort.
I Felt Harry upstairs; Wes was downstairs in the rooms set aside for caskets and their other resting accoutrements.
If Wesley’s exuberant presence bothered Combat Butler, he hid it well, even from my clairempathy. “Does Madam wish to take tea and biscuits in her room before she lays her head down for the night?”
