by A. J. Aalto
Mr. Merritt wove the hearse through the slick but empty streets to the address Ghaz had given me, near where Constable Schenk and I had first met him. When we passed the last store near the end of Arthur Street and headed along the beach strip, the reliable glow of streetlights disappeared, replaced by gritty, glass-strewn darkness where they'd all been broken; someone or something had kept the municipal workers from replacing them.
Mr. Merritt rolled the car to a quiet stop, and I was surprised to see a small, ivy-covered cottage with bordered up windows. It had a laminated yellow “Condemned” sign stapled to the front door. One corner of the sign had come un-stapled and flapped despondently in the night breeze.
Harry’s thrice-pierced eyebrow performed a slow lift at the same rate as his upper lip curled with distaste. He said nothing, but I thought it wise to lay my gloved hand on his arm and give him a pat.
“Who taught me the power of etiquette and restraint, Harry?”
“Oh, heavens, darling,” he said with a frustrated huff, “that lesson hasn’t taken.”
“Fair,” I said, “but who’s trying to teach me anyway?”
“Your instructor and your long-suffering companion are one and the same.”
I shifted over and gave him a loud smooch on his cool temple, to which he cracked a half-smile that dimpled his cheek. “Demonstrate for me how a real gentleman behaves, will you?”
“Your sister lives nearby,” he said, meeting Mr. Merritt’s eye in the rear view mirror. “Rowena?”
I nodded. “A few doors down, across the street.”
Harry considered this for a long moment. “Is she ill?”
I thought about that. Rowena had been wasting away for years, denying herself all the pleasures of life as self-punishment for a drunk driving accident she’d been involved in when she was eighteen. “Ill” was an understatement. Did it have anything to do with a phantasm feeding nearby? Doubtful. There was enough dysfunction in Rowena’s life without a revenant involved. “For a long while. But I think it’s her own doing, for the most part. Probably.”
“When within, keep your thumbs to yourself, dearheart,” he advised. “And do not compliment his possessions. It’s rude.”
I glanced at the condemned home. “I’m sensing that won’t be a problem.”
“If he offers you a refreshment or nibble, take it with your right hand,” he said.
I grimaced at “nibble,” but knew he didn’t mean bloodsucking. “I think I can manage to deal with him. I want to see you deal with him.”
“And so you shall,” Harry said, and through the Bond, I felt all of Harry’s distaste and indignation carefully drain away. An uncharacteristic humility took its place, and it was so foreign coming from my Cold Company that I didn’t immediately recognize the sensation. Point: Harry. I showed him through the Bond that I was proud of him, but he was focused entirely on the house before us like a sprinter getting into the blocks awaiting the starting pistol.
The cottage wasn't going to impress anyone's sense of aesthetics; it was meant to blend into the area and give the impression of abandonment — nothing to see here, folks, just a run-down house ready for the wrecking ball. The yard was tiny, too, but a clever realtor could see its potential as a tear-down on prime real estate – the property backed directly onto the lakefront beach. The landscaping had grown over most of the features of the house so that a casual passer-by might not notice the blacked-out windows. There was a “Beware of Dog” sign hanging slightly askew on the porch railing, but I doubted there were puppies inside, since revenants drove dogs mad with the scents of death and immortality. Cats, on the other hand, tended to adore the undead and enjoyed stalking their resident debt vultures, too. Probably, a “Beware of Cat” sign wouldn’t deter anyone but mice.
Mr. Merritt came back to open my door and then circled to open Harry’s. We met in front of the car, where Harry asked Mr. Merritt to remain during our meeting. Harry offered me his arm in a courtly manner, and I took it.
I could hear Vivaldi playing inside, muffled by distance and the closed door, but unmistakable. At Harry's knock, a young man in khakis and an ivory wool cable knit sweater discreetly buttoned right up to the chin — obviously a DaySitter – opened it. When we introduced ourselves, he bowed slightly.
“Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, you are welcome in my home,” he said officially, then stepped back to let us in.
I Felt a soft brush of relief from my Cold Company, as if he’d expected to be denied entrance.
“I’m Steve,” the DaySitter said to me. “You’re Marnie Baranuik.”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that,” I said automatically.
He squelched a smile — my reputation preceded me. Greeeeaaat. But there were no more comments. At least he was too polite to toy with me. Steve showed us down the dim, carpeted hallway, and then disappeared with the sort of humble, silent obedience Harry noticed with covetous judgment. At the end of the hall, a single door stood open. Flickering candlelight spilled out, and my sensitive DaySitter’s nose picked up the homey scent of beeswax. Vivaldi’s La Stravaganza, one of Harry’s favorites, was strong and brisk and bright from that direction.
I could feel the residents of the home, the cool push of the revenants who had known that Harry and I were coming when we were still miles away. More than one. They were not the oldest I’d ever felt, but their age was a weight bearing down, muddying the air. One of them felt both familiar and filled with anticipation; Ghaz.
The waiting revenants doubtless sensed my warm, tasty, decidedly un-undead self coming closer, and though comfortably fed, one of them gave a restless little noise while another pushed a feeling of welcome towards us, knowing I was a DaySitter and therefore physically and psychologically attuned to serving their needs and wants; some DaySitters became so addicted to the feeling of fangs in their throats that they craved it non-stop, and immortals were attuned to seeking willing bleeders and ivory junkies.
One of the revenants also seemed determined to serve my wants and needs as well, which gave me a moment’s pause, but encouraged me to continue without fear to the threshold of the room. My metaphysical attraction to the undead was to be expected, but it always struck me as something to feel guilty about. Harry gave my hand on his arm a small, reassuring pat, and swept forward to greet our host with his chin set high.
The room was toasty in both temperature and ambiance, with a gas fireplace, understated amber cut-glass lamps, and leather couches and chairs set at discreet distances from one another. Among some old magazines, a floral chintz tea service and selection of light refreshments on a silver tray sat on the coffee table, the kind caterers served at wakes. I got the distinct feeling this was to appeal to Harry as afternoon tea, and not something Ghazaros himself indulged in regularly. I wondered if the Vivaldi was also a nod to Harry’s preferences.
There were two revenants in the chairs by the fire; Ghazaros merely waiting, while the other, who looked remarkably similar, reacted bodily to my presence by shifting in his seat behind a copy of The Atlantic that he was pretending to read, and then gave up the charade, folding the magazine on his lap.
Ghazaros rose politely from his chair and bowed.
“Prince Merzyan,” Harry said expansively with a diplomatic smile, letting go of my arm so that he could bow deeply and elegantly in return. “Thank you so much for your kind invitation and your warm welcome. I am ever so grateful to be received.”
Ghazaros beamed. “My august and distinguished guest, good evening. I hope you are well. And how delighted I am to see your lovely DaySitter again. Thank you for allowing her to join you, my lord.”
“Yo, Ghazmeister,” I said, shooting him a two fingered salute off my brow.
Harry favored me with a disapproving look.
Ghazaros turned to indicate his company. “Might I introduce Prince Zorovar Borodian?”
The other revenant did not rise, nor did he smile. Dressed in a simple navy silk tunic with a high Mandarin collar and grey w
ool trousers pressed with a sharp crease, Prince Borodian was the embodiment of modest elegance. He wore no rings, no watch. His double monk-strap shoes were hand tailored, the old world craftsmanship immediately drawing Harry’s envious eye. The shoes showed little to no wear, but they were hardly new. I suspected Borodian spent a great amount of time in VK-Delta or even wraith state. Everything about Borodian was tightly clamped down, purposefully unobtrusive. This was not a man who enjoyed the spotlight or competition. Even his mildly spicy scent, to my DaySitter’s nose, was inconspicuous beneath the perfume that declared Ghazaros Merzyan’s own power: crushed allspice and rich Bourbon Island vanilla beans. Ghaz smells like cookies.
If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he smelled like that on purpose to lull cookie monsters like me to bend the neck and invite the hot, insistent sink of the fang. Harry slid me a look and I realized I was thinking far too fondly and heatedly of our host. Easy, Marnie. Cool it.
Ghazaros said, “Prince Borodian, you will remember Lord Dreppenstedt, I presume?”
Borodian’s voice was a cool, tense push in the room. “The Viscount Baldgate. When last we met, my lord, you were working for the British East India Company.”
It sounded like an accusation, which piqued my interest. Not a friendly tone, but I trusted Harry to neutralize it. I, myself, was eager for something juicy, as I knew scant little of Harry’s earlier days beyond what he'd shared of his life with previous DaySitters, and my frequent failure to follow their example.
“It has been many years, your grace,” Harry said with another bow. “Too long.”
“1773, was it?”
“I must admit, your memory is a fair bit sharper than my own,” Harry allowed. “I’m ever so flattered to be remembered.”
“I am not likely to forget our encounter,” Zorovar said, “when it ended with the loss of so much I held dear.”
“Oh, that’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Harry smiled tightly. “A bit of softness. What do they say? To the victor go the spoils.”
“A ship, sir.” Zorovar’s voice remained calm but his eyes brightened with clear murder. “A ship full of silks.”
“Flames and ether, but I had nothing to do with that,” Harry objected. “I thought you were referring to the young lady.”
Zorovar waved a hand as if shooing a fly. “I know you stole my ship, Dreppenstedt. Merzyan knows you stole my ship. House Sarokhanian knows you stole my ship.”
“I’ve been quite the naughty boy,” Harry admitted, refusing to hide his delight at the fact. “I have stolen kisses in the dark, and hands and hearts and more, oh my, much more, but I assure you, never have I pinched a ship.”
“Everyone knows you stole my ship,” Zorovar insisted. “Admit that you stole my ship.”
“How would I steal an entire ship, I ask you?” Harry said, laughing incredulously. “Search me for the lie, your grace, you’ll find not a hint. I promise you, it is not me with whom you are angry. Some pirate, now long dead, has offended you, not I.”
Ghazaros watched this exchange with interest, glancing at my reactions. “But I think your DaySitter does not like to hear about the young lady.”
“My advocate is a dreadfully possessive creature,” Harry said on the wind of a sigh. “She prefers to think she is the only woman in the world whom I have ever doted upon or will ever cherish.”
Zorovar barked a laugh. “Oh, dear.”
“That’s rather sweet, if terribly simple,” Ghazaros commented a little wistfully. “She likes you, Dreppenstedt.”
Harry went hrm and ignored my eye-roll. He took the cup and saucer that Ghazaros offered him, and inclined his head in thanks. After a sip, Harry passed the cup for me to hold for him. I scowled down at it and back up at him. I was not offered tea. I waited expectantly, but when our host sat again, I slurped Harry’s tea far more loudly than necessary.
All three of them turned their heads toward me.
I made direct eye contact with Harry and slurped louder and more meaningfully. Then I said “ahhh” and smacked my lips before shoving the empty cup at him. It rattled against the saucer in his hands.
Harry sighed and placed the empty cup on the fireplace mantle. “DaySitters of the New World.”
“I ask you,” Borodian sympathized, and for a moment, they were allies in their disapproval of my sass. At least they could agree on something.
“I am sorry that my master was not here to greet you. He’s been called away on some matter of importance,” Ghazaros said. “I am given to understand that there was recent tension between our houses. Are you able to contribute to my knowledge of that matter?”
“But of course. A regrettable mistake on my DaySitter’s part,” Harry said, throwing me under the bus like he was bowling a strike. “We were invited to attend at Skulesdottir, and my DaySitter’s guest took it upon himself to attack the Sarokhanian stronghold at Vlastimirova.”
My guest? I tried not to be too obviously annoyed, but all three revenants picked up on the unintentional changes in my physiology immediately, looked at me, and shared a chuckle as if to say “silly mortal.”
“How did she so badly misjudge her guest’s intentions?” Ghaz wanted to know.
“Passion,” was Harry’s verdict, and though I knew he had to be careful and diplomatic, his words were a knife. I would need to find some hidden composure to figure out if it was in my back or my gut. “She believed the vampire hunter was in love with her and would not betray her trust.”
“He paid for that, don’t forget,” I muttered under my breath, not able to keep it trapped behind my teeth. When Ghaz focused on me, I said, “I make men regret things, Prince Merzyan. Often. I’m thinking of having some swag made. T-shirts. Maybe a mug.”
Harry, perhaps chastened by my discomfiture, gave a full recounting of the tension between me and Sayomi Mochizuki, the Overlord’s quests, the crowning of Remy Dreppenstedt, and the death of Batten in the throne room. Despite the painful memories, my Cold Company exalted momentarily before a captive audience, neither of whom had been in attendance and hung on his every word — old revenants love their juicy gossip. I could sense Harry relaxing into a familiar pattern, glowing in the spotlight of their rapt attention, weaving a sordid and shocking tale, taking some license with details, exaggerating my part in every situation like I was a superhero. For once, it was a relief not to be the butt of jokes, but the sensational story was equally ridiculous.
At last, Ghazaros said, “You had no inkling, then, that her guest was a vampire hunter with a prior grudge against House Sarokhanian?”
Harry dodged adroitly. “On the contrary, I knew exactly what he was. He was a reformed vampire hunter. He was composed and polite in the company of my house, showing not a hint of disrespect. I admit, I had expected better of him at the end. He hid his true goals behind a wall of desire for my advocate, and as you know, lust often distorts our abilities to perceive equally passionate intentions.”
The two revenants murmured thoughtfully, teetering on bitterness and regret. They didn’t appreciate the reminder that revenant powers of perception weren’t perfect. Once the blood was up, mortal objectives could be misconstrued; a quick, hammering pulse was inviting to the fang, whether that hammering was due to desire or anxiety or deadly rage. Immortal hungers and wishful thinking sometimes blind the undead to dangers too close to home. I didn’t believe that Harry had been fooled, or that he’d ever lost track of Batten’s true desires beneath Batten's ardor for me.
“What I took for sexual hunger aimed at my DaySitter,” Harry continued, “was in fact a carefully-bottled, red-hot rage directed at Aston Sarokhanian.”
In answer to that, both old revenants looked me up and down appraisingly, as though trying to imagine what the vampire hunter might have desired. I tried not to be offended by their dubious expressions. “Sometimes I look better than this, okay?”
“You might have heard how the vampire hunter’s treachery ended?” Harry asked them.
&n
bsp; “You kindly did House Sarokhanian the favor of draining Mr. Batten,” Ghazaros said, his eyes never leaving me, watching every micro-expression and tasting every nuanced shift in emotion. “Solving the problem once and for all.”
I had no trouble feeling absolutely gutted for the benefit of the sensitive immortals surrounding me. Remembering that moment, when Batten was no longer a null for my psychic Talents, remembering his terror as Harry’s fangs sank deep in his throat, was enough to prick my eyes with hot tears. I avoided their gaze, stared stubbornly at my faded kitty Keds, willing my eyes to dry up. I wondered if I’d ever be able to picture that night without a fresh wash of agony. My lips tightened, effectively trapping my comments.
Zorovar asked, “Where is he buried?”
I finally spoke, my voice thick with emotion. “We laid him to rest in Colorado. He didn’t have any written last wishes, no living family. Our boss, Gary Chapel, was executor of his estate and decided to bury him near his most recent home.”
The revenants looked satisfied with that answer. Ghazaros said, “You still use Mark Batten’s home.”
I nodded and took a shaky but steadying breath. “I do. SSA Chapel rents it to me as an office.”
“And you have an employee who was once the DaySitter of Jeremiah Prost.” It wasn't a question, either.
“Umayma Eyasi,” I said.
“You were responsible for staking Mr. Prost in Egypt?”
“He was a child murderer,” I said flatly. “‘Love by the dram’ can fuck off into the sun, and you can quote me on that. Also, he attacked me first, so…” I shrugged. “Live, dead, or undead — if you start it, I finish it.”
