by A. J. Aalto
Harry and Zorovar made unhappy noises in unison, once again agreeing on something, even if that something was how inappropriate I was.
Ghazaros, however, smiled at me. “As you have said, you make men regret things,” he said. “We will be sure to keep in mind the type of lady with whom we are dealing. Yes, indeed.”
I didn’t like how he worded that. I also didn’t like how Harry chuckled at his use of the word “lady.” I stiffened further until I was standing at my full height. Before I could say something I’d regret, Harry cleared his throat.
“And now, if you’d be so kind, I would very much like to meet your other guest, Prince Merzyan. Will you please summon him?” Harry held his top hat in both hands before his belly. “Why, we’ve not yet had the pleasure of a face-to-face meeting, and I cannot express to you how eager I am for the introduction.”
I’d missed the snap-spark of a relatively young revenant attempting to control his nervous anticipation in a curtained-off parlor nearby. Now, at the mention of him, his preternatural fragrance blossomed, burnt sugar and ripe citrus. Through the Bond, I felt Harry’s caution and translated it as a warning. Harry wanted me to summon my best poker face. I sensed he was doing a better job of walling-off his true feelings than I knew.
Ghaz brightened even further, his trap having been sprung. “You, DaySitter, are perhaps acquainted with my dear friend, Master Strickland?”
My shoulders tightened unintentionally as I watched my brother’s creator move the curtain aside and pad across the floor. Strickland was a tallish man with a plain face, weak chin, limp brown hair, and a perma-slouch. He had pale eyes of that same wilted violet shade that Wesley’s turned when he vamped out. My brother’s maker, the man who called his bloodline a “swarm” and encouraged Wesley to go by “Wasp.” I was entirely underwhelmed and couldn’t imagine what Wesley had seen in him. Unlike the other revenants, he was dressed even more casually than I was; in his bare feet, careworn jeans, and a navy blue t-shirt, he looked like a low-budget knockoff Shaggy from Scooby Doo. Zoinks, I thought, and then squelched that in a hurry, remembering that Strickland's line were Telepaths.
Wesley’s words of warning came back at me, and I panicked a bit; had I been guarding my thoughts?
“Refresh my memory, if you please, what was the relationship between you? Ah, yes.” Ghazaros pretended to gather his thoughts, flashing so much fang through his smile that it couldn’t possibly be unintentional. “He is your brother Wesley’s sire, is he not? We have been having the most marvelous visit. I’d not like it to end too soon.”
The implication was clear — Ghazaros had the head of my brother’s bloodline, and he could destroy him, which would turn Strickland’s entire “swarm” to dust, including Wes. It was a threat, one that neither Harry nor I could ignore. I didn’t know how he’d planned this, but…
Precognitive, my mind tickled. Ghazaros, a Seer, had known he would need an ace up his sleeve in case I was planning some kind of revenge against House Sarokhanian. Ghaz had effectively neutralized me. No matter what he or this Zorovar Borodian character had going on in Niagara, I couldn’t do anything that might trigger them, or I risked Wesley’s life.
What would Kill-Notch do? I felt the first nauseating waves of panic — I didn’t know whether Batten would be watchful of Wes’s survival or not. I wanted to think so, but Batten had never been overly fond of dead guys. He’d already sacrificed his own life, not to mention our relationship, to get close to revenge, for whatever that was worth. Perhaps Wesley meant less to Mark than I imagined. I certainly did.
To cover my nervousness and the bitter despair of that line of thinking, I stuck out one gloved hand. Strickland blinked at it in surprise and then shook it, I thought, purely out of the old habit coming back to him. “Marnie,” I said.
Strickland nodded. “Glen.”
“Glen? Glen the vampire?” I slid Harry a look that said I’d have to joke about that later. “Wow, okay, yeah. So. Glen. You turned my baby brother. Cool, I guess.” He would taste the fib but I didn’t know what else to say. “Sorry about the V-word, Glen.”
To nobody’s surprise, Harry was much smoother. “My dear Mister Strickland. It is Mister, isn’t it? I’m not omitting a title in a misstep that would embarrass us both?”
Rather than being insulted, Strickland did a full-body shrug and went, “Meh.” Then he squinted at me with those eerie lilac eyes. “Where’s Wasp? Tell him to come see me.”
Fuck that, slim, was what I wanted to say. Instead, I copied his unenthusiastic shrug and said, “Meh. We’ll see.” Something occurred to me. “You turned him but didn't even swap phone numbers?” I looked around at all the unimpressed dead guys. “I thought the gift of immortality might be more meaningful than a booty call, but I guess not.”
Harry added hastily, “We have many friends to visit before the holiday is over.”
“Friends?” Ghaz said with a slight pout. “Are we not friends? Do send the lad to call. We’d love to meet him.”
A cold, greasy feeling was growing in my lower belly. “Uh, I mean, it’s mostly family.”
“But your brother’s forever-family is here, isn’t it, Mister Strickland?” Ghaz said, his eyes gleaming with victory. “They share a bloodline. Please do bring the lad around for a visit. Lord Dreppenstedt? Are we not friends?”
The noose tightened, and so did my guts.
Harry’s eyes glistened and avoided mine. “Of course we are friends, your grace.”
“Are we not worthy of a visit with this Strickland Younger during your stay?”
I could feel Harry’s dismay and wondered if the others could as well. “Of course he should come. To reject such an invitation would be the very height of discourtesy.”
Ghaz settled back in his chair and his features relaxed. “Excellent. I’m so pleased that we can be sociable despite unfortunate past tensions. Let tonight be the dawn of a new understanding between our houses.”
I wanted to pelt forward across the floor and smash his smirking lips into his teeth with my fist, but I knew how that would end: my throat torn out, Harry torn limb from limb, and Strickland staked, murdering his entire bloodline with one rowan wood stake, including Wes.
“Our man will see you out,” Ghaz said, and then turned to Zorovar. “Unless you had some final word to add to the conversation, my dear old friend?”
“On the contrary, I believe this meeting has gone swimmingly for — ” He cut his eyes at me and they widened slightly. I reigned in my fury, tamped it down, snuffed it as well as I could. Still, the embers smoked.
Zorovar slid his dark gaze back to Harry’s face. “I cannot express how deeply satisfying it is to see you once again, Dreppenstedt.”
“Lord Dreppenstedt,” Ghaz corrected. “Show the gentleman the respect he is due.”
“Oh!” Zorovar began to grin, also flashing fang. “I thought I had.”
Harry’s power slipped awake and rolled through me like fever chills, making my core tremble. I thought if I looked for it, I might see his jaw doing Batten’s clench-unclench dance. He had been insulted. Openly. I knew it was meant to provoke a reaction, but Harry held his tongue. I wanted to mouth off on his behalf, but we were not in any position to get away with that. Slinking out without answering the insult was a sign of weakness, but the truth was, it was the only smart thing to do.
Strickland took his cue and slouched back behind the curtain to wherever they were keeping him. I wondered how willing a hostage he was, or if he owed a debt, or had been offered some deal. Surely, as a Telepath, he understood that he was in great danger. In either case, my brother was also a passive prisoner, a hostage from a distance. And Harry had agreed to bring him around for tea.
Harry made a brave show of saying gracious good-byes, while I stood there feeling hollow, furious, and numb. The walk back to the car was done in foreboding silence.
Nine
The silence held through the entire drive back to the refuge of North House, broken o
nly by the soft murmur of the radio. Harry had walled himself off from me for the time being, so I mostly just stared out the window at the night-quiet buildings we passed. The construction at the sinkhole by Wicked Whiskers and the Blind Tiger was coming along, but the road was closed to traffic; a few barricades blinked in the dark, reflecting syncopatedly on the wet pavement.
I didn’t know how I was going to break the news to Wes about Glen Strickland, but I didn’t want him to pick it up telepathically before I got home and sat him down to try and deliver it gently, so I scrubbed it out of my brain using thoughts of cheese plates and German chocolate cake. I thought about going to Wicked Whiskers in the morning. I wondered if Constable Schenk would come with me. I figured, if it was the best cheese shop in Niagara, he was already a regular. Was the owner involved in any of the cheese-related shenanigans, even as a beneficiary? It was one of the many questions bouncing around in my brain, and for the moment, it helped me think about something other than Wes. But the worry returned like a fang prodding skin, seeking a vein.
“I should have popped that guy right in the yap,” I muttered finally. When my Cold Company didn’t reply, I completed the imaginary conversation myself. “Which guy, Marnie? The smarmy one? The sassy one? Glen? What kind of fucking name is Glen for a vampire, anyway?” I slunk down in the seat, grimacing, ignoring the V-word out of spite. “Fuckin’ Glen. But which one do you wanna punch, Marnie? Oh, any one of the three, they were all cruisin’.”
Harry stared out his window, pale hands clenched in his lap, letting nothing at all through the Bond, which spoke volumes about what was broiling under the surface. Harry had taken Wes under his wing, a few times quite literally, and Ghazaros’ unspoken threat to my brother had Harry at a furious, impotent loss for words.
“Did I mention Ewan Sarabia to you, Harry?” I said to distract him.
Harry’s forehead creased.
“He told me that I should seek out a revenant named Ludovic,” I went on. “Ludovic’s a Nazaire of indeterminate age. Ever heard of him?”
Harry’s eyes rolled unhappily but still he said nothing.
“I’m supposed to go to the casino in Niagara Falls and ask about him. Let him find me.”
“Oh my heavens, yes, what a positively brilliant plan,” Harry snapped. “Involve more revenants in our visit. Shall I print formal invitations?”
“I hear sarcasm, but I’m choosing to ignore it,” I said crisply. “Sarabia says Ludovic knows all the local dish. Shouldn’t we get our ears on the undead grapevine? Maybe learn, I dunno, what the star-spangled fuck is going on around here with all these immortal assholes?”
“I’m sure that insight would appeal to your policeman friend and Ms. Malashock, but perhaps you might consider that seeking out the connections of yet another house would complicate our own matters. You cannot know Mr. Nazaire’s private agenda, his alliances, or his intentions toward you. It costs you nothing to let Ludovic Nazaire moulder quietly in the cupboard like an old apple.”
“Harry,” I said, “people are getting sick and dying.”
“I’m quite sure that Prince Merzyan is not feeding in phantasm form.”
Despite the fact that Ghaz had rightly pissed me off, I agreed. I was equally sure that Borodian and Strickland weren't doing it, either – they were all far too pink in the cheeks for that. But there had been something off in that house, something more than the threat of losing my brother, something deeper. And Wes was right, there was at least one Telepath in that rundown little house — Glen Strickland.
Who were the Borodians? What was their Talent? I’d never heard of the bloodline before. I wasn’t even sure it was a house of its own, despite Ghaz calling him “Prince.” Revenant politics were often tricky as well as annoying.
Puzzling about Borodian helped me keep Strickland out of my mind when we pulled up to North House and went inside, where we found Wes in the parlor with one of Mr. Merritt’s crossword books open on his lap. It was one of the big, thick ones that drugstores stocked on the magazine shelves. He’d made a fire in the fireplace, and the light of it gleamed off his cleanly shaved scalp. His jazzed-up eye patch glittered. He was using the pointy end of a pencil to pick something out of his teeth, and pizza grease was making the paper of his crossword puzzle translucent. An empty cardboard box lay open nearby.
“Hank’s Home Cooking delivers all the way out here?” I asked, turning my head to read the box on the floor by the velvet couch. “Hope you didn’t get pepperoni on Harry’s settee.”
“Depends what a settee is,” Wes said.
“That thing you’re sitting on.”
Wes looked on either side of his hips then turned a sad lip shrug up at me. “Oops. Hey… what’s Harry so grumpy about? Things didn’t go well?”
“Things went fine,” I lied, ignoring Harry’s overly loud changing of his shoes for his house slippers.
Wes glared. “Sure, lie to a Telepath. That totally works.”
“I didn’t punch a single guy in the fangs,” I said. “How’s that?”
Wes squinted at my forehead, then said slowly, “Well, that part’s true…”
Harry stormed down the hall without speaking, Mr. Merritt doing a double-step at his heels.
Wes made a noise of discomfort. “When Harry’s lost confidence, things are really tits-up. Like after the holy water attack. That shook him. This is shaking him. What’s up?”
“Well, we presented ourselves before Ghazaros.”
“And?” He squinted his one good eye at my forehead. “He wasn’t alone.”
“No,” I answered. “He wasn’t. A Zorovar Borodian was there?” I made it a question. “Ever heard that name?”
“Oh, God…” Wesley’s eye rapidly wilted to violet and the room abruptly filled with the sharp scent of burnt sugar. “Glen.”
“Hrm? What’s that now?” I pretended ignorance.
“Master Strickland was there. He’s being held hostage. To intimidate you guys.” Wes’s expression soured. “Guess we know what kind of shitbags we’re dealing with.”
“We? Ha!” I kicked off my Keds and flipped them towards the nearest corner with my toes. “Not we, Wes. I want you so far out of this.”
“How am I not in it?” he said with a sharp laugh. “If Strickland is there, my life is in their hands.” He scanned my mind again. He'd gotten a lot defter with a year or so of practice, but it had never felt this effortless for him to pore through my thoughts. “He wants me to go. This Merzyan guy.”
“You can’t.”
“Whether I’m here or there, the danger is the same.”
“I disagree.”
“Did Harry say I would go?”
I took a deep, fortifying breath and huffed it out. “It doesn’t matter what Harry said. Harry’s not running this show.”
“You’re so wrong this time, sis,” Wes said quietly. “You’re the one who’s going to have to back off.” When I squawked, he held up a hand to stop me. “I know, you’re on a mission. You’re always on a fucking mission. But hear me out. Just this once. Do you honestly think vampire politics is your strong suit?”
“V-word,” I scolded, the only thing I could reasonably find fault with. “I still have a responsibility here. There’s a case — ”
“Which isn’t yours.” He picked my brain with ease. “Malashock and Schenk and some Nyquist guy have their cases covered.”
I went to the cupboard near the fireplace. I had discovered on my last trip that Mr. Merritt liked to stash booze and treats here for winter evenings. I found an unopened bag of Cheez Doodles and popped it to get at the salty goodness within. “I have to do what’s capital-R Right. I just have to be more careful about it. Stealthy.” I shot him an uncertain look. “I can be stealthy.”
“Know what your problem is?” Wes said. “You’re too good.”
It tried to demand “What?” but it came out as a choking noise. Powdered cheese flavoring may or may not have shot out of my nose.
“Yeah
,” Wes accused, “you’ve become squishy and soft.”
“I can be tough. Mean, even! I swatted a fly just yesterday. Also, I’m not sharing my Cheez Doodles with you.” I squinted. Meanly. “Not. Even. One.”
Wes mimed a yapping mouth with one hand. “I’m serious, ever since your favorite chew toy croaked, you’ve been sort of a wiener.”
“Excuse me?”
“You quit once. Remember? You got shot in an alley and said, ‘That’s it, I’m done,’ and you told everyone to fuck off. It was selfish but it was smart. You held your ground.”
Not really. I caved pretty quickly, even before Chapel showed me pictures of that dead girl. I seesawed a hand.
“When they wanted help again, you said, ‘Fuck no.’”
“And then I helped them, Wes,” I reminded him.
“After they badgered you. Listen, I hate to encourage you to be selfish and shitty, but Old Marnie would never be friends with New Marnie. None of this current business is going to benefit you. Not a bit of it. So what’s in it for you? What’s in it for Old Marnie?”
“Everybody changes. Don’t make me change into a sister who wants you to get the fuck out.”
“Bluffing. You’re too sisterly to toss me out.” He got serious. “You’re going to get yourself killed for nothing.”
“Not for nothing. For the capital-R Right thing.”
“You’re not the only one who can do that,” he said.
Point: Wes. “Don’t you have a bunny slipper to hump? Or a shop-vac to turn into a catapult?”
“You have personal problems you need to deal with, Marnie-Jean, and you’re using other people’s problems to avoid dealing with your own.”
I stared down into my bag of Cheez Doodles. “I don’t have problems.”
“Really? You shape-shifted into a giant land-wyrm while fighting a demon — not your first demon, either. What was his name? Nynga-Challa-something?”
“How the hell would I know?” I squawked. “It’s not my job to keep track of demons’ names.”
