by A. J. Aalto
“Mutated shape-shifters like me, huh? Boy, you know how to butter up an unwilling former... what was I? Your hostage? Victim? I don't think you even ran my insurance, so I don't think I qualify as a patient.”
“Marnie,” Chapel warned.
“Why don't you summarize it for me,” a voice that had to be Johnson's cut in from the background. With the sort of emphasis that comes with a job title that involved a lot of paperwork, he added, “Briefly.”
“There’s a difference between lycanthropy and shape-shifting,” Delacovias explained. “The creature that infected her, Gunther Folkenflik, is a lycanthrope. He has a simple form of lycanthropy, and is merely a werefox. He is infected with the Vulpes virus.”
“So?” Point: A.D. Johnson.
“If you look at her virus under a microscope, you will remember that it’s been mutated, most likely by Declan Edgar’s attempts to treat it in the field, and by her own metaphysical differences caused by the Bond with an immortal. My hypothesis, which I intend to support when I'm able to resume my research,” the heavily-implied blame for his inconvenience wasn't lost on me, “is that when the host is metaphysically different, so is the viral expression. Not only are you a DaySitter, Dr. Baranuik, but you attempted to stem the development of the virus with mellified man, which has properties of its own.”
Memories of my discussions with the not-so-good doctor gave me more of the flesh-crawling cringies, and I grimaced. “I recall.”
“I’m sorry if the memory is uncomfortable, but I’m currently one of the few researchers studying your kind. Most of the contemporary knowledge of lycanthropy comes from my lab.”
Not trusting my tongue to be civil, I grunted noncommittally.
“Shape-shifters have been infected with mutated viruses, or their own bodies have caused the virus to mutate. They can access different shapes. They’re not stuck with your standard canid repertoire – werewolf, werefox, werehound.”
“Oh, so something like, I dunno, a three-headed Arctic frost dragon that sits on evil until evil gives up isn't a puppy? I'd never have guessed.”
“Marnie,” Chapel said, trying to bring me to heel. Ha! Point: Marnie.
Dr. Delacovias paused, and I could hear him heavy-breathing on the other end. “Interesting choice, care to explain?” he prodded.
I smirked and offered him a cheerful, “Nope!” I left him twisting in the breeze for a beat. “So, what is your quote-unquote cure?”
“A single injection into the spinal canal. An antiviral.”
“And you want to test it. On me,” I stated. “You actually think that — even after what you did to me — I’d be willing to step back into your mad scientist lab to get a shot from you. In my spine. Gary, is there anything in our HR policy about firing someone for being really fucking dense? Because either he is for asking, or I'd be for accepting.”
Delacovias spoke before Gary could offer a professional assessment. “It’s what’s best for your health, and for the future of your career if you hope to continue consulting with law enforcement.”
Johnston isn't naive enough to think this clown's medical opinion has any merit, is he? “When you put it that way, maybe you and I should talk about this further,” I demurred. “We’ll book an appointment when I return to Colorado.”
“My facility can be made ready — ”
“No, you said it yourself – it’s a single injection. We’ll meet in my old lab at the PCU, under PCU supervision. That can be arranged, can’t it, Special Agent Chapel?” I asked crisply.
Silence. Then Gary. “Of course, Marnie.”
Point: me. Suck it, Delacooties. “Thanks, I’ll be in touch.” I hung up on them and sipped my now-tepid tea, then picked up my small pink Moleskine, an old travel-sized one that I’d almost filled with random spell ideas.
As much as I despised him, Delacovias did have a point: the risky specter of shape-shifting was an inconvenience when I was stressed out, and encouraging the virus to become more at home in my body might not be the best plan. Until I had more reliable information, I needed a way to keep the lycanthropy at bay if I could, and focus on dealing with my current overlapping messes. The last thing I needed was to be sneaking up on a revenant or a mud boggle or a cheese smuggler and accidentally Hulk out into a wyrm or something.
I started scribbling notes, feeling my Cold Company approach from downstairs, his influence growing stronger the closer he got. His mood had settled somewhat, shifting from irritation at Ghazaros to concern regarding my phone call with Dr. Delacovias. By the time he reached my bedroom, he had decided on facing this new issue with determination and support, and the heaviness of his growing power through the Bond gave me a spike of confidence.
“The moon, love,” he advised softly. “She is the key, is She not?”
“Yes, my Harry.” I might not be able to consciously fend off the virus, but, by quelling the shifting urge from the other side, protect myself by minimizing the effects of the full moon? Maybe I was tilting at windmills, but it was worth a shot.
I hadn’t brought my grimoire, as airport security had become incredibly touchy, especially for international travel, and double-especially for international travel with a dead guy in the cargo hold. Judging by how many times I’d been “randomly” selected and pulled aside for full-body scans, pat-downs that should have bought me coffee first, and whatever bullshit gizmos they were using for bag searches, I was sure my name was on a whole bunch of lists. I wasn’t even confident that I should Google any of the hinkier spells on my cell phone, just in case it was searched by customs on my return to the States. I’d have to wing it, which was fine.
Grimoireless though I might be, I never travel without my jewelry pouch. Most people don’t consider me fancy, and I’d have to agree. But jewelry is a great way to hide gemstones and crystals without raising alarm bells. I had a small pair of round peridot stud earrings set in gold — peridot was excellent protection in any setting, and the gold was associated with fire magic and the warmth of the sun, warding off the cool dominance of the moon and the influence of the dark Season of the Grave. A bracelet of polished jet with a gold clasp would also prove powerful in warding off curious spirits, especially in solo spell work. A small amethyst ring, boosted by the influence of the jet, would allow me to be simultaneously open and shielded.
I slipped the jewelry on and displayed it all for Harry, who nodded his approval and took a seat at the end of the bed to watch and wait. I took a casual stroll down to the kitchen so I could rustle up some herbs from Mr. Merritt’s spice cupboard. No surprise, when I did find the pantry, it turned out to be well-stocked — Combat Butler was prepared for any culinary occasion. Bundles of sweet basil hung on drying racks from the ceiling. Canisters of salt were readily available on the bottom shelf. There were two big jars of bay leaves. I considered a box of candied ginger, decided it would add too much zing to the spell, and popped open the box to chew a piece instead. He didn’t have any mugwort — not many people do — but he did have marjoram, and I figured its effect on family dynamics would be handy later if I wanted to repeat the protective spell before seeing my mother. I grabbed a bottle of plain safflower oil as a carrier, and a small copper pot.
It took a few minutes of rummaging to find emergency candles and a box of matches shoved into a drawer of spare pencils, old batteries, and a yellowed instruction booklet for some ancient microwave oven. Trucking my stuff back up to my room, I found it empty; Harry had retreated to give me privacy, but was sending his strength and support through the Bond as he padded around the house elsewhere. I dropped a protective salt line at the bathroom door and along the windowsill. I set up the candles on the vanity, dumped the oil and herbs into the pot, locked the door, filled the tub with steaming hot water, and stripped to just my jewelry. My bracelet rattled softly as I jostled the pot to stir the potion around over the candles, blending oil and herbs until they began to heat. The amethyst on my ring finger glinted in the candlelight.
“T
ake this wish and hold it true;
cast your care into this brew.
Bless the one who walks the path,
and ward the soul who takes this bath.”
I dipped a finger into the oil to test the temperature, and finding it not too hot, used my cupped hand to keep the herbs from spilling, tipped the pot so only the charged oil dripped into the tub, then I put the pot on the counter and climbed into the bath. Closing my eyes, I let my mind wander, enjoying the heat of the water, the lingering flavor of candied ginger on my tongue, and the aggressively strong fragrance of my green brew. My tension began to fade, and I felt my connection to the Dark Lady blossom and strengthen, even as my warding kept the Other apart.
“Mother divine, cleanse this space.
Show the way to return to grace.”
Like fog rolling in from a warm lake, images slowly lumbered into my head, familiar at first — Harry’s profile, dignified and elegant, and then a silver fox loping through the woods. The dark fluttering of a raven landing on a rotting timber fence. The first fat flakes of snow, their plumpness foretelling an especially bad winter to come. An endless sea, and a sailor’s beard hardened by crisp white frost. The red shock of a cardinal against an indigo sky. Peeling a layer of green wax from a hard round of cheese. Deep amber liquor in a crystal decanter. A flash of fangs. Jagged red gemstones jutting out against a shale backdrop, illuminated by a smoke-stained hurricane lantern. Candles. Beeswax. Crosses. Tiny, silver crosses. Hundreds of them. I’d seen them before. And suddenly, Declan Edgar’s sheepish smile.
Declan? My eyes popped open and I stared at the ceiling through the steam rising around me. I examined the train of my thoughts: silver crosses, Declan. Malas Nazaire trapped in his casket by silver crosses on silver chains. Was Malas on my mind because of his chatty relation Ludovic?
Then an image of Batten pressed into my brain, hard and fast, a clusterfuck of memories blasting everything else away: the motel in Buffalo, his husky voice, his hot mouth, his eager hands and hips, gunshots in a dark alley, looking up at his stubbled chin while we crouched in the boathouse hiding from Ruby Valli, Batten releasing me from a jail cell, chasing after a giant stone boggle, showing me the deeply gnarled scar on his thigh, bolting through the Olmdalur after the release of bloodthirsty feral revenants, and finally his face – his terrified eyes – as Harry’s fangs sank into his throat. All the psychic walls crumbling, and feeling his fear. His pain. But not regret. Batten had no time for regret. Batten was where he wanted to be, where he’d intended to end up. He'd gotten there without me. He doesn’t need me anymore. I let my fingertips play circles in the water. Maybe no one does, my brain unhelpfully supplied.
Second guessing myself wasn't helpful, it was only making me feel sad and insecure. I reached out to Harry’s solid, supportive presence from the other room, drew power through the Bond, and offered it up to the Dark Lady.
“Fair Aradia of House and Home,
Hide the Moon and let me roam.
Soften Her delightful sway,
Let Your servant walk away.”
My flesh responded to Her touch at once. It was a light sweep, but it left goosebumps bristling across my shoulders and down my spine, even under the still-toasty water. The gentle <
I couldn’t get out of the bath fast enough, pulling the plug and launching out of the water to towel off. I returned to find Harry in the bedroom. He had folded back the blankets for me. Mr. Merritt had left a cup of cup of chamomile tea with honey beside the bed recently enough that it was the perfect temperature for sipping.
“The Dark Lady has offered to shield you from the Moon’s sway, then? A difficult job well done, ducky,” he said quietly, mindful of the late hour.
“It wasn’t difficult.”
“Then why are you as unsettled as a business of ferrets, and shaking like your bath was in ice?”
“I’m always shaky, I’m like a goddamn whippet,” I tried.
Harry gave me a knowing look. “Time to rest your busy head, my MJ.”
I climbed into bed. Harry drew the blankets snugly around me, then fluttered his lashes until I eye-rolled an invitation at him. He slid onto the bed to play the big spoon for a while. A feeling of security settled over me, and I could have laid there for days.
Alas, the night had other plans.
Eleven
I was heartily sick of my phone ringing. At home in Colorado, when business was slow and the PCU wasn’t hopping, there could be days on end when it was silent, and that was fine by me. Harry disentangled himself from me, padded over to the desk, and brought it to me with a resigned frown.
Malashock’s voice put me immediately on edge. “What are you up to?”
“Gettin’ my freak on,” I said, sitting up in bed. “Why the hell are you calling at,” I pulled the phone away from my face to check the time, “Nine anyway? Normal people are eating peppermint candies and watching porn this time of night. I was about to get some candy cane action, if you know what I mean.”
Harry arched an eyebrow. “Shall I find some red and white striped suspenders? Perhaps a matching pair of briefs, ducky?” he asked mischievously.
Malashock groaned. “Tee-em-eye. Come to the diner across from the office.”
I reached over on the nightstand to get my now-cold tea, sipped, and lifted a pinky finger to be cheekily proper. “You have an office?”
“Nyquist has an office in St. Catharines, downtown. I’ll text you the address.”
“Do we have to meet in person?” I asked. “You’re bad for my ego.”
I thought I heard a soft snort-laugh. “Be there in twenty.”
I made a blerg noise and hung up. Dressing in age-softened jeans and an oversize grey hoodie that, for reasons known only to fashion industry cretins, had no useful pockets, I rummaged in the closet for my luggage, into which I’d thrown a neon-hued fanny pack. I grabbed a bunch of peppermint candies from a bowl on the bedside table to cram into it, then zipped it with a flourish. “Well, Harry, I have to go to work.”
“Saving the world again, are we, dear?” he murmured, sidling up beside me in a wash of cool air and planting a hand softly on my hair to stroke it. “Aren’t you a pip.”
I let my head fall back so I could gaze up adoringly at him. He was still worried about Strickland, and Ghazaros’s hold on Wes, and though he had settled into a wait-and-see place for the moment, my Cold Company was clingy, lingering in the same room, keeping me in sight. Our mutual obsession mingled through the Bond and offered up a dollop of metaphysical pleasure and reassurance. Despite this, I felt adrift, untethered from my usual certainty as to what was the capital-R Right thing to do, just a vague urge to push forward.
“I’m not saving anyone yet.” I smiled sadly. “I don’t even know who needs saving.”
He pouted. “Don’t you?”
“Besides you, my Harry.”
His pout slid into a grin, flashing fang. “Before you toddle off, darling, would you mind terribly?”
Mr. Merritt had no trouble letting me have the hearse for the evening, though I’d expected him to object about the late hour. The night was cool and damp, and I spared only the briefest glance at the moon, feeling light of step and temporarily free of its sway. Smelling of essential oils and peppermint candies, I found the PUC office with no trouble at all. The sign out front had “Nyquist & Snipe” embossed in silver on a black metal plate. The diner across the way was shoved into a corner and didn’t look big enough to have both a kitchen and eating space. It was called Bits n’ Bobs, which made me think of sewing notions, not quality food. The vinyl canopy above the door was faded and there was a rip in the edging, a piece of green fabric flapping in the wind. The size of it, though, was deceiving, and after a tight, triangular front foyer, it opened to a long rectangle sta
cked with rows of booths divided by half walls topped by fake ferns. The smell inside was predictably lovely: cinnamon French toast, maple bacon, and coffee. The clientele were in business casual even at this late hour, some of them sitting alone, briefcases or laptop bags occupying the seat beside them.
Malashock had one finger sticking up. I wasn’t sure if she was summoning me or the waiter. I crunched the last bit of my candy in anticipation of getting some late night coffee.
The small, twig-thin man sitting beside her was scarfing down a large fruit cup served in a hollow cantaloupe half. He wore a dark knit cap pulled down over his ears, topped by a tan felt fedora, and had wavy hair that tickled his chin. He wore a tweed jacket over a green t-shirt proclaiming “420 every day” with a red and white cannabis leaf made to look like the Canadian flag. His faded black jeans were dusty along the thighs, as though he had a habit of wiping his hands there. His eyes had the slightest red glaze to them, glossy as ice in the sun, and his lips seemed prone to sliding into an accommodating half smile to encourage others to keep talking. He even smelled of days-old pot, but he didn’t fool me for a second. Nyquist was a lycanthrope of some variety, not a Folkenflik, or not that I could sense. Living and working as a cryptogeologist in Canada? I had to wonder about the wisdom of whoever had hired him — was that Snipe of Nyquist & Snipe, or was Snipe a lycanthrope, too? Nyquist’s disguise was clever, and he got points for thoroughness. I even marked it on my mental scoreboard. Six points: Nyquist.
I wonder if he had Malashock snowed, or if she was covering for him. Obviously, I had to say something really cool to make a good first impression, let Undercover Lycanthrope know who he was dealing with.
“So,” I took a dramatic pause, hooking my thumbs in my neon fanny pack belt, and gave him a long look I hoped was brimming with depth, intellect, and mystery. “We meet again.”
Nyquist looked baffled. That was fair, since we’d never met. “I’m sorry?”
