by A. J. Aalto
I heard the siren at the canal that meant the bridge was going up. There was no sign of Schenk or Nyquist, and the hearse was the only car around. I slowed my approach as I left the imagined safety of the street lights behind. Here, where the land sloped up to the south, there were more crevices, barely visible in the rapidly falling twilight, hidden by exposed tree roots and larger boulders. But I didn’t need my eyes to guide me towards my target any longer, I just needed to watch out for obstacles. My sensitive DaySitter’s nose picked up something under the vaguely fishy smell of Lake Ontario, distinct from the lingering green miasma of sun-warmed algae.
Cookies.
Vanilla, warm and sweet. Ghazaros. I glanced behind me, gauging the distance back to Municipal Beach, near his place. It was a long, long walk if you were moving above ground. I’d passed the canal to my left, and to the right, I could faintly see the twinkling lights of old summer cottages along the fire lanes. The near-full moon peeked between the limbs of Russian Olives and Red Maples still lightly-laden will fall foliage, shaking in a slight breeze.
I peeled off my gloves and tucked them in my pocket. A second nervous glance at the moon revealed how close to full it was. A day, maybe two. It was getting far too close to be tempting the Moon like this, even with the shielding of the Dark Lady.
I looked over the assorted passages into the rock face. One, here, was already gated tightly by whatever authorities were in charge of securing random holes in the earth, complete with nifty new yellow signs warning against trespassing due to protected wildlife breeding grounds. The second, far back to the west, was near the house where Ghazaros was keeping his new bestie, Glen Strickland. The thought of Ghaz made the scent of cookies stronger, and I wondered if he was nearby, or if my memory was playing tricks. Whether or not that western tunnel went into or beneath his house was still a mystery.
I’d taken a lot of ill-considered risks in my life, but I wasn’t foolhardy enough to poke around in there alone, and wait for Malashock to show up before being that bold. And she would. I drew her like Harry would draw ghosts. Kindship of the Death Dealers, my traitor brain accused. I figured Malashock would listen to “fuck off” just about as well as I usually did, and she’d trust me to handle it as much as Batten would.
The third tunnel, the intriguing one, was about two miles from Wicked Whiskers and the tantalizing, patched sinkhole. There was no guarantee that there weren’t revenants inside, but the tunnel hadn’t yet been locked up by the government watchdogs, and it was close enough to the canal to make covert shipping operations convenient for smugglers.
The smell of vanilla and bourbon and rum still bothered me a great deal. But what bothered me more was Kinship of the Dairy and Erik Shakespeare’s barely controlled eye-roll.
I had a flashlight clipped to my belt, my thickest pair of gloves on my hands, and the Blue Sense running high. When I got closer, I could see a spent campfire, probably made by local kids; nearby was a pile of sticks and twigs, a big chunk of driftwood… and straw.
I swung my flashlight up and around, clicking it to high, and found more trampled straw strewn around the cave mouth, suggesting someone or something coming and going a lot. No bars. No signs. No gates. I examined the face of the cliff, finding no hint of spider webs, no scattered piles of beetle carcasses, nothing that would indicate cryptid carrion inside. Stepping in, I found the cave dim, drippy, and lit by a heavy duty lantern beyond the first corner, keeping the light from spilling onto the beach. Straw muddied by footsteps and grunge had been scattered on the dirt. Twenty feet further in, there was a shelf and a door, and further still, the soft white glow of a camp lamp.
Excited by an actual discovery, I jumped out, bellowing, “Ah-ha! It’s you!”
Erik Shakespeare appeared between me and the door, wearing his pale blue scrubs and an accusatory scowl. “What the — ” He did a double-take. “It’s you. Why are you here?”
“Would you believe I wandered in here by mistake?”
“No.”
“Would you believe I came down here for a refund on my weird cheese?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Clever of you. I stalked you, but for a very good reason,” I said, taking in the evidence in front of me. Crates on straw. Shelves of wax-coated wheels. Illegal cheese? I had to get Schenk in here. “It’s your unlucky day, Shakespeare.”
“Is it?” He didn’t look like he was buying it, so I drew myself up to full height, which admittedly wasn’t all that impressive. “It’s Crimewatchapalooza, pal, and you're the headliner. Marnie’s gonna bust that little Hobbit ass of yours.”
“I thought you were Jackie-Joan.” He took an angry step forward.
“Freeze!” I yelled, pointing a forefinger at him.
Shakespeare cocked his head. “Why?”
“Because I said ‘freeze,’ and I have a gun.”
“That's a finger.” He hefted a big wheel of cheese.
“It’s right here in my — wait, it’s not even in my waistband. Where did I…? Oh right. Canada.” I balled my fists. “Dammit, Canada!”
Shakespeare shook his head sadly. “You should really get your shit together, Jackie-Joan.”
“Fine, you win this round, Shakespeare,” I admitted, “but next time, look out.”
“How do you figure there’s going to be a next time?”
“That’s a disturbingly valid point.”
He smirked. “Turns out you should freeze.”
“Trust me, I’m frozen.”
“Your mouth’s still moving.”
“I wish someone could stop it. Spoiler alert: nobody can.” I flapped a hand at him. “Besides, why should I freeze? You don’t have a gun either, do you? I have a flashlight, that’s a better weapon than nothing. Time to surrender, sir.”
I didn’t really expect him to give up easily. Instead of putting up his hands in surrender, he hucked his green wheel of waxed cheese at my head. I whooped and ducked, batting it out of the air with my forearm, which hurt more than I expected it to. It hit the ground with a solid thunk.
“Stop that, Shakespeare,” I said sternly. “I know what you’re doing down here.”
“My job,” he said.
“Yeah, helping vampires stuff stolen souls in cheese.”
He reared back with a fresh grimace. “That’s what you think this is?”
I squinted. “I don’t hear you denying it.”
“You’re serious?” His nose scrunched like he couldn’t imagine anyone being that clueless. “Souls in cheese? How the fuck would that work?”
I realized he hadn’t flinched at the V-word, hadn’t even attempted to deny knowledge of the undead. “Ask your soul-smuggling buddy Sarokhanian.”
At first, the Blue Sense picked up his jolt of guilt, but the name confused him. He did another double-take that I didn’t like. “Wait, who?”
“Nice try, cheese-monger.” I remembered the sinkhole revenant. “You know, Nautical Guy.”
“Who, Rotten Roy?”
Bingo, a name. Unexpected point: Marnie. “Yeah, him. That’s who I meant. Rotten Roy. Now stop talking for a second. I had a whole victory speech prepared, and you’re gonna hear it.”
“You don’t belong in here, would you get out, please?” he insisted. “Your running mouth is ruining the humidity.”
“I even jotted some notes down,” I said, patting my pockets. My mini-Moleskine wasn’t on me. “Dammit. Did I leave it in the car?”
“Are you some kind of cop?” he demanded, but he was shaking his head because it seemed unlikely. To both of us.
“Well… not exactly. But I caught you. This is illegal cheese.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re hiding it in a cave, for starters,” I said. “That’s shifty as fuck. If you had it in your store, it wouldn’t look weird.”
“This is cave-ripened cheddar, you dingbat. The microflora matures best at a very specific temperature and humidity. Do you honestly not know how cheese
is made? Do you think there are people squeezing brie straight out of some kind of genetically modified cow?”
“You’re lying,” I said, only certain that he was lying about some of it. “And you’re not good at it.”
“If I told you this cheese was illegally imported, then I’d have to keep you here. Forever.”
I screwed up my face. “Okay, Phantom of the Cheese Cave, you’re bad at impromptu plans. I’m giving you points for originality. The scrubs thing, I don’t get, but you recommended me a good cheese and I hear you grow bitchin’ orchids, so you’re not all bad. But kidnapping me is not the answer.”
“It won’t be me holding you captive,” he said, and that was when I remembered the difference in our sizes. He was short, but he was broad, packed with muscle that was slowly softening to flab but still undoubtedly capable of mashing me to a chunky Marnie-shaped paste on the wall. He took a step forward.
“Oh yeah?” I challenged. “Which one of your undead buddies will it be?”
The glimmer in his eyes said he knew I didn’t have much more than the faintest clue who he was working with, besides Rotten Roy the Nautical Guy. Cheese smuggling, okay, so maybe he wasn’t working with Aston Sarokhanian. Maybe the cheese and the soul calling wasn’t related. But he surely knew about revenants, enough to make the Kinship of the Dairy crack.
Something clicked. “Who’s the Pale Sister?”
Now his smile looked smug. “That tasty morsel was renamed. In honor of House Dreppenstedt.”
I swallowed hard. For Queen Remy, her nibs? For one of my sisters? For me? “Renamed for who?”
He surprised me. “Violet Santonen.”
Grandma Vi. I felt shock rocket through me and blow through my protective spell, rattling my powers and stirring mild but worrying lycanthropic urges to shift. Just like before, when I felt Mr. Merritt was in danger, rage stoked the furnace and nudged. I had only a thin layer of control at the best of times, and despite my ward to call off the moon's sway, I felt it pressing into my skull like the throbbing heat of a blossoming migraine.
Kinship of the Departed. Was Shakespeare implying that the Soul Caller was threatening to call my grandmother’s spirit from wherever it was and drag her back here, only to find Sarokhanian waiting for her instead of Harry? I wondered whether Aston could saunter over to her grave, summon and trap Vi, and hold her hostage the way he’d trapped Colonel Jack.
“You need to get away from me. Now,” I said hoarsely. “I don’t want to go to prison. Not for you.”
“You can still back out,” Shakespeare said, “and we can both pretend this never happened. Keep your mouth shut, let me play with my cheese, and nobody is worse for wear. That’s how we both win, here. See that?” He spread his hands in a gesture of openness.
“Where are the souls kept?” I barely whispered, and drew the Blue Sense as hard as I could, feeling psi sizzling through each layer of my skin. Every nerve on fire, I held my breath for his answer.
He shook his head as if he was refusing to tell me, but my Talent knew his secret immediately: he had no idea. Relief swept through me. He was a small, insignificant fish in a big tank. He was just receiving and selling cheese. Definitely stolen cheese, but just smuggled goods, not smuggled souls. He might know a revenant, but that was the extent of his reach. Erik Shakespeare couldn’t punish me, and he had no weight to throw around besides his physical bulk. He was a source of income for a house, and maybe not even a big source. Money makers were replaceable, especially to the wealthy, ancient revenants of a house. I summoned more psi, cautious of expending too much power, and sent out probing tendrils. Scents warred in the tight, humid space: crushed and muddy straw, wax, cheese, rum, and smoke. The more I stared at him, the more vulnerable Shakespeare seemed.
He wasn’t a DaySitter, and he wasn’t a trusted consultant. He was a petty thief who could keep money flowing. A house like the Sarokhanians probably had a dozen men like him shoveling money at them. Cogs in a much bigger machine. Worker bees in a vast hive.
He saw something change on my face, and his eyes widened. He summoned some bluster, squaring off his shoulders, but I saw through the bluff. Small fish, I thought again, with big ears that picked up a few rumors, a few names, and that was all.
I let a smile slowly spread across my lips, and now the knowing look was on my face, not his. “You’re going down, cheese man.”
He picked up another wheel of cheese like it was a weapon. “I’m warning you.”
“Good thing I brought back-up. Nyquist, now!” Shakespeare’s focus shifted to the hall behind him, to where I was bluffing. I pounced, pelting towards him in the narrow tunnel like I was full-tilt crazy. He made a surprised ulk and planted himself to brace for the hit.
I slammed into him, and he didn’t move an inch; I bounced off like a tennis ball. I recovered quickly, throwing my arms wide. He put one hand up and slapped my baseball hat, swatting the brim down over my eyes. I lunged and grabbed him, clinging like a feral kitten on a ball of yarn. He shed me with an irritated flap of his arms. I belatedly remembered Hood's lessons and bopped him right in the schnoz.
He went “Hey!” and made a two-part shuffle around me, feigning right and rolling left against the wall, dropping his cheese and bolting.
I whipped my hat around and gave chase. Kinship of the Dairy, I thought, my rage building. Grandma Vi? The nerve of it drove me forward, and I summoned on the fly, calling earth magic to trip up his feet or slow him in the sand. “Earth and rock, oaken root / heavy sock and weighty boot!”
A surge of power rushed before me. The cheese-monger stumbled but kept his feet, though his step dragged and faltered. It wasn’t enough. I heard sirens and paid them no mind, closing the distance. He was so close, I could smell his sweat and the fragrance of old cheese embedded in his scrubs. My Keds had an advantage over his heavy boots as I skimmed the sand.
I dove, catching him at the hips, which made his scrubs slip down enough to tangle his legs. We went down together in a jumble of limbs, and he thrashed and kicked at me, his heel catching my shoulder, pain lancing down my arm. I clamped both hands on his left ankle and held on tight, a growl snagging in the back of my throat. The sirens were getting closer. Shakespeare flipped, twisted in my grasp, sat up in his wadded scrub pants, and socked me. My hat went flying. I squeezed my eyes shut and held on. He thumped me again, and I saw stars.
“Hold me captive, eh?” I growled. “I’ll show you. Stop wrestling. Lay still! You’re under arrest!”
“Get off me, freak.”
“No! I caught you,” I yelled, clinging to my prize. It was the first dollop of success I’d felt since I’d come home, and there was no way I was releasing it so soon. “I’ll never let go, you hear me? I’ve got you. I win!”
“Marnie!” I heard someone bark. It was repeated several times, in addition to other voices, voices hard with the certainty of authority, and the repetition was what I heard, not the specific words. Repetition like that, meant to break through the mind-dulling effects of adrenaline could only mean one thing: police officers were on the scene. I heard my name again, recognized the voice, and yelled, “He’s mine! I got him, Schenk. I got him.”
Hands took me, then, and I went limp, submitting to the process and letting it happen. I was tossed aside unceremoniously in the sand. A giant shape strode over to stand above me. The legs went on forever, and it took me a while to find the top of him, which told me who it was before anything else did.
“Gonna live, Cinderblock?” Schenk said, moving smoothly into a crouch at my side.
“Oh, hey, there you are,” I said, beaming through gritty, squinty eyes. “You good, Longshanks?” When he nodded, I marveled aloud, “What are you doing here?”
“I returned Malashock’s call and she told me to come here,” he said, “to make the official arrest.”
“How did she know I was actually going to find anything? All I had was a hunch.”
“She said you had it.”
I boggl
ed. Malashock believed in me? She trusted me to do this? “But… I didn’t.”
“You told her you did.”
“She bought that? Where the hell is she? I can’t believe she didn’t show. I told her not to and she didn’t.”
He chuckled. “Did you expect her to ignore your wishes?”
“Of course I did!” I yelped. “Everyone ignores me!”
He looked me up and down. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Have you ever tried to tackle a cheese smuggler?” I panted.
“You’re filthy.”
“Rumble,” I squawked. “I’ve been rumbled.”
“Why do you smell like feet?”
“That’s just cheese.”
Schenk exhaled hard and took a folded handkerchief out of his pocket. He put a finger under my chin, forced me to look up at him, and dabbed gently at my forehead. When I winced, he said, “You’re bleeding.”
“In his defense, I forgot how to fight and tried to climb him at one point. He was probably traumatized.”
His mouth worked around many attempted to speak before settling on, “That’s a bad Tuesday afternoon.”
“And it’s my day off, too.”
“You do weird things on your day off.”
I summarized the encounter for him, keeping the smuggler firmly in my sights as I explored my sore shoulder with my opposite hand, rubbing it where Shakespeare kicked me. The uniformed officers were collecting him into a patrol car and setting up a perimeter.
Schenk followed my gaze. “Is he involved with the local dominant revenant house?”
“He wasn’t at all surprised when I whipped out the V-word, and we saw him with one at the sinkhole.”
“Nautical Guy?”
Rotten Roy. “Yeah. He was there that night we met Ghazaros on the beach. Funny uniform, far left side.”
Schenk nodded once, remembering. “Why would revenants smuggle cheese?”
