Kindred Spirits: The Marnie Baranuik Files Book 6

by A. J. Aalto

  He chuckled. “Sit where you like. He’ll find you.” With that, Dane the DaySitter left, and I screwed up my courage.

  Twenty-Seven

  The theater door opened with a whisper, gliding over dark carpeting. I had no doubt that any revenant ears nearby would pick it up. Whether or not they paid it any attention would depend on what else they were doing, and how much importance they placed on the approach of a hot-blooded body.

  The theater was fully dark, though the blank movie screen was lit softly, probably from the projector's warm standby mode. Nervously, I waited for my eyes to adjust after the blinking, dazzling chaos of the casino floor, looking out over the seats.

  I sensed the near fullness of the moon, but this was no time to be cautious — I needed all my power and focus. Hail Aradia, what the fuck / I had you de-were me because it sucked. / But now my ass is on the line / So getting that back would be mighty fine. I opened myself to every influx, every slightest flutter of emotion, every tiny scent. Malashock had my back, but I knew that to be an uncertain alliance.

  There were a dozen or so figures sitting unnaturally straight and utterly silent, and if I weren’t able to feel their contentment with the Blue Sense, I would have thought they were mannequins. The smell in the room shifted rather suddenly from carpet and heavy duty deodorizer to the snap-spark of burnt sugar, as several revenants’ powers rolled awake. Against my wishes, my heart did a little gallop in my chest, fluttering as if to escape its ribbed prison. A figure near me gasped softly, excited by the speed of my pulse. That sound rattled inside me, making my own breath shaky.

  “Slow your roll, tiger,” I whispered, but the realization of my vulnerability forced me to settle down. I slid into the nearest seat, wishing the screen was playing insipid commercials or exhorting us to devour some dancing treats. That's what you are, my brain piped up, because it's a jerk.

  I focused on listening, even though any hostile movement toward me would be over before I could begin to panic, much less react. I had made myself vulnerable as a sign of open submission. This had to appeal to Ludovic Nazaire. If he was in here, he was taking his time, assessing me. I would be patient. Antsy, I folded my gloved hands in my lap, then shook them out and stuffed them in my pockets, then pulled them back out and crossed my arms. I crossed one ankle over the other, then shimmied up straight in my chair, then slouched.

  The door behind me made another soft sliding sound and nothing in the theater moved except the dark shape behind me.

  “I’m back,” said Nyquist, sliding into a seat beside me.

  “Weren’t you supposed to stay gone? Are you kidding me with this?” I craned around to look behind us, but didn't see anyone else with him.

  “The van was in the valet lot, and they wouldn't let me just sit in it out there.”

  Point: Unreliable Geologist.

  “Why do I smell rum?” he sniffed. “And cheese?”

  “You ask a lot of questions for a werewolf.” I shooed at him. It didn’t work.

  He stiffened, then affected a stoned, slack-jawed look that I didn’t buy for a minute. “Huh? What did you call me?”

  “This is a bad time for hashing out the flaws in your disguise, Indy.” I tried to give him a knowing glare in the near-dark. “I know you’re a werewolf. You know you’re a werewolf. Don’t worry, I haven’t blown your cover.”

  “I’m not a wolf,” he whispered.

  “I don’t care what flavor of lycanthrope you are. As long as you don’t eat anyone, we can talk about this later. Right now, I have a job to do. Can you please fuck off and bother Malashock instead?”

  I expected him to argue with me, but instead, he grabbed my gloved hand, crammed it under his nose, sniffed, then stuck out his tongue and licked it. “You were touching funny cheese,” he said.

  “Ew,” I hissed, drawing my hand back. “Why would you taste the glove?”

  “It’s sweaty and cold, it’s been improperly stored in a damp place.”

  “Hey, now.”

  “The cheese, I mean. The cheese you touched.”

  Point: Secret Were-Guy. “Amazing instincts, never let me doubt you again. Quick, you look that way, I’ll go this way.”

  “Kinda feels like you’re always trying to ditch me.”

  “No, I’m only currently trying to ditch you. Also, you were supposed to wait in the van. There are things I need to do here, and you’re gonna blow it worse than Malashock would.”

  It was already too late. A second glance around the cinema showed that we were suddenly, entirely, and conspicuously alone. Every single one of the silent figures had melted away into the shadows. I’d missed my chance. Nyquist the were-hole had scared them off. I let out a long-suffering sigh, the kind that Harry was so good at.

  “But I have something important to tell you,” Nyquist continued, seemingly oblivious.

  “Let’s get something straight: I don’t need your help unless it’s boggle-related.”

  “That’s exactly what it is.”

  “Okay then.” I rocked back into the seat. “Well, I have stuff to teach you, too.”

  “About boggles?”

  “About the undead. And cheese. And phantasms. And maybe rum, I’m not sure. And how I feel about having to keep your secret. And how annoying it is when three dead guys act sexist and you can’t punch them because you’d break your hand and they’d barely feel it.”

  He looked like he was following all that and nodded. “Okay. But listen, I wanted to tell you. I couldn’t. Not if I wanted to keep my job. And I do. I’m not trying to…” He struggled for a moment. “I’d never…” He gave up and went on. “I came to tell you, I just heard that the government is sealing up all the boggle tunnels, so my research is blocked. And so is yours, I guess.”

  The Blue Sense flared to life unexpectedly to hit me with his deception, and I pretended to believe him, showing him my I-totally-buy-it face. Liar, liar, pants on fire. “But you are the government, Nyquist.”

  “Not me, my superiors, the big government. Not sure how we find your revenant phantasm fellow now, if we can’t go in the boggle tunnels. Unless we go right now. I mean tonight. Before the crew installs a grate tomorrow morning.”

  This dude wants me to go into a tunnel, at night, with him, alone? Maybe playing dense isn't entirely an act. “We’re supposed to leave the phantasm to Malashock,” I told him.

  “But we’re going to…?” He left it hanging hopefully.

  “We’re going to tell Malashock about the grates and let her decide what she wants to do next.” He wilted beside me, and despite my irritation with him, I relented slightly. “But if you’re determined to be involved, we need code names for our covert op.”

  Nobody ever humors me with code names, but Nyquist said smoothly, “I’ll be Juan Valdez.”

  I pumped my fist in the air. “The Coffee King. Nice. I’m Jackie-Joan Jacobs.”

  “That’s a terrible fake name.”

  “Jackie-Joan Jackson.”

  “No Jackie-Joan.”

  “Charlene-Consuela Charon.”

  His nose wrinkled. “Let’s go back to Jackie-Joan.”

  “Which one?

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’m going to call you Susan.”

  “Right.”

  “Now, let’s ditch Malashock and call an Uber,” he suggested, “and we can be at the beach in twenty minutes.”

  “Man, you’re really harshing my enthusiasm,” I said. “We’re not ditching Malashock. Besides, who covert-operates from an Uber? That’s not done.”

  “Okay, maybe not at this hour with holiday rates,” Nyquist agreed. “Malashock’s van?”

  “She’s gonna be mad. We lost our guy.” I brightened. “Wait, she’s not going to be mad at me. You lost our guy. Sweet. Go tell Malashock you blew it. If she doesn’t curb-stomp you, I’ll meet you both out front by the van.” I brandished the valet ticket like it had the winning Powerball numbers.

  They joined me at the van ten minu
tes later, Malashock fuming, far too angry to speak. She pointed at the passenger seat and I got in in a hurry. Nyquist popped into the back without a word, looking hangdog and contrite. I wondered again if I should mention to Malashock that Nyquist was some brand of lycanthrope — he hadn’t reacted with too much horror when I told him I knew. Maybe it wasn’t the big secret I thought it was. Still, best not to give her another reason to be furious. Besides, if we riled him up, it could put both of us in danger. Nyquist seemed to be dealing. Could he have found a way to slake his appetite some other way? Dumpster fruit couldn’t be his staple.

  As Malashock pulled out into the horrid congestion of downtown evening traffic, Nyquist leaned forward and told me, “Sorry I blew the meeting, Jackie-Joan.”

  “We’ll get another chance,” I said, not sure that we would. I sank in my seat, feeling all at once sorry for him, guilty, and like a screw-up.

  “We need to find out which tunnel, and go in during the day,” Malashock reminded us. “We can’t go search a dozen tunnels at night. That’s insane and suicidal.”

  I agreed, and Nyquist was silent on the matter. He Felt awfully satisfied, and I didn’t like the miasma of failure and grim disappointment in the van. While the were- geologist sat in the back and pretended to nap, Malashock eased into traffic.

  “Where to?” she asked. I gave her an address, insisted she drop me off alone.

  After the van pulled back into the flow of traffic, I looked up at the store in front of Kimberley the psychic's office. There was a laminated sign that claimed, “Walk-ins Welcome.” I wasn’t sure I’d be welcome, but I sure as hell was going to walk in.

  Twenty-Eight

  Kimberley took one look at me, sighed, and led me out behind the shop, swishing her long, colorful skirts behind her. Tonight she was perfumed by sweet basil oil, and despite my knee-jerk and admittedly baseless dislike of her, I had to admit, she smelled amazing. Beads and crystals clicked in her wake. When she paused by her back door, she looked at me expectantly, and I realized with a guilty jolt that she’d been doing me favors, more than one, and I hadn’t shown her a lick of appreciation. Furthermore, she hadn’t pointed out my lack of grace. Fuckanut, Marnie.

  “Hey, uh, thanks,” I started. “For giving him a place to crash. And for tolerating my boyfriend…” I blanked on what Harry had told Kimberly his name was, but the jig was up anyway, so I finished lamely, “What’s-his-face, the British one. They’re both super-annoying and they couldn’t possibly be paying you enough to put up with it. I know this for a fact. Personally. Painfully.”

  This earned me the quirk of a smile. “FBI, schmeff-BI. I expected danger, excitement, something. Frankly, this one’s dull as lint. All he does is brood. Just between you and me, does he think he’s something special?”

  I grinned. “You know, he totally heard that.”

  “I tell him every day, he’s not impressing anybody.” She shrugged. “Don’t know where he gets his swagger from.”

  “Might be a leftover limp from when I shot him in the ass.”

  It was her turn to grin.

  “I was wrong about you, Miss Kimberly.” I looked her dead in the eye and said seriously, “I love you. You are my new favorite person on Earth. So, where is Captain Excitement?”

  She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the back door, stepping aside as I passed.

  The courtyard was crammed with a dumpster, a few patio stones in the dirt, a picnic table, two old plastic-weave lawn chairs, and a shared bucket of sand for extinguishing cigarettes and joints between them. The dumpster was empty and rusty, and I doubted it was still in use, since it was gently collapsing into the cement below it.

  There was a cup of coffee beside the dead guy, being ignored. I joined Batten at the picnic table. The wood seat was cold and slightly damp through my jeans, and I grimaced. “Ugh. Blerg.”

  “Is it that terrible to see me?” Batten asked.

  “Yes, you are the dampness under my ass.”

  “That anything like being the wind beneath your wings?”

  I gave him a long stare with as few blinks as I could manage. “No.”

  “Saw you at the casino,” he said. “Guessing your plan didn’t work?”

  “Were-dork sabotage from the fail-van,” I said by way of explanation.

  Batten digested this in silence, probably deciding whether or not he wanted to hear the rest of that story. Apparently, he didn't. “I have ideas.”

  “Do any of them involve nudity and sweating?”

  “A few,” he admitted. “Not sure I sweat anymore.”

  “You would if you fed first, and I instantly regret telling you that.”

  “Wish you hadn’t.” He drew in an unnecessary breath out of habit and puffed it out. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, and when he quirked an eyebrow at me, I explained, “I just chewed back a real zinger.”

  He smiled at his shoes, but the smile dissolved quickly. “About what you said about Kimberley being a decoy. A mask. Watch how you say things, we don’t know who’s listening now.”

  “Okay?”

  Batten chose his next words carefully. “What if my target isn’t the real deal?” He gave me a long stare and I nodded to show him I understood who he was referring to.

  I thought about the cheese-monger and the lack of empathetic readings I got from him, other than surprise and a vague feeling of being harassed and annoyed. There wasn't a whiff of souls struggling to escape, no extraordinary weariness. I thought about how the phantasm victims at Municipal Beach didn’t strike me as crazy, just ill or hooked. And I hadn’t Felt any extra souls among them, raving to get out. Not there, and not in the graveyard when Harry and my father and grandfather were burying the metaphorical hatchet. If extra souls had been lingering, would I have sensed them? Would I have sensed layers, like double-stuffed extra suffering?

  How to talk about the Soul Caller without naming him? “But he — him, you know, A.S., the jimjam slurper?”

  His lips tightened down against mirth despite the grim subject. “Nice.”

  “He had to jam the jimmy somewhere.”

  “Unless he can’t.” Batten looked dispirited, but he was hot on the tail of an idea, one that felt right to him, depressingly right, but he couldn’t let it go once he’d said it. “Maybe he never had, never could. Because he’s not.”

  “You mean Jimmy Jams isn’t jimmying any jam?”

  “What if he isn’t what we think he is?” Batten asked. “Is that possible?”

  “No…?” I said uncertainly, drawing it out like a question. I thought about it. Anything was possible.

  “What if he can’t?” Batten continued.

  I blinked rapidly. “You think he can’t slurp jimjam? You think he doesn’t, uh, steal jimjams and cram ‘em in other whosawhatsits?”

  “What if he can’t do fuck-all?” Batten blurted, his frustration bubbling over.

  Aston’s not what he seems. He’s never been the Soul Caller. I considered this. “You think you’re chasing the wrong guy?”

  “I think it’s possible he’s a figurehead,” Batten ran by me. “Powerless. Wearing the crown and the robe, but capable of doing absolutely nothing.”

  Aston’s the Kimberley, the front, the fake, the cover story. I didn’t know how to process that idea, and my mouth worked impotently. “Then there’s another jimjam slurper?”

  “Could be what’s draining the locals.”

  The hidden phantasm. “If Jimmy Jams isn’t the real slurper, why fake it?”

  “Subterfuge. Control. Fear. Power.”

  “If that’s the truth, then Jimjam wouldn’t want anyone to expose him,” I said, following. “He would guard that secret like his life depended on it. Because it very much does. He has a reputation, he inspires fear and respect. But the only reason he has any of that is that people are afraid of his Talent. He gives other immortals the willies about the jimjams.”

  “Jimjam willies,” Batte
n said, stirring his coffee without drinking it. “Serious stuff.”

  “It is,” I whispered, taking his coffee away from him and sipping it to soothe my nerves.

  “Do you mind?” he asked, eyeballing my coffee theft.

  “Do you? You know me, I run on coffee and chaos. Offer me one or get the other, pal.” When he shrugged his defeat, I continued, “I think we’re on to something, here. It’s time for you to meet with the team.”

  “I told you — ”

  “And I told you,” I said, putting the mug down. “I will not let Malashock hurt you. I will not let her off the leash.”

  His eyebrows pinched together in a pained expression. “In what universe do you have her on a leash?”

  Despite being a total She-Batten, Malashock had actually shown a small measure of trust in my ability to handle things. I felt the urge to tell Batten about Malashock letting me deal with the cheese tunnel by myself, and only sending Schenk to do the official bit at the end, but Kill-Notch’s face was set in a glower of skepticism. I’d spent far too much time defending myself, so he could hop up his own damp ass about it.

  “What do you suggest, Jerkface?” My breath misted the air in front of my face. When he exhaled just as hard, his breath lacked the warmth do the same. “Let me guess, you want to run off alone, nuts a’swinging, and blast them all. Alone. You want to ignore all the intel and attack. Turned out real well for you the last time you ditched me, didn’t it?”

  “Went almost exactly to plan,” he said softly.

  “That's one hell of an ‘almost’.” I stared at the side of his face, hurt and angry and disgusted. “In case you’ve forgotten, let me remind you: you died in front of me. They forced Harry to drain you.”

  “Forced?” He clenched his jaw. “Harry volunteered. Happily, I might add.”

  “I had to watch. I had to feel it. You’re dead, you gigantic, self-centered asshole. And now, I have to feel you through the House Bond.” I lowered my voice even more, to a horrified hush. “Do you know how hard that is for me?”