2 Death Rejoices (48 page)

“Charming ensemble,
mon petit bon vivante
. ’Tis late, and I thought you'd be, if not sleeping, at the very least — ahem — otherwise engaged.”

I frowned. “You know when I'm doing stuff, huh?”

He waved that away as though it were a ridiculous question. I supposed it was.

I wondered if he'd felt the presence of Asmodeus earlier, too, and if so, why he didn't bring it up. “Batten's on his way over.”

“Yes,” Harry murmured. “I gathered as much from the furrow in your brow. I shall leave you to your work, unless of course you require my assistance?”

Harry's platinum gaze lit briefly, and his hunger trickled through the Bond; when I didn't jump at his offer, he gave a lazy shrug.

“Very well,” he said, rising. “If you don't mind terribly, please hold off on your attempt to emasculate Agent Batten.”

“My attempt to what?”

He paused in the hallway, a pale slash of immortality against the darkness of the kitchen behind him. “You said the sheriff was teaching you how to dominate your hunter.” His lips curled into a savage bow. “I wholeheartedly desire to witness the denouement.”

C
HAPTER
38

DECLAN ENDED UP INVADING MY KITCHEN
before Batten arrived. Some nocturnal bird was cooing in the pre-dawn murk, and the noise seemed to make Declan look even more tired; his shoulders fell and he sighed. “Why are we up so late?” he asked. “Erm, early?”

“I'm assuming it's more bad news. I mean, dead bodies aren't usually anything else.”

“What can I do for you first, Dr. B?”

I grumbled at him wordlessly, meaningfully.

“I'll get you some coffee,” he murmured, “since you're extra-crabby.”

“This is my happy face.” I lifted it to show him. “It's all downhill from here, dude.”

When Batten finally showed, his tone was gruff and hurried. “Car,” he ordered.

“Dude, what took so long?” I grumbled. “While you were over there jerking off, I could have been, you know, relaxing. Declan, can you pop upstairs and ask Chapel to come down?”

Batten looked at me queerly. “What do you need him for?”

“Three hours there, three hours back, plus who knows how long we'll be in Glenwood Springs. That's a long time to be away from the house. I can't take Harry to Glenwood Springs,” I said. “I can't take him anywhere near Ashcroft.”

“That old silver mining town by Aspen?”

“Not because of the silver. Because it's a ghost town. Kind of a nasty one, actually.”

Batten squared off across the kitchen with me like he was expecting a full load of horseshit. “Tell me.”

“Only the undead hear the dead. Makes sense, right?”

“Not mediums?”

“No such thing. So-called mediums are confused Empaths, Feelers. They feel the emotions of the departed imprinted on the scene, but not the person's ghost. They get the feelings messed up with their own desire to make the client happy, and
poof.
Magic message from beyond the grave.”

“But vamps?”

“All revenants see ghosts, and may interact with them. The old ones have a name for it.”

“Of course they do.” He rolled his eyes sideways, instead of a full up-and-over, but it still irked me.

I jammed my arms across my chest. “You wanna hear it or not? Best button that shit up.”

He just smirked.

“They call it Kinship of the Departed.”

“Just saying, they have a fancy phrase for every fucking thing. Old vamps are self-absorbed, everything they do is a huge deal and needs a title,” he explained. I'd have argued with him, but he was right. “Ghost town doesn't necessarily mean haunted, you know.”

“Duh. But Ashcroft has a guilty secret. Serial killer, 1885, the Castle Creek Slaughter; nasty name, nasty guy. Lots of death, lots of lost souls. As a result, I can't take Harry near Ashcroft without him climbing the walls and grinding his teeth, and it's no tiptoe through the tulips for me.”

Batten jerked his chin at the pantry door. “Shouldn't you ask him?”

“We have an understanding regarding Chapel.”

He opened his mouth and I could see the sharp “tell me” form on his clenched teeth when Chapel came back in.

“What's wrong?” Chapel asked. “Why haven't you left yet?”

“Nothing's wrong. Gary Chapel …” I took a deep breath, knowing that if I got this even slightly off, Harry would have my ass. “As DaySitter of Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, I hereby implore you: will you do me the honor of standing in for me in the care and protection of my Companion while I am out of town?”

“Careful,” Batten said gruffly to Gary. “That sounded official.”

“I'm not asking for anything you haven't done before,” I said carefully, watching Gary's expression to make sure he got my undertone. “In fact, I'm asking for slightly less. Just… continue to hang here while I'm in Glenwood Springs. Viktor is here, too, but I'd feel better knowing I had you watching. Keep one eye on the dead guys, one eye out for Priors and John Spicer. You can delegate and juggle, right?”

“Yes, of course. Whatever you need, Marnie.”

I regarded Chapel with appreciation. This was Harry's doing, this fierce brand of loyalty.

“Will you tell Lord Dreppenstedt or should I?” Chapel asked.

“We can't interrupt him right now. I'll leave a note.”

“He's not resting,” Chapel said. “It's after midnight.”

“You don't hear it?” The cellar was soundproofed, but I could pick up the faintest prissy
plunk-pling!
I backhanded the pantry door open slightly and the rapid, crisp experimental notes of Harry's harpsichord tripped up the stairs. “You never, ever interrupt Harry when he's composing a fughetta. You've seen Harry rant? That's nothing. Try a full-blown artistic-diva meltdown.”

“Duly noted,” Chapel said with a nod.

“I cannot overstate this. Never. Ever.”

“I got it.”

I didn't think he did. “This is a man who has
What is there left to do but play?
carved on his headboard.” I didn't expect to blush when I said that, but Batten's sharp glance made my cheeks hot. “He'll be hours yet. Don't go down there if you hear the harpsichord. Or the cello. Or any instrument, really.
Legend of Zelda
on the surround sound? You're good.”

Batten opened his mouth to make an observation, thought better of it, and settled on a cough into his fist. “Grab your overnight bag and your assistant and let's get the fuck out of here before Tall, Limp and Pasty blows a fuse.” He gave me less than a minute to swipe the bag Harry kept packed for me in my closet before hooking me by the back of my collar and starting toward the car.

I pulled against the tyranny of his grasp, Keds squeaking in the damp grass as he hauled me across the front lawn. He let go so suddenly that I stumbled. We marched past all the cars in the driveway, my quick steps following his long-legged strides.

“Jackass. Gonna wait for Declan?” I called, but Batten ignored this. The car at the very back, parked halfway onto the road, was one of Hood's department SUVs, SHERIFF in big lettering across the sides. Hood's keys were dangling from the ignition. Batten slammed the door, starting the car. Behind us, Declan nearly ran to his Buick to keep up with us.

“Buckle in, gonna be a bumpy ride,” Batten told me, like he assumed I wouldn't. I didn't bother to point out that he was stealing a classy broad's line; he wouldn't know Bette Davis from Betty Crocker.

He threw an arm over the back of the seat to watch as he jacked the car backward out of the driveway like it was a drag race in reverse.

“You even drive like a dick,” I marveled. “Did Hood say you could take his car?”

“Relax. Your boyfriend OK'd it.”

“He's not my—” I sighed and looked out the window into the leafy darkness. “I need new friends.”

“Is that what we are?”

“Just barely, for obvious reasons.”

“Honey, you'll never find another man like me.”

“Thank the Dark Lady for that,” I said. “You're the most irritating person I've ever met.”

“Because we're so alike.”

I sat bolt upright as he slowed for the police roadblock at the end of the street. “I am nothing like you.”

“You're me with tits and poor judgment,” he said, waving his badge and my ID at the cops manning the perimeter at Shaw's Fist road.

The cop peered in, across Batten, to inspect me. I tried to drum up a smile, but it felt sour and the cop withdrew, chucking our ID at Batten's lap and waving us away.

Batten peeled out. “If you hated monsters the way I do and you had some balls, you'd almost qualify to be my partner.”

I howled like he'd stabbed me, pointing across the front seat accusingly. “You cock-knob! I'm not scared of stuff because I don't have dangling fuzzbags. I'm scared of stuff because I know exactly what stuff can do to me!”

“And I don't?” he roared back; the teasing fled his face all too fast. “You think I don't know what monsters can do to a body?”

Tumbling into the familiar fight zone with Batten, eyes wide open,
real smart, Marnie
. But I couldn't stop my mouth. “What the hell has a revenant ever done to you?” I demanded.

“You wanna see?” he shouted, and the car swerved, kicking gravel.

“Watch the fucking road.” I cried, slapping the dashboard for balance. My cell phone started cheerfully piping up with “Drunken Sailor” by the Irish Rovers, the hopefully-insulting ringtone I'd picked for Declan. Driving behind Batten, he must have thought we were killing each other at the wheel. I pushed it through to voicemail and stuffed the phone back in my pocket. “Are you out of your mind?” I asked Batten. “What's gotten into you?”

His jaw settled into the clench-unclench dance, as he knuckled the steering wheel into better control.

After five long minutes of strained silence, I said, “Where are we going?”

“Morgue.”

“Dead body?”

“So they thought.”

I didn't think I liked the sound of that. I changed the subject back. “You asked me if I wanted to see. I do.”

He shook his head, breathing hotly. “Fuck that shit.”

“
Is
there something to see?”

“Drop it, Marnie.”

“If you want me to drop it, I'll drop it,” I told him, feeling suddenly ill. Not for the first time, I mulled over the undeniable fact that Mark Batten would never trust me, certainly not with an injury that ran this deep. “But if there's something you need to show me, I'm more than willing to look. And listen.” I was angry enough to inventory what Iknew of his body without getting hot and bothered, but nothing jumped out at me; the only permanent features he hadn't been born with that came to mind were the hundred and five hash marks on his left pec, one for each revenant he'd killed.

He watched the street with far more focus than the straight stretch required. I wondered what wheels were turning behind that blank cop-face he'd screwed on in a hurry, the one that made my heart heavy. Ever in the psychic void with him, I felt no clues.

When he didn't respond, I crossed my arms in front of my belly, angled my knees away from him and said quietly, “If we actually are friends, or whatever, you should at least try to trust me.”

He barreled into the tunnel going just under a hundred, and I hoped he remembered the curve in the road that came next, because we'd flip if he tried to take it that fast in the SUV.

I said, “Harry says he can smell the color of your heart; it's pink like pansies.”
And fluorescent spider webbing.

“This have anything to do with the case?”

“Nope. Just thought you'd like to be insecure for the rest of your life.”

My attempt to change the subject didn't go over so well, so Batten stepped-up. “Body of a young woman was brought in tonight, exotic dancer, stage name Dallas Sweetshock, found in an alleyway behind her apartment, DOA. Bad bite mark on her shoulder, through her clothes, no other sign of trauma or injury. Pathologist was doing the Y-incision when the cadaver opened its eyes and screamed at him.”

“Pathologist mess his pants?”

“Cardiac infarction.”

“Shit.” I said, hugging myself. “And the girl?”

“Dead for now.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Was hoping you'd tell me, doctor.” He glanced over at me pointedly. “I'm not spending three hours in a car with you just for kicks.”

“Is she in isolation?”

“Bet your ass,” he said. “Full lockdown. They're clearing the ICU for it as we speak.”

“The sooner the better.”

“Something you need to tell me?”

I shook my head. “I'm not going to worry until I see it with my own two eyes.”

“You'll be able to tell something just by looking at it?”

“Abso-fuckin’-lutely, my friend.”
Or whatever.

C
HAPTER
39

DR. MURAKAMI, THE HEAD OF ICU,
was a slight Japanese man with a bald pate and solemn demeanor who talked as fast as he walked, without posturing or pretension, expecting us to keep up. I wished he would stroll; I was in no hurry to see this patient in the flesh.

“Dr. Laurentius had completed the arms of the Y-incision and had begun at the sternum when the patient awoke,” Dr. Murakami said, “screaming obscenities.”

Batten exhaled hard through his nose but left the talking to me while he texted Declan to see how far behind us he was.

I scanned the girl's chart. “Patient was then given a sedative?”

“Which had no discernible effect,” Dr. Murakami confirmed. “Not surprising, considering her circulatory system has shut down.”

“No pulse, but still breathing, correct?”

“Respiration is normal,” he nodded, bobbing his head, eyes shifting to show only slight anxiety behind oval titanium-rimmed glasses. “Vital signs are abnormal; BP nil, body temp indicates profound hypothermia, which cannot be explained by her so-called death, if that's what it was.”

“A normal dead body drops heat at one and a half degrees Fahrenheit until it reaches the temperature of its surroundings.”

He looked over the rims of his glasses at me. “Correct.”

“Was core temperature about sixty-three degrees when you last checked?” I asked.

“Exactly sixty-three degrees.”

“What tests have you run?”