Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (50 page)

And blinked. These were not my vitamins. I frowned at the label. These were friggin’ horse pills if I ever saw them, huge orange things that looked nothing like what I'd been taking for years. I set them aside and slipped into my pjs, but something nagged me. I went to the bathroom and opened the cabinet. The same pill bottle sat there beside Harry's boxed oval hairbrush. Popping the lid, I saw the little white pills I was accustomed to taking, twice a day. My last thought before dragging to bed was: if they're not vitamins, what's Harry been giving me all this time? And why?

FORTY-SIX

I only woke up because someone was trying to kill me.

Batten was tapping me with his big knuckles, right in the center of my forehead, as though the place where a migraine was blossoming was a door to the office of my consciousness. I'd never been woken with such casual disrespect before. It made me want to pinch his scrotum until his eyes popped out. He was crouched beside the bed, and his fresh-brushed minty breath hit me in the nose. I swatted like he was a pestering gnat.

“Got news,” he said. “Get up.”

“Go choke on your own dick,” I advised, rolling over and shoving a pillow over my head, then a second, cramming it tight with one bare hand. Batten ran a finger along the back of that hand, rubbed my knuckles softly. I didn't have the mental wherewithal to wonder what that was about.

“Come on. We let you sleep in, it's late afternoon. Get a move-on. Chapel's waiting in your office.”

“Tell Chapel to choke on it, too. Alternatively, you could gargle each other's balls. Whatever's easiest.”

“We got a call…”

“Mark, I'm exhausted. There are gross and scary things out to get me. In completely unrelated news, I'm never leaving this bed again for personal reasons.”

I heard his knee hit the plank floor, and a shuffle told me he'd given up on the crouching and taken a more permanent stance. My only recourse would be to melt his face off with my morning breath. But then the chances of me sleeping with him again would be remarkably poorer. Still, it was something to consider.

His voice was tentative. “Forensic accountants found Neil Dunnachie's name in Ruby's books.”

A brand new level of headache started budding on one side of my face, right below my eyebrow. I knew this feeling. I'd fed Nazaire briefly, but I hadn't fed Harry enough; ms-lipotropin withdrawal was starting to kick in. Usually a good deep feed would fix it, or a handful of Advil, though I'd rather do the first. I burrowed further under my nest of pillows, sliding a hand under my belly wound to poke and prod curiously at the lack of pain there.

I asked hopefully, “Does Dunnachie do landscaping on the side?”

“Lump sum. Forty-eight hundred dollars about three weeks ago. Standard payment for a vamp staking. Or at least, it used to be when I was freelancing.”

I had no doubt that Batten had done work for Ruby Valli. Before they knew each other through Gold-Drake & Cross? After? During? Guess it didn't matter, unless the answer was still. Then I was in trouble. “You're thinking Neil Dunnachie fire bombed my kitchen?”

“I'm saying it's possible that he was the one.” His voice got more serious. “He's been missing since.”

“Did you know he was a hunter?”

“Still don't,” he said. “Assumption of innocence.”

“What does the Prince of Thieves say?”

A beat. “Who?”

“His partner, former Detective Sergeant current Sheriff Robin Hood.”

“Pretty sure Hood said his name is Robert.”

“You buy that?” I brought my hand back up to my temple and pressed on the divot. “Go get me some Advil. Medicine cabinet, second shelf next to Harry's extra strength Listerine.”

“Hood says he's got no idea about Dunnachie. I believe him.” He paused. “What do you think?”

“I think you need your hearing checked, because I told you to get me some Advil. Pretend I said please.”

“About Dunnachie.”

“My brain isn't going to work so good today. Especially since you make a fuckshit manservant.”

“You'd best remember that. And I'm gonna excuse the attitude because you're obviously in pain. Give me some insight, here.”

“Look, Hood didn't even buy the idea of revenants, never mind hunters, before he met Harry on the seventh. Empathically, I never felt anything from him but constant wariness and surprise. Hood's not accustomed to monsters.”

“That's a world of change for Hood. Meet first vamp on the seventh, see your first ghoul on the ninth, find out your missing partner's a vampire hunter on the tenth.”

I tried finger-pressure on the bridge of my nose to no avail. “Ruby paid Dunnachie three weeks ago, you say?”

Batten made an affirmative noise, thoughtful. It occurred to me, under the safe dimness of the pillows, that we were—for a moment—working together instead of fighting or fucking. Maybe I should drop the attitude and see where this brand new phenomenon got us.

“If it was for a staking, Dunnachie's not new at it. He waited for you and Chapel to drive away before smoking us out. Not sure why he didn't wait for day light. Maybe he had faith in his abilities despite the time of day. Maybe he didn't see Wes arrive, or didn't know a new revenant when he saw one. Maybe he had to strike when the iron was hot, because you Feds were always around during the day.”

“Think Dunnachie's alive?” Batten asked me.

Man, I was glad I was hidden under down and cotton. I couldn't see how Harry could have lost him in the woods, on land, at night… that made no sense to me. I knew him too well. Human on a snowmobile vs. immortal's shadow-stepping and night vision? Chances weren't great for the human unless he was covered head to toe in holy water and silver crosses. Not to say he wasn't.

“You think Harry killed him,” I said, muffled under my pillows.

“Not necessarily,” Batten said slowly. “I'm saying it's possible Harry tried to stop your brother from killing him. New vamp threatened by fire, defending his sister, things get out of hand, thrill of the hunt triggers him, older vamp tries to step in but he's too late…”

My head exploded from the pillow pile like an erupting volcano.

“You've got some nerve, Mark Batten, to come in here and oww—” I hissed, putting one fist to my eyebrow to quell the shooting pain, “And wake me with a rap of your fist and tell me you think my brother, whom you've just met, is a murderer.”

His eyes flicked to the front of my plaid pajamas, an undisguised peek, maybe in hopes of sloppy buttoning. “You disagree with my hypothesis?”

“Heartily.” Shouting hurt my brain, so I dropped the volume. “With gusto.”

“Would you ask them?”

I opened my mouth to let out a torrent of insults then stopped, blinking. “I can't think of a reason why not. Harry will be very insulted, but I'll preface it with ‘Batten thinks this, not me’.”

“Wesley won't be insulted?”

“He already thinks you think he murdered Dunnachie.”

“Why would he say that?”

Again my yap snapped firmly. “Could I get some caffeine and Advil before we continue this conversation?” And a toothbrush? And a comb? And a make-over? “I feel like I'm vaulting willy-nilly onto a hangman's stage to show off my mad tap dancing skills.”

He put both hands on his thighs and used them to thrust himself to standing. “Would you drink coffee if I made it my way?”

I hid a yawn and grimace behind my hand. “Better let me do it. Tell Chapel I'll be there in ten.”

*   *   *

There wasn't enough Advil in the world to fix the psi-headache that was brewing now, any more than an umbrella could stave off a tsunami in the South Pacific. I pulled a double shot of espresso and downed it without putting a single thing in it. After I had blinked myself awake, I realized I needed Harry. I couldn't feel his hunger, but it wasn't too early to seek him out for his acronychal feeding. He had to be famished, and I was hurting.

Withdrawal usually didn't hit me so soon. I had gone six weeks in Buffalo apart from him, because I'd had oxy-lipotropin, an artificial ms-lipotropin substitute on trial in pill form. I'd suffered a few annoying symptoms, the odd headache and some irritability. But I'd also been adjusting to working with Hard Ass Batten for the
first time, so it was hard to tell where the crankiness was coming from. I tried to remember the last time I'd fed Harry and came up empty handed, vaguely recalling some yoga and a black and white movie. It might have been years ago; it certainly felt that way. It wasn't like us to get off schedule like this. I knew he was letting me recover from my injuries, but I felt fine in that respect. Better than fine. The wounds had healed faster than the stitches dissolved. Internally, I was confident that if the surgeon took the staples out now, he'd be startled by the recovery.

I popped my head into the office to catch Batten off-guard, on one knee in front of my gun safe, fiddling with the dial. He made a comical jerky snort-grunt.

“So busted.” I grinned. “Get out of my shit.”

“Just making sure your gun was locked up.”

I was pretty sure the Beretta was still under the front passenger seat of the Buick, which Sheriff Hood had kindly had some uniforms drop off late last night. Looking back, I saw that bringing the gun into the magic shop would have been the better choice, although since I didn't see the attack coming, I might have shot my butt off when I was pushed down the stairs. Maybe Mark was right. Some people just shouldn't own guns.

“It's in there,” I assured him. There meaning the Buick, not exactly a lie. “Where's Chapel? I made a crapload of coffee.”

“He must have gone up to grab a late shower. Been working all day in here, unlike some people.” Batten moved to my herb cabinet, peeking in the doors with a frown. His gaze skimmed the shelves like he was looking for contraband. “Cream, if you have it. Otherwise double milk.”

“Oh yes, welcome to the Starbucks that is my home. Imagine for a moment how pleased I am to serve you.” I put two fingers to my temple, felt thudding there in concert with my pulse. “You know where the fridge is, jackass. If you're looking for marijuana to bust me for possession, it's third shelf on the far right. If you're looking for poisons, they're marked with a smiley face. Be back in a few, checking on the dead guys.”

I slipped through the pantry into the narrow stairwell that had been, when Harry first bought the cabin after the shooting in Buffalo,
a rickety set that seemed more ladder than stairs. We'd had them redone while he redecorated the cold cellar, which had previously been used to store preserves and root vegetables. It was now his “bed chamber” as he called it. A place for a decadent four-poster bed and a double-wide cherry casket, a video game center complete with high-backed leather gaming chair, and his ever-present space heater.

I didn't even pause in my steps after I saw it, because it didn't register for the shock that it was. In fact, the only part of me that registered what I was seeing was my throat, which made a startled little noise akin to strangled horror. Then my brain bucked, tried to kick the image violently out of my mind before I could fully grasp it, and my hands flew to either side of my face like if I didn't hold them there, my head was going to fall apart. My one foot slipped out from under me as most of my body reeled to a rejecting halt and the other bit didn't get the orders. I banged my shoulder on the door jamb, felt nothing.

The broad, pale stretch of muscular back leaning in a graceful arch was Harry. About that, I had no doubt. The bare lines of him were etched in my mind, the sharp cut of his shoulder blades, the lean cleft of his waist. The hand that braced his shaking arm in a long column, fingers curled against the gleaming cherry lid of the casket, had my name lovingly tattooed in flowery script, the ink a shock of contrast against his alabaster wrist. His shoulders were bunched up like a big cat preparing to pounce, but he already had his prey by the throat.

Gary Chapel's legs lay under him, the cuff of one navy trouser leg sloppily hiked to reveal argyle socks in tan and blue. Chapel was utterly motionless, and my first fear was that he was dead. The second, following only an instant later, was that he wasn't.

The worst thing was the look on my brother's face as he worked at pulling blood from the vein in Chapel's wrist. I wasn't sure there was even a word for it, for surely no human could ever experience such bliss. The flush of a feed was making his arms shake, but Wes held carefully onto Chapel's forearm, tilting it just so, reminding me of all the cautious feeds I'd ever given Harry in the rec room of the Baranuik home, back when we were new to one another.

I couldn't see Chapel's face. I didn't want to. I was pretty sure the reeling nausea in my stomach couldn't handle knowing.

Wes' eyes drifted open like he was rousing from a long night in an opium den. He fixed his heavy-lidded gaze on me, blinking sleepily, and with the sudden realization that he might have his meal taken away, his fingers dug possessively into Chapel's tender inner elbow. More animal than man, a bull dog with a stolen soup bone, he watched with horrible wilted-violet eyes to see what my next move might be. His lips curled back in a twitch and I caught a glimpse of gums above fangs, flushed pink with blood.

Chapel must have sensed the tension on his arm, the deeper pulling at his vein, because his other arm tugged at Harry's in warning.

Harry didn't look up. His voice was firm and half-muffled. “I am not done.”

“Marnie,” Chapel gasped.

“She's fine.” Harry knew I was there.

I slammed my palm into the casket lid like a teacher with a ruler-strike on a desk, and barked, “Marnie is not fine!”

Wesley detached and pushed back to rest on his heels, his head falling back and a great, rattling sigh leaving him.

Harry whipped his head around, his fangs slick with crimson. “I said you're sodding fine.”

“And I say, fuck you in the ass, you two-faced ingrate,” I shouted.

Harry released his meal. Chapel's knees buckled and he did an awkward, embarrassed shuffling unfold to his feet, propping himself against Harry's gaming chair. A great and terrible shudder ran through him, and from the way he swayed I was surprised he didn't topple.