Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (59 page)

Gary's back arched as he heaved again. I closed my eyes, breathing out slowly to ignore the smell, and drew him a glass of cool water from the sink. “Drink this. You're going to get dry heaves if you don't.”

“There's no Special-est Agent,” he muttered, his fingers scrambling on the water glass as he took it. I took his glasses off the bridge of his nose and set them on the counter, then used the damp washcloth
to clean his chin for him. He looked up at me, bleary-eyed and sallow-cheeked.

“Yes there is,” I told him, trying to smile. “I really hope you brought a tooth brush.”

His shoulders fell. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be.” I handed him the cloth. “Just tell me the truth.”

He hurried to hug the bowl again, but nothing happened. He just sat there panting into the toilet. A shudder rocked him. He drank some more water.

“I found mention of the dhaugir,” he said finally, gulping air. “When I read your report on the history of slaves and revenants in France in the early fourteenth century. I asked Harry how it worked.”

I sat back on my haunches. “The dhaugir isn't enslaved to a revenant, he's a human slave who belongs to a DaySitter, who channels any negative effects of the Bond. A sort of mystical whipping-boy.” I watched the side of his face for a change in his expression; it was clear I wasn't telling him anything new. “I'd have been a lot more careful if I'd known I was sharing my pain with you.”

Chapel waved it away, and closed his eyes. “Harry didn't want you to know.”

“Betcha didn't think I was this much of a walking disaster,” I leaned against the counter. “Harry gave you some pretty bad advice. You do know it's not up to him how this ends?” He floundered. I let the other shoe drop. “Harry can't release you from this type of Bond. Neither can you. That's up to me, and I'm not exactly sure how it's done.”

“Swell,” he mumbled, and I could have sworn his spitting in the toilet had less to do with the taste of bile and more to do with regret.

“You must have fed Harry a whole bunch of times,” I surmised. “He said it was your idea, that you had personal reasons to approach him. He said that was none of my business but I beg to differ.”

“You deserve an explanation. In the past,” he rasped, sitting back on his heels. “A fairly old revenant offered me the Bond. I turned it down, but always wondered if I'd made a mistake. Maybe the biggest mistake of my life. For decades, I've hunted the lawless ones, the monsters, as if to prove to myself I'd made the right choice. But seeing you so happy with Harry…”

“This is happiness?” I smiled weakly.

“It made me wonder again if I screwed up, out of fear. I had to know what it was like, to feed one.”

“I should have warned you both: you can't offer Harry a warm vein. It isn't something he has the willpower to refuse. He won't hunt someone, but if it's laid at his feet…”

“I had to know. And I'm sorry. It wasn't what I thought it'd be like, at all. I'm sorry. It's so much better. So much better. Like a drug. I'm sorry.” He whimpered before emptying his guts again, panting and sweating. “I know I did wrong by you, Marnie. I knew even before I did it, I won't pretend I didn't. It was selfish. I tried to make up for it, by offering the dhaugir…”

“Made yourself a little pact with the devil, hunh?” I said, not without sympathy. “So, boss: I killed our victim, her killer, and her killer's killer. Am I fired yet?”

Chapel said weakly into the bowl, “I was hoping you'd consider working for me directly, full-time.”

Was I really considering a job opportunity after I'd killed two ghouls, dusted a fourteen hundred-year-old poet and let an old seer bleed to death? Could my life get any weirder?

“In what capacity?” I asked. “Official screw up?”

“Preternatural biology consultant.”

I laughed out loud. It was harsh in the little bathroom, even to my ears. My robe was hanging on the back of the bathroom door. While Chapel's head was hung, I slipped out of my snow-and-ash-crusted clothing and belted the dry robe tightly, taking a little comfort from the warm terrycloth against my cold damp skin. Then I washed my face, ignoring the feather-grit drippings in the sink that swirled around the drain but didn't go down, lacing the white marble with streaks of grey-black.

“You better stick with Gold-Drake & Cross,” I advised. “My brand of help is not good times for anyone.”

Chapel stared up at me seriously. “I want you.” Then, maybe in case I misunderstood, he added, “I want your brand of help.”

I looked from one of his eyes to the other, wondering how much of that had to do with his infatuation with Harry, and how much he actually wanted my help.

Batten called out from deep in the cabin, his voice an exhausted re-revving like a tired mule getting to its feet again. I wasn't sure I wanted to know what he was yelling about this time but rushed into the mudroom anyway while he unbelted his well-worn kit.

“Stake,” Batten barked. I heard wood cylinders hit the linoleum, the hollow clattering of multiple lengths of hand-whittled rowan. Handmade stakes had far more power if the one who made them believed they would work. Batten was old hat, he showed no doubt. He stood in show-down mode, a stake in both hands, some sort of pointy silver contraption I'd never seen before in a belt sheath; this was what he lived for. For a moment, I accepted that he was pretty damn awesome in his own right, and if I ever needed a monster killed, I knew who I'd ask first. I touched Batten's quivering bicep, dug my fingers in until I was sure he felt it.

“Back off, hunter,” I cautioned. “Down, boy.”

“Look.”

Wesley was laying out on the dock, face down in the stirred wet slush, his long blond tangles wrapped with what looked like frosted lake weeds. He wasn't moving. His drenched clothing hung across his narrow shoulders and skinny legs like a shroud.

Seconds later the surface of the lake exploded and Harry's dark figure rose straight up like he'd been jerked by a bungee cord. Aburbling otherworldly menace, a sopping, black-clad creature, skin pale and drawn, he looked nothing like the Harry I knew. He landed hard on the dock, boots striking sure and solid in a wide-legged stance. Gregori's remnants were still powdering the snow curves and ice clumps on the wintry dock like icing sugar on a half-eaten donut, and I winced, physically flinching, as Harry's dripping boots ground into the ash-laced slush. A scolding frantically galloped through my brain: Don't trample your elders! And on its heels: Mind the dead guy! And if I hadn't pinched my lips together and swallowed hard, I might have erupted into a hysterical giggle.

Disoriented and still showing the after-effects of Ruby's spell, Harry bared his fangs at the yard, and found us with his gaze. I touched open the screen door, put one sock foot on the back step, and waited to judge his reaction. He watched me steadily with eyes so piercing-silver they faintly glowed in the dark like a cat's catching
headlights. But Wes didn't move, Harry didn't rush me, and nothing else moved in the night.

I heard Batten shift into motion behind me and warned him back with a soft noise. He made a protesting grunt and I told him, “Stow the ego, vampire hunter. Watch and learn.”

I stepped all of the way out of the house, flicking my gaze down to make sure Wes wasn't moving yet. The cold wood of the back steps bled through my socks, but I was Ked-less, having scorched my only pair. I had high heels close by, but heels and pajamas? In the snow? Please.

Wes’ pale hand lay in the scrambled snow at the end of the dock, fingertips half-buried like he was clawing his way under. Did they just move? A young revenant turned feral would not be as easily cured. An older, Bonded revenant had blood memories of connection to his human to draw upon, whereas the new dead did not. Another inch closer to them. Is Wes moving? My toes curled in anticipation inside my socks, which now had snow stuck to their fluffy soles. I should have peed before coming out here. One more step. I pulled up short, needing to get closer to my Cold Company, not daring to push it too fast.

There was no recognition in Harry's blank, hungry stare, but neither was there aggression. I started again slowly toward the revenant—no, I thought, this creature is Batten's vampire—holding out my injured hand, feeling no pain. Logic told me that no matter what happened, I'd only feel the pain for a second before it was whisked away to my dhaugir, but that didn't make my hand stop shaking midair. Harry caught the scent of blood in the air and his lips parted. His eyes locked on the wound on my palm.

I didn't see him move; in a rushing blur he was on me, my back crushed into the trampled snow, the impact hard enough that my molars clacked together. Jagged compacted ice-shards heaved under my shoulder blades. I wriggled, my robe gaping as I tried to avoid getting a face-full of mad, aimless fang. I heard Batten inhale sharply.

The back door slapped open but I shouted, “Back in the house, Kill-Notch!”

Harry's hand tore my robe aside at the shoulder. He struck suddenly, savagely, for my jugular. Fangs sank in hard and deep. I didn't mean to cry out; when I heard it, I choked it off. Blood pulled
forcefully from my carotid, tugging, making my neck tense and ache. I made a whimper of complaint and put one hand on each of his shoulders to push him back slightly. It was like trying to shove a mountain out of the way. I'd never had to ask Harry to be tender, before; ever the gentleman, he'd always been soft and hesitant with his feeds. I whimpered, and started saying his name quietly over and over, hoping he was hearing it, praying that our Bond would defrost his addled mind.

“Come back to me, my Harry,” I whispered, shoving my hands into his hair and contracting my grip. “Harry, you're hurting me.” His arms were trembling bad, the flesh I could see where his collar gaped was so pale it looked blue. The sound of my voice made him pause before continuing his drawing, so I continued saying his name, dizzy, wondering if this is how I'd meet my end, in the cold snow under the one person I trusted more than anything, drained to empty.

The feed became tentative. His cool, inquisitive tongue flickered out to lick and explore the wound. His grip on me loosened, and when it did, my stomach unclenched. Relief roared through me, filling my eyes with the hot sting of tears. System overload. I shuddered and wrapped myself around him tightly. There was a snap of smoking-hot molasses, and a curious moan, like a man coming awake from an erotic dream.

Harry pulled his face up out of the crevice of my neck, licking the corner of his mouth with a bewildered expression. His cashmere grey gaze scanned my tousled robe, my naked shoulder, my pale thighs bared to the night wind. He shook his head with familiar exasperation.

“Oh, my only love…” he said with a cluck of his tongue. “So inappropriate to the weather.”

FIFTY-SIX

Before I could crawl into bed, there was one last thing I had to do.

On my knees, the crusted ice on the dock felt like shards of broken glass through my jeans. Dust pan in one hand, brush in the other, I scanned the peaks and valleys of ash-covered snow, gazing at a long life now lost. I tried to imagine all the things that Gregori Nazaire had seen the beginnings of, all the inventions, the revolutions, political upheavals, social changes. I was so taken with my train of thought that I barely noticed Batten's heavy boots trudging through the snow, though the sound of the snow crunching ran out across the lake. The night was as still as I'd ever seen it. I could hear Batten's hot exhale behind me. He didn't tell me how late it was, or how cold; he just waited for me to talk.

“Didn't seem right to leave him out here,” I said quietly, my glance daring him to argue.

I didn't think Batten would get that, but it had to be said. It was the same way I'd felt about turning from the cemetery after Grandma Vi's funeral. How could I walk away? She had to stay. The ash along the ground was all that remained of fourteen hundred years of life, damned now to Hell, gone to the air, as easy as a single swing of my arm. My first staking; hopefully my last.

Kill-Notch crouched beside me, his broad shoulder close to mine. He took the lid off my Kermit the Frog cookie jar and peeked into its empty interior. “I'm not going to pretend to understand what you're doing out here.” He stared out at the lake past me. “Come inside, get warm.”

“I will… soon as I'm done.”

After a moment of speculative silence, Batten got down on his knees and held the dustpan for me.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Squinting into my bathroom mirror didn't help make the reflection any prettier. Neither had a layer of mascara, a swipe of lip gloss and a handful of mousse run through my spiky locks. Now I just looked like a fem-version of Billy Idol. Maybe it didn't look as bad as I thought? I made big kissy lips and did rock-on finger motions in the mirror. Nope, not cool enough to pull it off. Needed some black leather and a studded collar.

I went to grab my blush and noticed with dismay a small square envelope on the marble countertop. The gold ink said: Asmodeus. The sight of the Overlord's name made my innards sink.

Hot damn, I'd done it, though. I'd gotten rid of both ghouls, the fourteen hundred-year-old poet and the crazyass old lady. I'd kept Kill-Notch from staking my companion, brought Harry back to his senses, and together we'd all helped ease Wes back into normalcy. It had taken three pints of B positive and a couple of earth-rocking backhands from Harry that would have KO-ed a human, but it had worked.

I opened the envelope. In flowing script, the demon king reported: Due to the construction of Our new casino in Las Vegas Nevada We have postponed Our appointment until a time better suited to Our schedule.

Postponed? Not cancelled… postponed. The Banker at the Baccarat Tables of Hell was busy in Sin City, so he had—my brain settled into an unhappy pool of goo at the base of my skull and I let my head fall back to study the bathroom ceiling, hoping for a Get Out of Demon Meeting card taped above.

I abandoned my morning preening and stomped out to find the Feds still occupying my kitchen. They looked far more well-rested
than I felt. I went to the pantry for… no, I'd made a vow. A hasty vow, but a vow nonetheless. I had promised the Lady that if she got Batten's hot ass safely out of this mess, I'd give up cookies. For good. Boy, I promise some dumb things.