Authors: A.J. Aalto
“Could you cure a black witch's wart?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Good. Depending on what methods I use to get rid of you, I might need a good wart remover.”
His smile broadened. “And if I wanted to get rid of you, I'd just whisper our victim's name until you bust a gut in front of SSA Chapel.”
“I didn't laugh at his name!” I objected.
“You wanted to.”
I scrunched down in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest. “I could chant his name all day long and be just fine.”
“Say it one time,” he challenged. “Just once.”
Cosmo Winkle! Cosmo Winkle!
“I don't feel like it,” I said, pressing my lips together hard and recalling his disemboweled corpse. “And this is very disrespectful, considering.”
“Okay, Dr. Buzz, you're right, I'm sorry,” he allowed. “So, who's watching Lord Dreppenstedt this morning, if you don't mind me asking?”
“I called The Organization. They sent someone.”
He smiled anew. “You do know it's peopled with spies for the immortal monarchy, and even for the Overlord himself?”
“Of course I know about the spies. Everyone knows about the spies. I'm not a complete idiot,” I retorted.
I am a complete idiot.
“And, for your information, you might be without peer in your little country, but here in North America, I'm the shit.”
“Ah yes, the, what was it? ‘Great White Shark of Psychic Inves-tigations’ and renowned media darling?” His smile dialed up a notch; the competition already knew way too much about me. I slouched further in the passenger seat, glaring out the side window and watching the trees speed by in a dark green blur.
“Can't believe you only know five languages,” I muttered.
He laughed, a rush of sweet warmth that wrapped me up in caramel sauce and dunked my whole face in maple syrup. He whispered, “Who bloody well names their kid Cosmo Winkle?”
“Don't!” I gasped, helpless to smother the laugh that burbled up. I swatted him in the arm repeatedly. “Not funny!”
I really didn't want to like this guy, but the honest belly laugh that joined mine was flat-out adorable. The first of my many walls
crumbled like it had been made of nothing more than sugar cubes. Never before had someone conquered one of my barricades so effortlessly; even Batten got my thorniest defenses. I doubted Declan even realized he did it.
Stupid adorable assistant with the caramel laugh
.
As the Buick turned onto Shaw's Fist's unnamed street, leaving pavement behind for dirt roads and potholes, I sank even lower; I hadn't had to tell him when to turn.
“I'm sure Lord Dreppenstedt is fine, Dr. Buzz,” he assured me, misreading the wilting laugh and the furrow in my brow. “At least the organization didn't send Viktor.”
“Viktor Domitrovich?” I chewed my bottom lip. “Big guy, big jaw, big everything? Sounds like the love child of Andre the Giant and James Earl Jones?”
His smile slid off like a cliff-side house in a mudslide. His foot got heavier on the gas pedal.
“Is there a
reason
I should be worried about Viktor?”
“He was on suspension.” He reached around behind the seat for his doctor's bag, pulling it over my seat and onto his lap. I didn't like the way he gripped it, as though he might need it soon. “For gross indecency.”
“Okay, yeah, he was pretty gross, but he wasn't indecent. Unless you have a thing against wearing six cows’ worth of leather.”
He shook his head; his black curls seemed to tighten around the tips of his ears protectively.
“What sort of indecency, Dr. Edgar?” I braced for the answer when he blanched.
“Necrophilia.”
Okay, so
not
the perfect bodyguard for two prone revenants. “Why the hell would they have him working with resting dead guys?” I yelped, rocketing straight up in my seat.
“He's been on medication. I guess they reinstated him.” Declan's eyes went hard. The warm caramel laugh was long gone. “It just doesn't work very well, and not at all if he doesn't feed.”
“I did feed him.” I put my gloves back on. “Blood. Not mine. O-neg from Shield.”
“Warmed?”
I bit my lip, fighting to quiet the alarm clanging between my ears. “He specifically asked for it cold.”
“Cold blood's like foreplay.” And then I heard it. The Irish accent snuck in, elongating his vowels. “For fook's sake, Dr. B.”
* * *
I barely registered the two new vehicles sitting in the shady driveway near a film of gaudy pink spider webs as we came to a gravel-spitting halt. The cabin was dead silent when we blew in the front door at full tilt, Declan behind me, his doctor's bag a noisy slapping at his thigh.
We found Wesley at the kitchen table, picking his teeth with a fork and considering what he dug out of his molars with interest. He looked up at us with surprise when we came in, locking his Nordic sled dog eyes on us through his weedy, white-blond dreadlocks.
Behind me, Declan said, “Revenant.” There was no fear; rather, what I heard was a scientist's classification, like he was going to tag Wes and pin him in a shadowbox.
I put my hand out to intercept him. “No staking my bro. He's supposed to be here.”
“Who's the dumbshit?” Wes demanded.
“My guest, Wesley, be nice,” I said. “Where's, uh… everyone?”
Wes ran a pale hand through his equally pale blond hair. “There was some other guy here; some big ugly motherfucker. Harry sent him packing. Boy, is he pissed. If I were you, I'd avoid him until— too late.”
From the pantry, I felt rather than saw a shadow peel away from the others, and spun to face him. In the faint light offered up between the slats of the kitchen blinds, that shadow took the form of Harry—lithe, sinuous, and elegant. The subtle chill that always cloaked the older revenant purled across the floor and settled in a wash at my ankles. At first, I relaxed at the sight of him, fully intact, fully clothed in his usual resting attire, a stylish grey hand-tailored morning suit. His expression was that of a full-grown cat in the mood to bat lazily at an injured baby mouse.
Uh oh
.
“Darling?” Harry greeted, and my relaxation, it turned out, was to be short-lived. His voice was icy, an Arctic splinter. The temperature dip swept out as he forced it further, probing Declan and me with a frigid lash. “Who might this lad be?” Harry asked with misleading softness. “He who comes clanging into my kitchen like a knight's destrier in full plate?”
“Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, this is Dr. Declan Edgar, my new assistant,” I sighed. “And there's no need for the attitude, so back off, revenant.”
Harry's eyes paled rapidly through a range of colder shades, from battleship to lustrous chrome, as he looked Declan up and down. He smiled, flashing fully extended fangs. It was not a friendly gesture. “What could be in your kit and caboodle, doctor? Is there a stake in the bag?” With an eye-blurring yet still somehow prim slap, he struck the satchel from Declan's hand; it spilled onto the linoleum with a clatter before he had time to flinch.
Declan said, “You'll never find a stake in my bag, sir. I'm a scientist and historian, not a cold cook.”
“Is that so?”
“As you can see, it's all very innocent. Pens, paper. Alcohol. Medicinal herbs.”
I made a mental note to ask Harry what
cold cook
meant; I was pretty sure Declan wasn't confessing a love of frozen dinners.
“Wolfsbane,” Harry said crisply, enunciating with sharp precision. “Are you fool enough to imagine I cannot smell it?”
“I use it externally for chronic migraines.”
Wolfsbane had not been used medicinally for centuries. Likely the only person in the room who didn't know this was Wes; I couldn't guess as to why Harry accepted the explanation.
Harry did not turn to look at me when he addressed me. “Tell me, my fawn, is this day-brained rapscallion a suitor come to call?”
“Sweet fancy Christ,” I sighed, letting my head fall back and searching the kitchen chandelier for patience.
“Would that be a yes?” Harry fairly hissed it.
“If by some bizarre twist of fate I was being ‘suited’,” I said, making air quotes, “do you think I'd bring the guy here to be cross-examined, prodded, grilled, and finally chased off by you?”
“You would prefer to be wooed in secret, then,” Harry confirmed. “I have long suspected this to be the case.”
I was about to indelicately expound on exactly how little sex I was having when Declan interrupted. “Lord Dreppenstedt,” he said, covering his mouth with his fist to clear his throat, though I thought I also saw a brief smirk. “While I'm sure your DaySitter has many admirable qualities, I am not interested in pursuing her romantically.”
Harry's calculating gaze weighed the assertion; he looked no happier, and resumed his slow tread towards the stranger. “How can I imagine this to be the truth?”
“I'm only here to learn,” Declan said. “At your age, you could certainly tell if I were lying to you.”
Harry didn't look convinced. “Are you otherwise romantically involved, doctor?”
Declan took a single step back toward the door, cautious as opposed to afraid, as a lion handler might be in the presence of a big cat with a thorn in its paw, knowing and seeing the danger but not unaccustomed to it. “I don't think that's any of your concern.”
Point: Declan
for bravery, but courage never kept a dead guy warm at his funeral. Harry circled around Declan's back, his luminous eyes radiating indignation. Sweet malice poured off him like corn syrup, thick and slow and deceptively saccharine.
“This is my home,” Harry said. “And in my home, everything is my concern.”
I unlocked my jaw to tell Harry to can it, when Declan surprised me, his words coming quick and excited. “I don't suggest we share your wealth by the rule of thumb, Lord Dreppenstedt, nor share the human bounty which you currently enjoy. I'm on a mere quest for knowledge, and the devil have done with the rest, my Lord, dead and be damned.”
“Flames and ether,” Harry swore. “What I
will
share with you is the back of my hand, should you go much further.”
I spoke up. “Would one of you speak plain English, please? I can't mock you if I don't know what the fuck you're talking about.”
“If you'd open your intimate powers more completely to your companion,” Declan clipped, “you'd never have reason to be so insecure, as I'm sure you've been advised before now. However, since you are determined to play the cuckold, I offer you the reminder.”
The giant, jolly green balls on this guy.
I wondered how many pieces Harry was about to tear Declan into. I wondered if I could hide behind the refrigerator. I wondered how much blood I'd have to scrub off the ceiling.
The kitchen fell silent. Wesley's eyelids flew wide in response to Harry's bristling will, and his irises became an eerie, wilted violet, sickly unnatural. Wes’ hand curled on the edge of the table and a low snarl snagged in the back of his throat. I opened my mouth to tell Wes to go downstairs, but my new assistant had other plans.
Declan's flat palm shot out and hit the kitchen table; the dishes jumped, startling me and bringing Wes to his feet with a growl.
“Hush, young one,” Declan barked at Wes.
Wes hushed.
The little bastard never hushed for
me,
dammit
. It was like watching a misbehaving pit bull shrivel back from a dog trainer. Warring scents filled the small kitchen, two opposing storm clouds, a warm front meeting cold. Wesley moved forward an inch, testing his ground, no longer looking at all familiar, his mortal face spirited away by the wan and wary monster that replaced him. Astonishment stole my words, my mouth impotently ajar; and my hand felt behind me for the solidity of the fridge door, as though it could be used as a weapon. Against whom, I didn't know. I didn't think anybody was interested in a snack, whether it was cold cuts or a bag of O-neg.
Declan noted Wes’ second attempt to step forward with a surprised blink. “I see your infant was born with teeth, Lord Dreppenstedt.”
I found my voice. “Wesley's not Harry's Younger. Harry's not old enough to turn people.”
Harry slid one more graceful step towards Declan, and suddenly Declan had two revenants flanking him.
“You are unmarried, unattached, and stink of arousal, Dr. Edgar,” Harry accused. “You follow my Bonded partner into my home without my permission, without invitation, your heart racing eagerly toward this very confrontation. What should a gentleman think of that?”
Confrontation?
Yes
, I thought, not the compassion of a new acquaintance, but eagerness for confrontation.
This
confrontation, to be exact.
Harry continued, “That makes you, sir, a cad of substantial proportions.”
“And it is well known in our circles that you do not share full intimacy with your DaySitter, sir, rendering her weak, vulnerable, and ineffective. So I ask you, my Lord, what does that make you?”
Harry drew himself up to full height, and though he was not much taller than Declan, he seemed to tower, his immortal clout dominating the space. The scents mingled again, Harry's burnt sugar and something greener, earthier.
Licorice?
I wanted to step between them, but uncertainty kept my feet rooted.
“You truly are on broken ground here, human,” Harry said, his voice even softer than before, ratcheting up the strain in my shoulders. “This show of testicular fortitude will get you nowhere with me.”
“Be that as it may,” Declan said resolutely, “I will not discuss my private romantic life with you, Lord Dreppenstedt, unless you are willing to discuss yours with me. Now, if Wednesday night works for you, I can return for a full discussion of the matter, beginning with your first love.”
Harry flinched. If I'd have blinked, I'd have missed it, though there was no way I could've missed the unhappiness that spilled across our Bond. Nursing a strike that had drawn blood, Harry turned on me with unexpected humor.
“This man has all the excitability of a parsnip, ducky, and his single-mindedness is most vexing. Is he perchance related to Agent Chapel?”
A quirk of a smile; Harry was teasing now. The fight was over, just like that, and Harry had withdrawn, but not without reestablishing the mood of his choice. As though he couldn't possibly care less about the doctor now, he let the tension shrug away. The menace faded, and I let out a breath I hadn't known I was holding, unclenching my gloved fists. My palm throbbed where I'd been gripping the refrigerator door.