Authors: A.J. Aalto
“This explains why Spicer was giving me garbled French nonsense on the phone. He's fighting between three worlds: our Earthly realm, the spirit realm of the
loa
, and demons like Asmodeus, who will definitely be trying to take advantage of a tainted paladin opening himself to the dark side of magic.”
I watched Batten attempt to digest this with his mundane mind, falling back on his normal methods of logic, observation, deduction, and a healthy dose of ignoring anything he didn't want to buy because it was spiritually or metaphysically inconvenient. “I'll have Spicer's movements traced to ascertain if he was in Haiti, or in contact with any known bad actors there.”
“So Malas’ new Master of the Revels is a paladin for the Grand Priory of the Knightly Order of St. John.” My mind whirled. “That means that Kitty Kat Furry staked her own father in the shoulder? She must have known it was him, the helmet of his costume was off.”
“Spicer jumped in front of Malas when she threw that stake,” Batten said quietly, his face displaying the same confusion as I felt. “And then he laid there and watched us kill his daughter.”
“Great family, huh?” I said, then thought about my own, and figured I shouldn't talk. “Why would the world's greatest vampire tracker
prevent
the staking of a revenant Malas’ age?”
Declan suggested, “He needed Malas alive?”
“What the hell for?” Batten demanded.
Declan shrugged. “Maybe Malas knows something about this so-called abomination Spicer is tracking?”
“Does Malas know that Ben is really John Spicer?” Batten asked.
I snorted. “I doubt it. If he did, Ben wouldn't last long.”
“How could a revenant
not
know that Ben was lying about his identity, his intentions?” Declan said. “How could he not taste every single deception?”
Batten said, “Spicer must be a damn good liar.”
“His life depends on it,” Declan agreed.
I asked myself,
what would Chapel do, if he was in his right mind
? I wondered if Harry had been right to test Chapel, if he had sensed something fogging Chapel's mind, both the messed-up
dhaugir
bond and the fever of corpsepox confusing matters, making him sluggish, less effective.
“Chapel would examine victimology; he would ask ‘why now’? What's changed, and when did it change?” I thought aloud.
Batten nodded. “Look at the victims first.”
I nodded, and wrote this on the whiteboard. “Dunnachie almost certainly was Spicer's first zombie here, unless our
bokor
has older ones we haven't seen yet. Stuart the DaySitter, for example, or the first Master of the Revels, the guy Ben replaced.”
“Let's assume the attack on the Furries by the lake wasn't an accident.”
“According to Anne's report, Zombie Dunnachie pushed Cosmoand first bit her. Roger ran. Cosmo helped Anne, and was disemboweled for his trouble. Then we know Dunnachie chased Roger into the shed and beat his head in.”
And ate his brain. His whole brain. And even still, Roger Kelly got up and walked away from the fish camp…
I wrote this down on the grease board without speaking it out loud.
“It's possible Dunnachie saw Cosmo first,” de Cabrera said, “and that attack was a lack of control brought on by hunger.”
I flashed back on the bulging black buboes in Anne's armpits, the swelling pregnant tummy; I thought about the baby and had to do some square breathing to calm myself down.
“What if Dunnachie was after Anne, primarily?” I said. “What if Cosmo and Roger were collateral damage?”
Batten said, “We need to go back to Malas’ house.”
“And do what?”
“That thing that was Anne Bennett-Dixon is dangerous. You saw that. It attacked us. It killed two people in the hospital.”
“She's under Malas’ control now. Besides, you'd have to get past Malas, and you can't take Malas by yourself. You've seen what he can do with telekinetics.”
“Do we think Roger Kelly has gone to Spicer?”
“Roger Kelly, the last we saw, was not wearing a Bluetooth device. Nor did he have a cell phone; we checked his pockets for ID at the crime scene and found nothing on him but a billfold.”
“Where would Kelly go, after the shed, if he was not being controlled by the
bokor
?”
Before anyone could respond, something dark dive-bombed Batten's face; he smoothly back-handed the bat and sent it tumbling claws-over-ears into the kitchen sink with a fur-muffled
bong
.
De Cabrera said, “You've got a strange life, woman.”
“Don't even get me started. Look at that disgusting rodent.”
“It's a bat.”
“It's a vector of disease.”
“It's a vampire bat.”
“That's what he wants you to think.” I glared at the swooping brown fur-ball as it vaulted out of the sink and fluttered up above the fridge, colliding with cereal boxes and the Kermit cookie jar, whapping the ceiling, to go bumping and wheeling into my bedroom. “You stay away from my bunny slippers, you pervert, or I'm telling mom!”
Declan rubbed a weary hand over his face. “Something for you, Dr. B.”
“Is it a zombie-proof suit?”
“No.”
“Is it battery-operated?”
“No.”
“Chocolate-covered?”
“No.”
“Rapidly losing interest,” I warned.
“E-mail from Agent Golden. She's got a clean bill of health and is returning today.”
“On my day off?” I felt my upper lip curl. “That's uncalled-for.”
Despite my complaint, I felt an odd sense of relief; with Golden gone, Agent Chapel down, and my brother incapacitated, our manpower had dwindled significantly. Hood had been spending time comforting Mrs. Dunnachie, (“
Eat wife. Eat Paula
.”) who was grieving all over again at the news of her husband's exploding zombie corpse. As much as I disliked Golden personally, of all my PCU acquaintances, she was the one I'd take with Batten into battle. De Cabrera was a fit pair of hands in a fight, but as a preternatural crime fighter, he was awfully fresh. Declan was fast with the info-searches and a wealth of dark art knowledge, but I wouldn't take him to another zombie fight if I could help it. He was delicate and bookish and perpetually late.
I told everyone to fuck off until I had a solid plan of attack. Batten was slightly more professional, and told them to report to the CDC at the fish camp and check in with Dr. Varney's team. Before he left to do the same, he caught me eyeballing Declan as he plodded across the lawn to the Buick.
I asked Batten, “What do you really think of him?”
“Unlike Harry, who's a glorified butler who fucks you sometimes, Declan's useful,” he said. “Why? Got a crush?”
“I'm too old for that.” I scowled. “Besides, I'm committed.”
“Wish you were, but the institutions won't take you.” He smirked. “I checked.”
“To have a crush at my age would be ridiculous. That's why I'm a stalker.”
“So, my sources were correct. There
is
something going on between you.”
“Only until I destroy him.”
“More of a short-lived fling, then.” He nodded. “You don't intend to keep him hanging in your gallery of torture like you do me.”
“I don't keep you. I've tried to ditch you like a hundred times.”
“Don't know why I talk to you.”
“How could I make fun of you if you didn't say anything?” I winced as my headache flared.
“Look like you need some aspirin,” he noted, but approvingly.
“What I could really use is a hug, but you're about as soft and snuggly as a concrete block.”
“Maybe if you asked nicely,” he suggested. “If you threw in some tulips and a pack of Double-Stuf Oreos, I'd think about it.”
My jaw dropped. I was positive I'd said the same thing to him in the distant past; the victorious light in his eyes proved it beyond a doubt. “You're getting some sort of sick enjoyment out of this. I'm injured, and Gary Chapel isn't hurting on my behalf, and you love that,” I accused.
“Proud of you,” he corrected. “You released him. Didn't think you'd come through.”
I hadn't entirely, but Batten didn't need to know that; I'd promised Chapel I wouldn't say. I narrowed my eyes at him. “It's my day off, be nice.”
“Zombie horde. Day off is cancelled.”
“Just give me a goddamned hug, Hunkypants.”
A genuine Mark Batten smile lit up his face. The old vinyl chair creaked as he lifted out of it. “Keep your panties on, Snickerdoodle, hugs incoming.”
“They better be good since I'm putting up with your shit parade.”
And they were. I was relieved to find that Batten was good for something other than killing things and driving me nuts. He couldn't make coffee to save his life, and he wore on my last nerve, but his embrace was incredible. I could have slept in it, my head on his rock of a shoulder, smelling his warm, faintly soapy skin and his holy-water-Brut-combination, listening to the strong, reassuringly alive thud of his heart pumping away in his very mortal chest, feeling his exhale blow on my forehead. I tried not to compare it to Harry's cool, otherworldly touch, but it was impossible. I had missed this, the feel of another human next to me. It had been a while. Batten was as comforting as my own pulse.
I was really going to miss him when he was dead.
C
HAPTER
50
IF YOU'RE ANYTHING LIKE ME,
you have one or two jobs you don't want to do, and three or four imaginary jobs you can't do because they don't exist, like Hot Cop Wrangler or Chief Cookie Taster. Easy solution to the first part: I take Tuesdays off. So when a black SUV pulled into my driveway, I leaned back into the comfort of my lawn recliner and let fly with the curse words like Clark Griswold on a Hap-Hap-Happy Christmas eve, preemptively inventing five new combinations with which to melt Agent Golden's face.
The SUV sat ticking in the shade, cooling off for a good minute before Golden got out carrying a bag of Rold Gold pretzels and pushing her sunglasses up on the bridge of her nose. I felt wholly unworthy to be in the same yard as her, never mind on the same team. She was dressed like a typical federal agent: navy dress pants ironed to sharp creases, white shirt, jacket, ID tag, shoulder holster, gun. I was rocking frayed denim cut-off shorts, a black-and-white polka-dot bandeau bikini top and bright orange flip flips. Compared to her effortless style, I looked like I should be dashing through a sprinkler and drinking from the hose. That had been earlier, but she didn't need to know it.
I'd been practicing non-reactive facial expressions in the mirror to prepare for our next encounter, and I figured if I could pull it off, I stood a chance at maintaining some dignity. Failing that, I was fucked. Golden had a body that made Angelina Jolie look like Angela Lansbury. Unfortunately, she had a brain, too, and that brain had already decided I was a bug that needed squashing; dealing with her was going to take a little finesse. I had a feeling that, left to her own
devices, she'd nail me like a blood-fly on a troll's ass. Lucky for me, I knew exactly how to deal.
The minute she got close to my lawn chair, I slap-chopped the bag of pretzels out of her hand; I'd meant to show supreme authority on my own property, but all it showed was that I'm willing to eat pretzels out of the grass.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I am enjoying my goddamned day off,” I announced around a pretzel stick that bobbed like a cigarillo between my teeth, “because fuck you, zombie horde. I always get Tuesdays off, so you can ransack the countryside all you want, but it's not cutting into my regularly scheduled sunbathing.”
Golden thought about that a beat. “Mind if I join you?”
“Oh.” I frowned at the lounger beside me. “Okay. I've got lemonade and magazines.”
She sat, removing the navy suit jacket and slinging it over the back of the lounger. Her crisp white shirt was short-sleeved, but she rolled them up further on her biceps and exposed pale flesh to the sun. Track marks from hospital needles marred her skin. She kicked off her sensible shoes and socks and wriggled her bare toes. My toenails were pink. Hers were black. That was unexpected, and I said so.
“Grew up goth. The toenail polish is the only thing I haven't given up.” She eyed me over her sunglasses. “No suntan lotion?”
“Lotion's for pussies.”
“You're sun-burnt.”
“I'm just red hot,” I said, trying with futility to squint cross-eyed at my pinking nose. “I can't help that.”
She settled back and gave my bikini top some side-eye. “What are you wearing, a blindfold for your tits?”
“Wouldn't want the poor li'l things to have to look at your ugly mug.” When she didn't have a bitchy comeback, I felt like an ass, but it was fleeting. I wasn't quite sure what was going on; furthermore, I wasn't entirely sure I wasn't enjoying myself.
“I'm legally and morally obligated to tell you,” I said, “this rash on my belly is corpsepox. You can't catch it from me.”
“I can't believe I'm saying this, but in the past few days, I've seen worse.”
“You're not dead,” I noted.
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“Lucky Batten didn't try and shoot that spider off your head. His aim is a lot worse than mine.” I told her about Zombie Dunnachie, and how I'd blown half his head off.
“A .38 to the head would be a great cure for all
your
problems,” she said helpfully.
I slapped an issue of National Geographic on her lap. “Let me know if you need me to sound out the big words for you.”
“I'm not even going to ask about the webs,” she said, motioning to the gaudy pink spider webs still littering my yard like a silly string explosion.
“You wouldn't understand,” I grumbled.
“Fuck something up?”
“Okay, well, if you knew, then why'd you ask?”
We read and sipped lemonade and ate pretzels out of the grass in a strangely companionable silence. I removed my gloves to make my pretzel-eating easier. She slid her sunglasses on top of her wig. It, like everything else about her, was perfect: I couldn't tell it from her real hair. Her skin was a bit wan; not surprising, considering what she'd been through.
“So, did you cast some sort of love spell on his eyes?” she asked, letting her magazine fall.