Authors: A.J. Aalto
“My take on a classic,” I said. “Next time, maybe he’ll think twice and come at me with a pillow.”
We came to a small room jam packed with what first appeared to be junk; old brass cups piled on dusty tables, oil paintings and sketched portraits draped with drop cloths, shadow boxes with diplomas that had yellowed and strings of what appeared to be tarnished military medals on faded ribbons. There was pianola music on a punched metallic roll, but no player piano. Beside a basket of old dollies with scuffed porcelain faces and eyes missing paint, there was a bottle containing a preserved, three-headed lizard that might have been a baby albino dragon from a long-extinct species. In a clear Lucite box, there was a dented crown with missing stones. It may have at one time been gorgeous; here, forgotten, it looked like a flea market find.
“Declan, what is this place?” I asked.
“I heard my master refer to the ‘king’s collection’ once. Things he acquired. Things that had meaning for him. Perhaps this is it? Oh. Oh dear.”
“You sound like Harry,” I commented, following him to a big metal cabinet with big hinges, standing upright in a corner. There was a small window in it like the slotted visor of a helmet. “What is it?”
“The Silver Maiden. A torture device for revenants dating back to the twelfth century. This might be the only one still in existence. Most of the silver spikes were short, designed to go into the flesh and hurt, burn, but not kill. The one near the heart was replaceable with a longer one that would sink in deeply enough to kill if the door was cranked all the way closed.”
“Like the Iron Maiden, but different?” I went to open the latch and swing the one half open to see, but Declan touched my gloved hand and shook his head.
“Please. I don’t want to see this.”
His green eyes showed trouble before he turned away and I let it go. He wandered to a heavy oak slab with a knob in the very center.
“Back door?” Batten said.
No way do I want a shovel shoved there
. I didn’t want to nod, because I knew this was going to be a hard road; if it had been a good choice, Tara never would have suggested it, and Harry wouldn't have warned against it.
Harry.
I hesitated, torn. The pain in my temple faded as I let a wash of worry rush in from the Bond; I was leaving him in good hands, wasn’t I? Carole Jeanne and House Dreppenstedt had his back, right? Who would stay behind from the other houses? Would any of them try to mess with the revenants imprisoned in their statues?
“He’ll be fine,” Batten predicted.
“I know,” I said, but the look on his face said he wasn’t buying it. “Back door,” I repeated, pushing past the men.
We weren’t half a mile outside of Skulesdottir when it became clear that someone or something was definitely ahead of us in the Olmdalur. I took both of my leather gloves off despite the cold and put them in the pockets of Harry’s wool coat, trying to summon psi under my palms. As it snapped to life in the frigid air, my clairempathy offered up
resentment, apprehension
, and a
need for retribution
coming from north of us, as well as behind us to the west, and
misery, rejection
, and
appetite
from directly ahead.
More than one source
. Declan cut his eyes at me, sensing the rise of power, and nodded once to agree with the dread on my face. The full extent of the
dhampir’s
powers was still a mystery to me but this was no time to sit down for an explorative chat on the topic.
I elbowed Batten’s arm to alert him to the possible danger ahead, though I couldn’t pinpoint the exact source of the trouble. Though mundane, Kill-Notch hadn’t missed anything; he’d noted the shift in our body language, spotted footprints where the ice wasn’t a bare plane, and was braced for confrontation. To be fair, he always expected confrontation. He didn’t break stride as he checked the clip in his Taurus and returned it to its holster. By habit, he double-patted his back pocket, where his tactical folding knife was normally tucked. Batten had laced his throat and wrist with holy water that he stored in glass Brut cologne bottles to deter the unruly mouths of revenants. Normally, he would also have had a hand-carved stake in an ankle sheath. I wondered if he felt naked without rowan wood, on this glacier-capped island of the undead.
A bark of alarm cut the air from ahead and to our left; a series of horrible, sharp sounds, like Old Scratch had caught his dick in his zipper. I spotted movement in the distance; a streak of something white and strappy skulking behind the jumbled snow and ice. The jingle of buckles echoed over rock. The straightjacket. The white-blond hair.
I muttered, “Folkenflik.”
A light skein of snow swept across our path, making a gritty sound as it flew along, scouring the ice before us. As the ground sloped upwards, walking became more difficult; though we stuck to the road, we slipped and skidded along. It had clearly been maintained at some point, and the snow drifts were light and easy to avoid, but the hard ice that glittered in the asphalt laid in wait to ambush an unwary heel. I was glad I’d chosen the Keds today; though my toes were frozen, my rubbery soles were at least somewhat grippy. We switched to walking single file. I took the lead, with Declan watching the rear. Batten tromped behind me despite grumbling about how he should take point.
Beyond us was a narrow passage between two jagged hills. The icy shelf became a sharp corner, and we shuffled cautiously around it as the Blue Sense swelled beneath my palms. The scent of burnt sugar on the wind alerted me to the awakening of revenants nearby.
Not possible
.
They’re behind us, coated in stone, waiting for us to return.
I tried not to think about my Harry being part of that museum-like display, guarded by the honor of the court at Skulesdottir and the Stonecaller’s watchful eye. There was revenant power here, all around us, sharp and ready. But where? My teeth started chattering again, while my heart picked up the pace to hammer in my chest.
The valley that opened over the rise before us was a jagged wasteland of untouched ice and snow; in the middle of this cold depression was a black wrought iron gate marked with Latin script. The iron fence enclosed a wide square filled with snow. To the south of the fenced-in area were corrugated metal shipping containers, their rust and paint flaking in the wind, and if they had once sat squarely on their bottoms, they had not done so for a while. Snow had gathered under the angles. Within the iron gates were snowcapped mausoleums, weathered stone houses raised to hold…what, exactly?
The curling wrought iron on the gate read
Non misit umbra
. When I paused to read it, Batten shot me a frustrated scowl. Declan paced nervously, eyes wide.
I translated, “
Cast no shadow
. This is where the undead keep
their
dead.” Above ground graves must house urns and ashes. The gate at the road was open, a lock and chain hanging from the rods, coldly clanging in the slight, icy breeze. I checked my watch: two in the afternoon. The novelty of not seeing the sun above the horizon had not yet worn off. I’d never get used to this polar night shit. It felt like dusk, with the anticipation of twilight pressed behind it.
“We should give this graveyard a wide berth,” Declan suggested, his voice low. “I don’t like the way it smells.”
“There can't be anything remotely alive in there,” I muttered.
“Not so sure,” Declan said.
Batten glanced behind us. “We’re in a hurry.”
Something drew me to the gate, and I craned up at the Latin script again. Within the small gated area was a wide swath of revenant history, and I knew Declan would have loved to spend ages exploring the names and family links even more than I would. Maybe another time, when we weren't running for our butts and on impossible quests. I pulled Harry’s cigarette-scented scarf up around my nose and wondered if House Rask was represented in the crowded rows of mausoleums.
Crowned Prince of an empty house.
The master of a bloodline that went nowhere. A cold soul forever at sea.
“Marnie,” Declan said softly, his tone agreeing with Batten. I knew they were right, and came away from the enclosed area with regret.
We circled outside the cemetery boundaries, though that meant our off road steps were less certain through ankle-deep, freshly fallen powder. Several times, I tried to get a look at the inscriptions and epitaphs carved in the stones. I caught sight of the name Cross more than once, and one of the mausoleums had a giant, three-headed dragon monument mounted atop it like a stone guardian that I would have bet money belonged to one or more of the Gold-Drake revenants. As we came to the opposite end of the high, black fence, I saw a fresh stone tomb with a door propped open. Inside, I could see a small bench and an empty cubby where an urn might sit; the name engraved in the stone outside was Gregorius, House Nazaire, Pannonia. The date read AD 449-2013. Shame hit me in the gut and I looked away, but not quickly enough. I felt my lips pull down into a grimace to hold back the unhappiness, and I remembered what Harry had said about Gregori, the Ostrogothic chieftain, a man serving Valamir, who had battled the sons of Attila the Hun. Malas had taken Gregori at the Dardanelles, what would have been called the Hellespont at the time. Gregori, whom I had met in a cellar and had helped to escape his insane DaySitter. Gregori, who had been draining Ruby Valli of blood by my dock as they thrashed in the water. Gregori, whom I had staked, and whose ashes now resided in a Kermit the Frog cookie jar on top of my fridge. He belonged here, I knew, in the final resting place the undead had made for their own kind.
Batten had seen the inscription, and I felt him move to walk beside me, putting his broad body between me and the fence, cutting off my view. “You had no choice,” he said, as though reading my mind.
“Is that what you tell yourself when you do it?” I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.
“I’m not making excuses to you,” he said. “You know what I am and what I do, and why. I’ve never hidden any of that.”
It was an old argument, and one that would likely never be settled between us. He knew I wished there had been another way with Gregori. He knew I had doubts and regrets. Batten didn’t share my regrets about Gregori’s end; I wonder if he had ever regretted one of his slayings, if there was a hash mark that he wished he’d never had to get. Immediately following that was the suspicion that the answer would be no. Killing monsters wasn’t just a job for Batten; it was all he knew.
I felt better once we’d moved past the cemetery, except for the creepy impression of being watched; the Blue Sense reported that there were still many conflicted emotions around us. We were not alone. I thought I heard a bang, and the rattle of chains from the south.
The shipping containers. One of them had the surname “Renault” punched into the metal; the only Renault I knew of was Reginald Davidoff Renault, the revenant who had first allowed science to test his immortal body, thereby proving the existence of “vampires” to the world at large. Had he been punished for this deed by being shut away in a shipping container to starve in the cold, his prison wrapped in silver chains with little crosses?
Thumping inside. Metal bulging outward. There were no living creatures in those containers; the yawning emptiness that was a signature of the undead gave it away.
Revenants.
“What is this?” Batten asked warily. “What is this place, Marnie?”
I wasn’t sure, but I knew instantly that Tara had wanted us to find it. Tara, who had lost her revenant. Tara, whose Talent, despite being supported by the house feeds, was slipping away. I’d met a psychic who had lost her revenant before; Danika Sherlock had been going mad, desperate to replace her companion, George, who had been staked by off-duty NYPD officers thinking they were doing the city a favor. Tara belonged at House Dreppenstedt, and there she would stay, but I had no doubt now that her excitement at seeing me was many layered. She’d wanted me to see this.
One of the containers rocked to one side with a noisy thump. I focused the Blue Sense empathetically and began pushing my Talent outward, probing. Was I misjudging Tara’s intentions? Was there something else here she wanted me to find? Her revenant was supposed to have died. But had he gone wild? Feral? Was he in one of these containers? Shame from the house would have kept that from being voiced; being unable to keep your revenant companion safe and sane was, in some circles, worse than not protecting him from a final demise.
These were not angry thumps. I didn’t feel rage, though I did feel an unthinking, visceral level of frustration. Something wild and bestial. Something untamed.
And above all that, coming in like an unstoppable tide:
hunger
. Declan sensed it too. “They’ve been locked up out here.”
“What has?” Batten asked.
“Who,” I corrected. “Revenants that have lost their minds.” I didn’t have to remind him about the time Ruby Valli had forced Harry and Wes into a feral state, turning my elegant gentleman companion into a bloodthirsty monster before my eyes. I could see in Mark’s face that he was remembering as well as I was.
“How are those containers holding them?” Batten asked.
There were chains through the locks, and they’d have silver in them; the combination of the cold, the lack of feeding, and the complete lack of stimulation were also keeping them calm. Relatively speaking.
That was already changing. The Blue Sense jolted awake to report that the ferals in the shipping containers were stirring, catching our scent.
“Other than Harry and Wes,” I asked, “have you ever encountered a feral rev?”
Batten nodded, while Declan shook his head.
I said, “Without any self-control, a revenant is
the
apex predator.”
“To the feral vampire,” Batten added, “you are just food that fights back, nothing more.”
Speaking of fighting back, I checked my go-bag for anything that might help. I’d left most of my weapons at home, other than my beloved little hand cannon, the Beretta mini Cougar, as they’d never have passed inspection at the airport or with Konrad Rask and his crew. I mentally reviewed what I had on my back.