Authors: A.J. Aalto
“Malas Nazaire,” he said.
“Still have a warrant to stake him?”
He nodded once. “In my kit.”
“And Prost?”
“Same.”
“Would you? If you could?”
He cut his eyes at me. “In a heartbeat.”
I thought about Declan Edgar, that funny little Irishman whom I’d assumed was a leprechaun, although leprechauns had been extinct since the early fifteenth century. He’d turned out to be a
dhampir
, born of a human mother and a revenant on his third day of his turning, just before the last drop of humanity left him forever. In Declan’s case, the revenant daddy in question was either Malas himself, or Harry's sire, Prince Wilhelm Dreppenstedt; his mother, Remy, had been turned against her will soon after giving birth by House Dreppenstedt to raise the
dhampir
child. Someone had had different ideas; Declan had been removed from his mother’s care, and Remy had been banished to somewhere called the Darkest Corner. Talk about a dysfunctional family. The rest of Declan’s history was spotty at best and horrifying in places, but my experience with him at the PCU had been, for the most part, wonderful (despite my bitching about him). When he’d had the chance to help me with some seriously nasty zombie shit, he had; then he’d helped Malas escape from a fairly effective prison on the off-chance that Malas would keep his word and help him find his mother.
If Declan was listed as Nazaire’s DaySitter by the
Falskaar Vouras
, I was assuming Malas had either kept that promise or was stringing Declan along. Was Declan Edgar feeding his immortal maybe-daddy? That made me feel vaguely squinky inside. What would it be like to see them both? I liked Declan. I understood what he did, and even most of
why
he did it. I didn’t like Malas being on the loose, especially since he was a murderous bastard who'd helped a necromancer breed hybrid zombies and nearly released a plague of them in Colorado. I was still having nightmares about torching muumuu-wearing she-zombies, and some nights I jerked awake screaming, “Don’t fuck with the Mega Max!”
“Does Hammerfest have an airport?” Batten asked.
“I sure as hell hope so,” I said. “I wonder how far away the Bitter Pass is. I wonder if they’ll blindfold us.”
“Assuming that taking my kit is pointless,” he said.
“Pretty sure they’ll be frisking for rowan wood long before you get to court,” I told him seriously, dropping my gaze to his ankles out of curiosity as much as habit. There was a bulge under his jeans at each; one would be the Taurus, his backup gun, and the other would be a rowan wood stake in a sheath. I didn’t think I had time to investigate him for other lumps of concealed weapons, but the urge to frisk Kill-Notch’s hard body was always present.
I looked back down at the invitation, which wasn’t an invitation at all but a summons; the flowery gold script, the cheerful smiley face drawn underneath Asmodeus’ signature and His title: Overlord of the
Falskaar Vouras
, Prince of the Second Circle, King of Lust, and Banker at the Baccarat Table of Hell. A goddamned smiley face. He
knew
I'd gotten laid, the smug, sassy, three-headed creeper.
“Guess I’d better take this home to Harry. He’ll be wondering about the text.” I considered Batten again, trying not to ogle. It was really good to see him again, even clothed. I hated the vulnerability of missing Jerkface, and feeling like maybe he didn’t miss me nearly as much. How had I let him become such a big part of my life, especially in the process of gaining my career independence? How had I reached a point where I was tempted to trust him completely? “If he asks you to act as my Second, are you going to say yes?”
“I’ll think about it.”
That was better than a no, and I knew better than to push; Batten would make up his own mind on his own schedule. I straightened the papers on the desk and peeked at him once more before getting into my parka. He glanced at the surface of the desk, checked out my boobs as I did my zipper up, and then grinned up at me. The enticement in those dark blue eyes grabbed me low in the belly. He leaned further back into his chair and his legs fell open in unspoken invitation; if I hadn’t been running late already, I’d have… nope, better to put that out of my mind for the time being. I had a flight to book as soon as possible.
I ogled his lap to reassure him of my continued temptation, then smiled and gave him a little finger wave that reminded me of the twerp across the street. For a second, I considered telling him about the noobtacular dealer we had for a neighbor then thought it might be more fun to watch him make the discovery himself. “I’ll be in touch.”
He just grinned.
“It doesn’t always have to be about crotch-touching, Kill-Notch.”
He didn’t look like he was buying it. When I left, he was still grinning.
HARRY, WES, AND I LIVED IN
the last cabin in a row of old converted summer cottages on Shaw’s Fist Road, which was little more than a stone path through dense forest leading to and around the mountain lake of the same name. The cabin wasn’t the ideal place for someone of Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt’s stature, but it was perfectly cozy, if a bit worse for wear. Harry had spoken with a builder to look at upgrading the kitchen, but I hadn’t committed to anything beyond replacing the old linoleum, which was still scorched from some assbag's Molotov cocktail before he got turned into a zombie and I blew him up. I guess I hadn’t replaced it because I liked the reminder of our survival.
Vampire hunters: 0, Marnie: 1.
Coming home to a single, exposed bulb lighting up the porch through the snow gave me the warm fuzzies. In the trees to the west, I could hear the bickering between Harry’s debt vulture, Ajax, and Wesley’s own vulture, which he’d named Homer. Harry had been mildly impressed with the literary choice until Wes admitted that he'd named the bird after the cartoon character. I pulled into my driveway, a little after dusk, and through our Bond I could feel Harry, awake and uncomplainingly hungry, moving through the cabin. There was smoke curling lazily out of the wood stove's chimney, and the air carried the comforting tang of it to me as soon as I got out of the car.
There was a strange mark on my front door. Under the fine, harsh glow of the halogen, it looked like a fancy arrow drawn in chocolate. I draw stuff there all the time; usually dicks, to amuse myself and the UPS lady. This was the first time someone else had scrawled something there. I shifted from foot to foot uncertainly for a moment, snow crunching under my Keds, then went ahead and sniffed the mark hesitantly.
Shit. Definitely shit.
There’s a poop arrow on my door.
If it was a green arrow, it might have been a superhero symbol, but I was pretty sure the Toxic Avenger didn't use an arrow as his calling card. Was this some random, drive-by fecal graffiti? Did my neighbors suffer similar nonsense? Or was it a message to me from a shitty admirer? Was it a threat? Did someone wanna shoot me in the butt? The fact that this didn’t surprise me at all was mildly depressing. The fact that it could be
many
people wasn’t reassuring, either.
“Okay, shitstain, your
artiste
better have their act together. I've had badass training.” It wasn't just bluster and bravado, either. Rob Hood had been dragging me out of bed five days a week for hand-to-hand combat, agility drills, time at the gun range, and runs through the forest, and Harry had done absolutely nothing to dissuade him. To the contrary, my Cold Company would usually set out a small cooler with bottled water and fruit while Hood was kicking my ass, so we wouldn't leave sweaty drip trails from the front door to the kitchen. It was working, too; I'd even given Hood a shiner when I caught him with a surprise elbow, and he was occasionally breathing heavily enough that he couldn't laugh at me. Harry also made me join him during his yoga practice, and while he would
tsk
softly and adjust my poses, there was no hiding the pleasure that trickled through the Bond as I got into positions that used to end up with me squawking and flailing and toppling over like a drunken game of Jenga. And other positions in Harry's basement lair, afterward, which Wes had finally learned to tune out.
I rolled my eyes up to the brittle stars and searched for the smug, winking one. Sure enough, it was there. “I don’t wanna know,” I told the Cosmos, but it wasn’t the Cosmos that answered.
The Blue Sense reported with a cold jolt that something other than the debt vultures was watching me; Hood's attempts at teaching me personal defense kicked in immediately as I felt someone approach. I tried to drop before they got a hold on me, but I'd miscalculated how fast they were. Two strong arms snatched me, encircling me at waist level, trapping my arms at my sides. I dropped again, forcing my attacker's body down, and then tried to jerk my shoulder up to hit them in the face. I didn’t have a good enough target. Their head back too far for me to connect. I clutched at my assailant's arms in an attempt to pry their fingers off me while my brain demanded,
Where the hell are Harry and Wes? I’m gonna die on the fucking porch, twenty feet from my revenants
?
I cut a glance at my attacker’s footwear as their arms tightened further; running shoes laced with red muck. I went to stomp on their instep, but the second I lifted my weight off that leg, they danced aside, still not letting go of their relentless grip.
The arms tightened a notch more and then stopped. That gave him away. This was no normal attacker. He wasn’t trying to drag me off into the cover of the dark woods. He wasn’t trying to throw me down. There wasn’t a strange vehicle nearby to toss me into.
I flared my nostrils to draw in his underscent; although he’d spit out his eucalyptus mint before attacking me, the scent lingered.
I smirked, giving up the struggle. “If this is your way of telling me you’re madly in love with me, your seduction methods need a lot of work, Hood.”
He grunted unhappily when I stopped fighting back. “You failed, and now you’re dead.”
“That kinda sexy talk is not gonna work with me.”
He dropped his arms. “Who are you kidding? That’s the only kind of sexy talk that would work with you.”
Point: Hood
. I stepped out of his hold and turned to face him. Sheriff Hood was a freckle-faced country boy, a natural redhead with a confident stride and an easygoing, forgiving nature; it was a good thing, too, since I’d blown up the shambling zombie that was once his chief deputy.
“Sorry, sheriff. Knew it was you. Stopped trying because you’re my friend and I was afraid I’d hurt you.”
He snort-laughed. “We try again next week.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “How’d you know it was me?”
“One, neither of the dead guys bothered to help me, which means they were expecting this to happen. Two, you only tightened to the point where I was stuck, not to where I couldn’t breathe or it hurt my ribs. Three, I can smell you. You smell like you. You might want to get some strange cologne to throw me off before trying again. And, most annoyingly, four, you anticipated and countered all my moves because they’re the ones you taught and drilled with me. A regular attacker wouldn’t know my repertoire.”
Hood nodded. “Noted. Next time, I crack a rib, if that’s what it takes to get this lesson through your thick skull.”
“The crap arrow was a nice touch. It made me pause long enough to give you a chance to attack.”
“The what?” He stared at my front door. “I didn’t do that. Are you sure it’s shit?”
I blinked with surprise. “Taste for yourself, but that sure ain't Godiva.”
He stepped closer to the door to peer at it, wrinkled his nose in disgust, and asked, “You wanna file a vandalism complaint?”
“Nah. Poop arrows happen.” I propped my gloved hands on my hips. “Next week doesn’t work for me.”
“You better have a good reason,” Hood said.
“I'll be in Norway saving the world from a troll invasion. I'm some kind of orcish war goddess or something.”
He looked me up and down, and shot me a two-fingered salute as he started back up the driveway. “You’ve got a weird life, Mars.”
I shouted at his retreating form, “Says the cop who attacked me on my own front porch. How long have you been freezing your gingersnaps off out here, anyways?”
“Harry told me when your flight was due in.”
“You need to get a life, Hood. You know what kind of people hang around their self-defense students' houses for hours around the holidays? Stalkers and psychopaths.”
I watched him go, admiring his lithe physicality in a purely clinical fashion. The complete lack of sexual appetite I had for Rob Hood made little sense to me; my badge-bunny instincts lusted for cops, and he was physically and emotionally solid. Maybe it was the hair? I’d never been into redheads or blondes. Just as well. Hood treated me like the little sister he’d never had, clay to mold, an ass to boot into shape. That was something I was quite content to have continue. Despite tonight’s failure, I felt way more competent since Chapel had asked Hood to train me. Each run made me faster and increased my endurance, every trip to the gun range made me sharper, every training class taught me new defensive tactics. Batten didn’t give me any credit for improvements, and Harry liked to roll his eyes, but I didn’t need their approval. I approved.
There was a big fire crackling in the sitting room when I got inside, but neither of my coldblooded housemates were huddled near it. I felt Harry’s presence downstairs in his chambers, and Wesley was already lurking in my office. It bugged me that someone had vandalized my front door while I was gone without Harry eating them, or at least making whoever it was unload some crap in their own pants. I didn't want to have to ask Chapel or Heather or Elian to check on the house while I was in Norway, lest I come home to an orgy of garden gnomes and a mailbox full of bat dicks. Wes would only be so much use, which is to say, minimal at night and none whatsofuckingever during the day.
Wesley came out to see me in the hall. “You’re going to Norway? Is that where the portal is, like BugBelly said? The invitation didn’t mention me? Aw, come on. I’m staying here? Who’s gonna help me learn the spell stuff? This blows.”