Wrath and Bones

WRATH & BONES

T
HE
M
ARNIE
B
ARANUIK
F
ILES
, B
OOK
F
OUR

A.J. A
ALTO

Booktrope Editions

Seattle, WA 2015

COPYRIGHT 2015 A.J. AALTO

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Cover Design by Greg Simanson

Edited by Rafe Brox

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.

PRINT ISBN 978-1-5137-0685-6

EPUB ISBN 978-1-5137-0786-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015920300

As always, when one writes a book, it feels like a solitary journey; crammed in your office alone, or scribbling at a coffee shop surrounded by people but completely separate from the crowd, there’s always a sense of being lost in the work. It’s critical, too, and not entirely a bad thing, until you look up and realize you’ve been lost there for days, weeks, a year, or more. We writers try hard to maintain connections in the real world, but sometimes our characters and make believe places take over. That’s why we appreciate so much those who understand our weird way of life.

I couldn’t do any of this without the support of my husband, Jason (a.k.a. the Viking), who shoulders my eccentricities with grace and a whole lot of silent eye rolling. My children, Jenny and Derek, temper my dance between reality and fiction with goofiness and humour. My editor, Rafe Brox, challenges me to do better in all things; he’s the little voice in the back of my head when I fall down, and the big voice on the phone when I need help getting back up. I’m not trying to say I need you, but I totally need you, Bossyboots McMeaniepants; if you die before me, I will reanimate your corpse as Zombie Editor. Don’t make me get the chicken feet.

I leaned quite a bit this year on the writers in our Bordies group, whom I love with the kind of warmth I don’t usually feel about real people… and not
pants
warmth, either, but heart warmth. A nuttier group of kookpies you’ll never meet, but supportive, wise, and a fabulous resource. Specifically, I’d like to thank MamaBear KD McCrite, science officer Gordon Bonnet, and ray of sunshine Christina Esdon for their amazing support. Love you guys!

I’d also like to thank my regular readers. When I have moments of doubt, or days where I can’t imagine continuing, or a less than stellar review has pricked me, your words of encouragement and your requests for more Marnie really keep me going. Sharing these adventures with you folks makes it far more fun. Thanks for trusting me when things seem dark. Thanks for sticking with me.

For Derek, my stalwart adventurer, my gentle champion, my needs-to-know-everything guy, my son.

Slow down a little. I like being your mom, and it’s going too quickly.

And please, I’m begging you: no more puns.

“REMIND ME WHY WE’RE
doing this? On a Friday night? The day after Christmas? With no pizza? And no beer?” Golden asked, standing on her tiptoes so her paint roller would reach the edging along the high ceiling.

“Nope,” I said, turning my binoculars out the frosty office window to peer at the silver Volvo shining beneath the streetlight across the street, commercial-grade parking job and all. No real people parked like that. They'd even got the five-spoked wheels perfectly aligned. The leather of my old tan gloves creaked as I fiddled, adjusting the focus, as if the frogs embroidered on the cuff were getting quietly jiggy; they provided a touch-psychic like me a valuable barrier between my psychometrically sensitive hands and the unfamiliar items in Mark Batten’s new house, any one of which could send me reeling with unwanted visions. Thin and supple though they were, they didn't do anything to diminish my innate klutz tendencies, and I over-corrected back and forth a bunch of times before I could see my target clearly.

“We’re here because of you,” she said. “You can’t say no to Batten.”

“I can so,” I murmured, tempted to believe my own words. I tried to imagine Batten asking me to do something to which I’d say no, but since he’s a sexy jerk, I nearly sprained my brain before giving up. “I didn’t have to say no; he didn’t ask.”

“You offered? You?” She paused in the process of dipping her roller in the tray, blowing her bangs out of her face with an upward puff of breath, then swiping at them with the back of her unoccupied hand. “But that’s a nice thing to do. You don't do nice. You do sneaky, or kooky, or clumsy, or awkwardly slutty, or exploding, or – ”

“I'll throw another zombie spider at your melon if you don't shut your wang-hole. I do the occasional nice thing when I think I’m going to get something out of it,” I reminded her primly.

She aimed the roller at me, and the plastic drop cloth rustled under her feet. “He’s not even here helping.”

“He’s out of town on a case.” In fact, Mark “Kill-Notch” Batten was not just out of town, but out of the country, somewhere in Bolivia; his new independent work as an international vampire hunter, unhindered by his old FBI rules, took him to far-flung places tracking monsters that had chosen not to play by the rules. I didn’t like to think about him adding to the collection of tattoos on his left pectoral with fresh black hashmarks, one for each revenant kill, but I
did
like to think of him chasing down other types of baddies, and I assumed, with unrepentant sexual immaturity, that he did so buck-ass naked, his bronze tan slick with sweat and his big muscles glistening in the sun.
Meowsa
.

“You’re thinking about him naked again,” Golden said with a sigh.

It was bad enough that my brother Wes was legitimately telepathic; having mundane-as-fuck Heather Golden peg me like that was intolerable, even if I was totally obviously ogling Batten's ass in my mind. I had to change the subject, fast. “Nu-unh,” I lied, as tonight’s prey came into sight. “I’m checking out this dweeb.” White kid. Early twenties. Shirt. Tie. Clean shave. Bright smile at the Mustang pulling in his driveway.

My name’s Marnie Baranuik, and being nosy comes with the territory. I’ve worked as a forensic psychic for both Gold-Drake & Cross and the FBI’s Preternatural Crimes Unit. But now, I was flying solo, opening my own psychic detective agency. How I was going to manage as a business owner was anyone’s guess. Since I could pick my own cases, I expected a lot less ghoul scum and fewer opportunities for being chased around in my underpants by zombie Labradoodles. Blowing away human zombies with Diet Dr. Pepper, propane canisters, and kitty litter was still totally on the table, though. I was, I reminded myself, a badass. Now, I just happened to be a badass with tax paperwork. Oh, Goddess, I was turning into an adult. Abort, abort!

“Besides, it’s
our
office,” I continued. “I’ll be using it, too. I just volunteered us to paint while he’s gone, that’s all.”

“That’s awfully domestic. You hit your head on the refrigerator door the other night?”

“Whoa, slow your roll, troll,” I said. “I’m not helping him pick out fucking curtains.”

“You’re not painting, either,” she said. “I am.”

Point: Golden
. “I will, I will,” I promised, “but Volvo Boy’s bugging me.”

She put her roller down and stepped over the mess, weaving through sheet-covered furniture to cross the room. The office was in the front of Batten’s house, a cute two-bedroom-one-bath with a fenced back yard, compact and cozy, perfect for one guy. I hadn’t thought any further than sharing an office, because the idea of pursuing anything domestic with Kill-Notch made me queasy.
Didn’t I already have a serious domestic arrangement with Harry? Can you have more than one of those?
Come to think of it, I doubted I'd ever seen Batten cook; he'd always come over to my place, where Harry did the cooking, and filched the beer I bought specifically because I knew he liked it.