Wrath and Bones (10 page)

The answers to that were myriad and ridiculous, and I pushed them away as I went to the boathouse. There weren’t many ways I could protect the house while I was halfway around the world, but I knew one that worked reliably well: the witch bottle. I aimed an experimental thought at my brother:
dig a hole by the front door, twelve inches deep and five inches wide
. I didn’t know if his telepathy skills worked like that or from this far away, but it was worth a try. It's not like my thoughts went to voice mail.

The boathouse door was unlocked, as I knew it would be; I’d been chiding, bordering on haranguing, Harry and Wes about it for months, but it was useless. Harry’s car, a Ferrari Scuderia Spider in
rosso corsa
red, was parked inside for the winter, and much of the cabin's blood supply was in the chest freezer, both valuable enough, I thought, to at least keep some damn doors locked.

I flipped on the overhead light and went to the potting shelf to reach for one of the mason jars stored there. I tossed in several nails, sorting through the nail jar for the rustier ones, and grabbed a box cutter so I could steal the razor blade from it. I wrapped an empty glass bottle in an old towel and whacked it against the shelf, shattering it and breaking up the larger pieces, then brushed them carefully into the jar. After peeling off a glove, I used the neck of the broken bottle to jab my fingertip just enough to draw a dot of blood. Running my bloody fingertip along the mouth of the jar, I took a moment to look inward, searching for that sacred part of me that commanded power, that called the Watchtowers, that summoned magic. Over the years, finding this place had become easier, but it never became effortless. A wise witch always stopped to mark the well of the divine; taking magic for granted was a good way to have something go
wham-bam-kablooie
right in your face. I should know. I’d spent a lot of time with
kablooie
giving me a big old money shot.

At the first liquid stir of potency in my belly, I relaxed and drew it forth, rubbing the blood along the rim.

“Merry-match my veins to Earth / Cernunnos, I summon forth / Steel and needles, nails and pins / Soil and toil, and blood of sins.”

The Earth magic was quick to respond with a rush of strength and solid warmth under my feet, making me feel sturdy and grounded. I invited the power through me, conducted it up and up until it spilled down my arms and into the jar. The nails rattled in unison just once and then settled.

Harry pushed his unearthly whisper from the back of the mudroom, his audiomancy making him heard from the distance; it never failed to send a shiver crawling down the back of my neck. “Dearheart? Our ride is waiting.”

Already?
Damn. Dead guy was in a hurry. “Can you pack my travel herb kit? It’s on the desk. Also, my disguises.”

Harry didn’t answer, but I could  sense his impatience through the Bond as he withdrew into the cabin; while he respected my spiritual needs and knew damn well my magical talents were real and powerful, he always felt my kitchen witchery was far more useful at home than abroad, especially when I traveled with him. Maybe he was right, but it was better to be prepared than to be caught short of a bit of salt or clary sage if it was needed.

I began rolling the jar between my hands, focusing on the light reflecting off of its contents, a single drop of blood swirling along one side as it descended in a twisting path. “Guard of gate, ward of door / Watching towers, seeing more / Vine and fire, twist and spin /  Home and Hearth and love within.”

I couldn't ignore the building warmth of the jar as I put the lid on and screwed it tight, then booked it across the yard to the back steps. When I came into the mudroom, Wes was putting away the shovel behind the door.

“You don’t have to yell,” he said, annoyed. “I was watching Dr. Phil.”

“Sorry to have interrupted such riveting TV,” I apologized, moving into the kitchen with my brother on my heels. “I didn’t know whether or not you’d hear me. Harry, is everything packed?”

“I suppose it must be, as your go-bag was full. Do you have anything you’d like to add to it?” He wrinkled his nose at my witch bottle, but wisely said nothing, linking his hands casually behind his back.

I remembered BugBelly’s warning about the stinky mummy and went to the linen closet to grab a few N95 surgical masks from the box there, and a few pairs of latex gloves, because goo lurks everywhere. I also grabbed my silver barber scissors, after taking a moment to hack off the bottom eight inches of my freakishly long ghost braids over a trash can and re-secure them. I snagged an extra pair of knee socks – frog ones with stripes – and my brand new Kitten Kewt nail polish in Pussylips Pink, because I may be a balls-out monster hunting bitch, but at the end of the day, I’m still a fucking lady. I briefly considered bringing Mr. Buzz, but decided against; this trip was not a pleasure cruise, even with both Harry and Batten in my retinue. On my way back to the front door, I crammed on the hat that Constable Schenk had knit for me and scooped up a few extra pairs of leather gloves; a Groper can never be too careful. 

Golden appeared behind Harry to announce that our go-bags were packed in the limo where Viktor was waiting to drive us to the airport. Viktor was an undead Chukotka ogre, a revenant bodyguard whom we had utilized several times; he scored a solid eight on the Creep-Me-Out Meter, in that he had more than a passing fondness for cold bodies, he was practically non-verbal, he would have dwarfed most WWE wrestlers, and his black-eyed inspection of me was far from comfortable. I was glad that he remained in the limo, and did my best not to cast a worried glance at my baby brother. Viktor would guard Wes when Wes rested in VK-Delta during the daytime while we were gone, because Viktor did not require rest. At least I knew nothing would get past Viktor, so the only thing to worry about was Viktor himself. I told myself that Wes would be fine, and I almost believed it.

I gave Golden the crook-eye. “Since when does an FBI agent load your bags for you, Lord Dreppenstedt? That’s a perk I hadn’t realized was available. Is she going to play stewardess, too?”

She smirked. “Harry bought the Boulder field office a new private jet. Chapel lets him borrow it if he keeps it fueled up. I thought you knew.”

“I don’t know a lot of things,” I retorted, then heard it. Golden just smiled.

Harry bowed with a little flourish of his hand at her. “And are you quite ready, yourself, my dear?”

I blinked with surprise. “
She’s
coming to Hammerfest?”

“
She
has a name, my pet,” Harry clucked. “She’s not the cat’s mother.”

I sighed, having no idea what a cat’s mother had to do with anything. “Fine. Bitchface is coming to Hammerfest?”

“Being our Second, I should say Ms. Golden will be joining us on the entire journey, through draft and disaster, to face the fogbank of uncertainty, and I cannot envision a more stalwart advocate.”

I spluttered in confusion. “Hold yer nuts, there, dead guy. Let me get this straight. You asked
Golden
to be our Second instead of Batten? No offense, but he could totally take her in a fight, as long as she didn't throw any spiders at him.”

Harry’s pale, elegant hand made a flippant gesture, as if flicking aside my concerns, and he practically purred, “While I’m sure your loins would have preferred that I invite your little love-toy along, my pet, I think you’ll find that the carrion hunter did not suit my purposes, nor would he have been a fitting advocate to present before our house and before the court. I had to call in with your Second’s name for approval, and not a soul complained about Ms. Golden. I fear the result would not have been the same if I’d announced Mr. Batten to our prince; Wilhelm prefers to be the hunter, not the hunted. Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“But he’s already been absent!”
Dammit, I should have porked Batten in the office.

Harry flipped his Devonshire Bowler hat deftly atop his hair and challenged me with an innocuous smile.

“I see,” I said, folding my arms over my chest. “And do you expect
me
to inform Batten that he’s not joining us?”

“You may suppose that I am gentleman enough to have already broached that difficult conversation on your behalf.”

“Uh huh.” How had
that
gone? Probably with lots of crisp English twaddle and archaic gobbledygook, punctuated by Batten's grunts. I wondered if Batten was still Googling whatever the hell Harry had said.

Harry’s cashmere grey eyes caught mine, waiting expectantly, daring me to continue kvetching. When I balked, he nodded, satisfied. “I am nothing if not your uxorious companion and most ardent admirer.”

“Some days, you exhaust me, Harry.”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug. “This in no way surprises me; of late, your resilience leaves much to be desired, and your concentration is likewise lacking.”

I opened my mouth to retort, saw that he was waiting for me to prove his point, and chose instead to show him my sour-puss
we-are-not-amused
face.

Golden’s grin was surprisingly smug, even for her. “I hate to interrupt, but we need to get going, right?”

“Fine.” I huffed. “Let me settle the jar and then we can go.”

“We shall be away for some time, I suspect,” Harry told me. “You may have a moment or two to call Mr. Batten up and say goodbye.”

“Oh, may I? Pretty please?” I asked, clutching my gloved hands in a faux-plead under my chin. “Thanks for your kind permission, Lord Dreppenstedt.”

“So much sass,” he lamented on an unnecessary exhale, glancing meaningfully at Golden, “whilst I am willing to put my own needs and wants aside and grant her nothing but patience and time. Madam, do you see it?”

“I’m aware of the sass,” Golden agreed, giving me a cheeky grin. She knew she was going to hear about this later, but seemed unable or unwilling to resist the urge to mock me. She gave Harry a commiserating sigh. “That sass is all I ever see.”

“You’re both gonna see a whole fuckbucket of sass if you keep this shit up.” I dialed Batten’s phone, but as I rather expected, he didn’t pick up. Instead, I got a terse reply via text:
Busy. Will talk soon
.

Great
. I would have preferred to have Batten along with me, especially for the troll part. I remembered BugBelly’s guidance: this scout had to be made to believe that an invasion would go badly for him. I had to put on a good show. Batten would have helped that show.

Golden jogged down the frosty driveway and disappeared into the warmth of the limo. I aimed my phone at Harry when he glanced at me with a sheepish smile. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Dearheart, you mustn’t doubt me so,” he said with an innocent flutter of his lashes. “Only, I am always thinking of what is best for my beloved pet.”

“And what’s best for me is Heather Golden?”

“As our Second?” Harry said carefully, and I felt the subtle sinking deep in my bones that indicated that Harry was blurring my access to his feelings through our Bond. “In this instance? Oh, absolutely.”

I glanced at Wes, who was not doing a very good job of pretending he wasn’t reading Harry’s mind like it was a neon sign. He nodded once, as subtly as possible. Beside the porch was a disturbed mound of soil and a very nice little hole in the frozen ground; being a revenant with immortal strength, it had taken Wes only a minute to perform the task that would have had me scraping and sweating and grumbling and possibly failing. I settled the jar into its new home and covered it over.

I twisted the turquoise lock of ghost hair at my temple and tucked it into my braid; black and blue, it reflected my mood. “Harry, you’re not bringing Golden along to toss her in a volcano or feed her to a dragon or anything, are you?”

“If that were my plan, would you prefer to sacrifice Mr. Batten?” he asked, and seemed genuinely interested in my reply. His preternatural probing flooded my brain cells with cold pressure.

“I’m not answering that.”

“Please do, my sweetest sugarplum,” he encouraged, indicating that I should get in the limo. “This conversation has taken a turn toward interesting, and one wonders which of your mortal companions you’d be most willing to part with should the need arise.”

I marched down the porch steps. “The need shouldn’t arise.”

“But if it does…”

I shot him an admonishing glare over my shoulder and caught the glimmer of teasing in his eyes.  But that wasn't all that was there, either.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE GOLDEN
is our Second,” I said with a big sigh, taking my iPad out of my go-bag to fetch my email. “Must everything go wrong?”

Golden looked up from her notes. “I think you meant to say, ‘Wow, I can’t believe she agreed to take time out of her busy schedule to go who-knows-where, into weird danger, just to have my back.’ Right?”

“Busy schedule? You PCU peeps haven’t had a case in two months. De Cabrera blabbed. He blows up my phone when he gets bored, and half the time, it's nothing but emojis. Was he a mime in a previous job or something?”

“There’s that sass,” Golden commented.

“Sorry. I over-feathered my hair this morning and can’t think past it.” I smiled at her and she smiled back, sticking out her tongue.

Harry settled into a wide, white leather seat and began to remove his grey cashmere gloves one finger at a time. “Under no circumstances are you to forget: needs must when the devil drives.”

“Yeah, well Old Scratch better not be our pilot,” I said, “on this plane or on this journey. He can’t fly for shit.” Golden cast me an inquisitive glance and I said, “Fallen angel joke. Never mind. Did you get a chance to read those notes I gave you?”

“Going through them now. Kind of a lot to wrap my head around.” She shifted papers on her lap. “What are you working on?”

“Was going to make some damn sense out these old maps. What’s this say?” I squinted at our itinerary. “Not sure I want to go somewhere called Turgid-ogre-butt.”

Harry’s thrice-pierced brow twitched with amusement. “Perhaps you mean Turgonorjbatt, Dearheart?”