Wrath and Bones (14 page)

That was a sobering thought. Was Malas Nazaire already here, stirring his house? Was Jeremiah Prost? Was Aston Sarokhanian? Would we get answers to questions I’d long given up on answering? Would I even be allowed to ask questions? I had so many. Had Malas Nazaire been shunned by the elder
Falskaar Vouras
for his shameful behavior with the hybrids? Was Prost being kept in line or was he still killing? Would Aston Sarokhanian tell us if Colonel Jack Batten alive or just a pile of dry old bones in someone’s dump pit? I stared out the heavy glass at the street as a plow went by, kicking a bright white tidal wave of snow onto the curb. Beyond the dark, starlit harbor, the snow-capped mountains were silent on the matter.

“I don’t think that’s it,” I said as we stepped into the elevator. I pressed three and we waited as it hauled us skyward. “The other guests are here with us, but they’re still very aware that they’re among regular humans in this place and are obeying human law. That’s not what’s bothering Harry.”

“He changed his mind awfully quick,” Batten said.

“It’s the twenty-first century. Anything can happen,” I said with a shrug. “But in the meantime,
nothing
better happen, because I’ve had enough of this shit.”

“He wants me around, babe.”

“Harry does not want you with us.”

“Doesn’t he?” Batten pressed the elevator button. “Think about it.”

I did. Other than keeping an eye on Kill-Notch, what could Harry possibly have to gain by pissing off revenants by bringing a known vampire hunter into their midst? His own prince would be displeased, not to mention an entire house of empathic DaySitters…

Empaths. I’d never been able to feel Batten’s fluctuating emotions, his devotions, his desires, with my Talent, even with him buried exquisitely inside me. I had to judge Batten’s intentions solely by his behavior, his words, and past experiences with him. But Harry felt Batten, and easily.

Batten looked like he was reading my mind, which was just gratuitously unfair. “Think of any reason Tall, Limp, and Pasty might want to keep me close by?”

Harry couldn’t feel love for me. He could feel devotion and loyalty, and did so with gusto, but love was for the living. Love was one of the many prices the undead paid for their immortality. However, Harry had hinted that he could experience something close to loving me, through his exploration of Batten’s feelings. Was Kill-Notch confessing that he had some small, budding love for me, or merely suggesting Harry wished it to be so? And would the truth be something I could handle, or something that would confuse me further?

“Dear Diary,” I said aloud, “Hammerfest is already a real joy. It's full of deer poop, posturing revenants, and has a Jerkface infestation. I’m the luckiest Groper in Gropetown.”

“Gropetown is also a crap business name,” Batten observed.

Somehow, I managed not to smack him upside the head with his beer.

THE ELEVATOR HAULED ME
up through layers of warring scents and feelings, and I was vaguely aware that I wasn’t entirely happy to see Batten, even though it had been my initial desire to bring him as Second. I snuck a peek at him out of the corner of my eye and was startled to find that the bulk of him had no physical effect on my normally overactive loins. Having him show up (
uninvited, Marnie, that’s what’s bothering you. The surprise. Like an ambush.
) claiming he wasn’t here to hunt revenants? It smelled fishier than Pike Place Market on an unusually warm Seattle afternoon.

When we got to my room, Harry wasn’t there. Our go-bags and my valise were, but he’d left without telling me where he was going. Perhaps he was settling Golden into her room and explaining the switch in Seconds. I dug out my phone to text her but got no reply.

I heard the soft noise of Batten’s weight settling on the bed. “My room is so far from yours.” I heard the subtle sarcasm while he continued, “I don’t feel unsafe at all in a city swollen with immortal visitors, some of whom are thousands of years old and want me dead.”

Then why did you come?
“No one will touch you while you are under Harry’s banner.”

“Banner?”

“It’s not a physical banner like the one at their strongholds. It’s an invisible claim. He’s marked you, as he has Golden.” I glanced over my shoulder to judge his reaction. He did a good job of not flinching but his expression darkened. “You belong to him, Kill-Notch, and through him, you belong to his prince. As much as the others might salivate at the thought of sinking their fangs into the throat of the most infamous vampire hunter in the New World, no revenant will touch you. Not while you belong to House Dreppenstedt.”

“Really?” he said flatly. “Like Gregori Nazaire didn’t touch what belonged to Harry in the cellar of Ruby Valli’s magic shop?”

“That might have been my fault,” I admitted. “I doubt you’ll make the same mistakes I made.”

“Let’s review those.”

I’d invited a starving Gregori to feed from my mouth with the understanding that he’d help me escape my chains with his renewed vigor. I’d been in a bad spot, waiting to die. I hadn’t seen many options in that cellar. My invitation, though, was naïve and ill-worded. Batten knew this; he just wanted to hear me say it, because who doesn’t love hearing me admit I’m wrong?

I bristled. “I’m not perfect. Not news. I’ve made mistakes, and I don’t need you to remind me.” I poked him in the chest. There were a hundred and eight kill-notch tattoos on his left pectoral now, three new ones added since he'd left the PCU. His last kill had been in self-defense, he said. Did I doubt him, or was Harry’s frustration blurring my senses and misplacing my doubts? “You’re not my boss, and you’re not my teacher. I don’t owe you explanations.”

He met my gaze steadily. “You don’t,” he agreed calmly, “but I’d like you to agree that maybe,
maybe
, you might want to practice thinking before you speak. Especially while you’re surrounded by ancient vampire aristocracy.” I opened my mouth to retort when he cut me off. “You land your ass is serious trouble, I can’t help you. Understand?” He showed me his empty hands in a gesture of helplessness. I wondered if he was taking body language lessons from Chapel. “Way out of my fucking league here.”

At least he recognized that. He swallowed hard and I heard a dry click in his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. Harry wasn’t the only one who was afraid.

Before I could say anything, he continued, “Frankly, I don’t care how extraordinary your fancy-pants dead guy is, I’m getting the distinct fucking impression that he’ll be up shit creek, too, if you open your yap and piss off a court of noble vamps.”

My mouth worked around a bunch of useless nonsense and finally settled on an old fallback position. “Don’t use the V-word. You know not to use it. You keep using it.”

“Don’t get me killed,” he challenged. “Yeah?”

“That’s the last thing I want,” I promised him. “Well, the second-to-last.” I reconsidered. “Third. Third-to-last.”

His expression soured further. “Uh huh.”

“I swear,” I said, but my irritation left me in a rush, and I was left swimming in a baffled miasma of humor and sheepishness. “And don’t you get us killed.”

“We take our cues from Harry. For now.”

I half-smiled. “Hey. You didn’t call him Tall, Limp, and Pasty that time.”

He stood from the bed to his full height, rolling his tight neck to relieve some tension. “He's not that tall.” I was tempted to throw my arms around him, but the mood didn’t feel right. He clenched and unclenched his jaw with a ripple of muscle. “Taking first cue from Harry: he expects me to sleep elsewhere.”

“What about your king crab?”

“I can call room service just as easily as you can.” He shot a thumb at the door. “Better get to it. Sure it’s safe?”

I wanted to say
fuck no,
you’ll be ravaged by marauding deer and frenzied revenants; you’d better stay with me tonight.
That thought must have shown on my face, because a big smile flashed across his, and for a moment all the snow in Hammerfest couldn’t have cooled me off. A real Mark Batten smile, all for me, encouraging, warm, and pleased.

His voice dropped. “Too many ears, here.”

“I’m not loud,” I lied.

His grin widened. “You will be. Another night, Snickerdoodle.”

 “I was just thinking of your satiety.”
No! Wait! Fuck!
“Safety
.
”

“Uh huh.” He wasn’t buying it. “You gonna be all right?”

Nope. You better hide me under your big, strong bod
. “Sure.”

“See you in the morning.”

I nodded and waved as he opened the door, figuring that was safer than speaking. Harry was in the hall, leaning against the wall with one ankle slung casually across the other. He was doing everything but whistling and cleaning his immaculate nails to make it clear that he was giving us privacy to say our good-nights, although how much privacy one could have from one’s immortal companion lingering outside a door, I couldn’t say; with his preternatural hearing, he’d heard not only every word but every skipped heartbeat. He smiled tightly at Batten in passing, then pushed off the wall and glided past me into the room. I shut the door.

“Should I have made myself scarcer?” He quirked his eyebrow, expecting me to deny the obvious lust rolling through my body and through the Bond.

“For at least another half hour. The Great White Shark’s gotta get her some.”

Harry drew out an
mmmhmmm
and gave me a knowing look. “We were maintaining our anger at the hunter for his blatant stalking behavior. What changed? Did our brawny lad flex a muscle or, Lord and Lady forbid, shift a button?”

“I’m not that easy,” I said.

“Lies? To me? How perfectly asinine.” He pursed his lips in mock indignation. “Take care not to treat Our Mark like a common drudge; even if that is precisely what he is, he won’t appreciate being looked down upon.”

“I never do.”
Do I?
“What about you? You do that to him all the time.”

He brushed the subject away. “Good news. I have decided on your outfit, Dearheart.”

“I need an outfit? What for?” I folded my arms. “Is it a leather catsuit? I’ve always wanted a catsuit.” I'd done time in a squirrel suit, but that wasn't the same thing
at all
.

“Heavens, no,” Harry said with a chuckle.

“I could rock a catsuit,” I informed him seriously. “I mean, not with my Keds; that would look silly. But with some thigh-high boots. Tell me I wouldn’t look hot.”

“I do believe I shall sidestep that landmine and point out that a court dress is far more suitable to the climate and the occasion,” Harry said, and I thought I caught a hint of a teasing smile flash across his lips, and an absolutely unfiltered wave of what he thought of my notions of playing dress-up once we got back to Shaw's Fist. He'd indulged my boots-and-apron-and-nothing-else requests with aplomb and spectacular results, so I could hardly begrudge him on that score.

“Okay, but if anyone else at the court-party-thing is wearing a catsuit,” I warned him, “you might never hear the end of it, and we both know I’m going to live a
loooooong
time.”

“Not nearly as long as you think if you do not remember your manners,” he replied primly.

I smiled as he eyeballed the length of my body. “Sorry. I’m sure I’ll love this court dress, Harry.”

“But of course, my love. I only hope your excessive brownie consumption hasn’t changed your dress size too drastically since the last time I shopped for you.”

I held up a finger. “I had
one
brownie, and you shopped for me last weekend.”

“Yes, one isn’t likely to forget dropping eight thousand dollars on vintage Valentino,” he purred. Sometimes, I wondered which he liked better: the dresses or the woman inside them. Or maybe it was the label and the price tag. Four hundred years of fetishes could do weird things to a guy.

I sighed. “Harry, I haven’t gained a whole dress size in a week. It's not even that time in my Shark Week cycle, sheesh.”

“Of course you haven’t,” he said congenially, but his tone was doubtful. “You must understand, darling
,
the garment I have my heart set on is a precious article of eighteenth-century dress, and I’d not like those generous breeder’s hips of yours to…” He sensed the flare of irritation that no doubt surged through the Bond, and chastised himself. “I’m being unforgivably rude, for certain. Forgive me, my spirited sparrow.”

“You’re not talking about an actual dress from the seventeen hundreds?”

“Oh yes, love. As I’m sure you’d noted previously about my kind, we do tend to hold on to the past rather vigorously.”

Duh
, I thought but carefully did not say. Not that it mattered to Harry, but none of the potentially eavesdropping revenants needed to hear it.

“At court,” he reminded, “you, indeed both of us, are accessories to one another, to our house, and to the court itself. You are there to see and be seen. To decorate and delight. To feast the senses and to impress others with your flair and finesse, your power and prowess.”

“Flair and finesse; that’s my specialty,” I drawled.

Harry smiled and stroked the turquoise lock back from my forehead, tucking it next to my long, black braids. He gave one a playful tug. “I will help smooth off your rough edges, my angel.”

With what, a rotary grinder? I didn't see anything in your luggage labeled DeWalt or Craftsman.
“Dying to see what you’re going to wear.”

He
tsk
ed me. “Do let me surprise you. I have a perfect
ensemble
in storage at Felstein for an occasion such as this.”

I pictured the portrait of Harry in my office, the lace cravat beneath his pale, dimpled chin. I said, “I’m sure Batten will be a great accessory.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I do believe, my cricket, you overestimate how useful an accessory Our Mark could be to anyone but yourself.”

“I dunno. I doubt any other house will have such a unique Second in tow. The infamous vampire hunter?”