Wrath and Bones (15 page)

Harry gave this the benefit of further consideration. “Standing ready at my heel, answering my call, loyal to me alone while remaining a danger to all others, tamed by House Dreppenstedt and collared by my DaySitter?”

Collared.
Like a pet cat, or in Batten’s case, a pet jaguar. “Easy there, big fellah. Our prince won’t be pleased to see Batten. But then, our last meeting didn’t go much better, did it?”

“My prince will no doubt be perturbed by our choosing the lad, but the court will be impressed. Oh, you’re right, my pet, how the others will positively
seethe
with envy.” Having settled that, he clapped his hands. “Right. Into bed with you. You are past tired.”

“I’ll never sleep here, with all this swirly-whirly psychic activity,” I vowed, slipping into my worn, sloppy night shirt; it was red and had a sleepy cartoon moose on it wearing bunny slippers and waving a limp Canadian flag. My sister, Rowena, had sent it to me after my last visit home. I took it as a kind of peace offering, and sent her one in return with a chubby cartoon mountain lion on it.

“My Own, I think you should happily discover that this is untrue. This eve, as the frigid Arctic wind faffs upon the sturdy shelter offered by our inn, we have one another for comfort, and that is all that truly matters tonight. I will clear your mind for you. Up.” He gestured at the bed.

“Faffs. I’m guessing faffering doesn’t mean what I think,” I said, popping into the pouch made by the tightly-tucked sheets. I felt like I was stuffing a Marnie pierogi.  “Did you check on Golden?”

“She’s acquiesced to stay behind in Norway, now that I have upgraded her to a suite. She claims she is feeling unwell and is much happier to remain in bed with room service. Perhaps it is only a kazzardly case of woofits,” he said. “Only, by the way she groans, one would think she had the sinkings.”

I snort-laughed. “Whatever all that is. That's extra-gibberishy gibberish, even by your standards.”

Harry showed me a tolerant smile and stood beside the bed for a long moment. I felt his hunger stirring lazily, but he was content to ride the urge for a while; I knew he’d enjoy the anticipation of his feed, as he always did, nearly as much as the feed itself. Through the Bond, I felt the saliva sting his tongue and the slow, steady push of his fangs as they elongated from their soft pocket behind his human canines.

I remembered my Grandma Vi’s advice in Marie-Pierrette’s journal:
always keep your Cold Company comfortable
. She had written this as an addition to Marie-Pierrette’s second canon:
a warm vampire is a fair and gentle companion
. I didn’t wish to rush him, but I also didn’t want to lay here for an hour while he stared at me.

“How does my pet?” he asked.

I pulled back the sheets for him. “Tired like a two dollar hooker on a Friday afternoon.”

“Always a lady,” he remarked drily.

“I’m very fucking tired, Cold, Dark, and Handsome. Come get warmed up before I fall asleep on you.”

“I should like to think you know by now that I do not prefer my pet to be unconscious during our intimate moments together.”

“Mmmhmm,” I assured him, patting the bed. “Then you’d better hurry up.”

“As you wish, my
petite collation au coucher
,” he said, and flashed a full-fanged smile.

***

Even after Harry’s deep feed and a comforting snuggle, I couldn’t sleep. While he propped himself up in bed with his
pince nez
and his Proust, I went up three floors to find Golden. Curious to see if she was really sick or just happy to laze about, I slipped off a glove and flicked a testing fingertip at her doorknob; too many images spilled into the front of my mind, scrambled like some film editor had done a bunch of meth and spliced a hundred movies together in random snips.  I withdrew my hand like the doorknob was hot and took a soothing inhale through pursed lips, laying my hands out, palms down and waiting for the Blue Sense to stir.

I wasn’t prepared for how quickly my Talents responded here. The Blue Sense was not a lazy swirl of psi, but the yank of a big fish hooked during a riptide. A surge of power rattled through my bones, and I struggled for a moment to tame it, surprised at its vigor. All the black ghost hairs on my scalp had prickled, but I willed the churning rush of psi to settle down. When it had quieted, I sent it sloshing outward into Golden’s room, seeking feelings, calculating and weighing.

As I suspected, Golden was fine. She answered my knock on the door prepared to fake some kind of wellness complaint, but I headed her off, shoving my glove back on.

“Harry said you were okay with staying,” I said before any greeting. The beginning of an
I’m-so-sick
lilt to her voice cleared up immediately. “You don’t need to convince me. I’d rather be in bed for the duration, too.”

She smirked and motioned me in. “To be fair, I
am
tired.”

“As soon as I saw Batten downstairs, I knew Harry wasn’t going to let him out of our sight. Not here. Not in the court of power. Can’t have Harry’s pet vampire hunter running lose in the Arctic. What
will
the neighbors think?” I popped gloved hands over my cheeks and mimed shock and shame.

“You’re taking this well,” she replied. “Everyone has lied to you at least once today. How’s that sitting with you?”

I chuckled. “You sound like Dr. Phil. ‘How’s that workin’ out for you?’”

“So, Batten shows up in Norway after telling you he wasn’t coming, and after Harry specifically didn't invite him,” she reviewed, as though I wasn’t grasping the facts, “and Harry told you I was sick so you wouldn’t feel bad about replacing me with Batten.”

“So, when did
you
lie to me?”

“It wasn't exactly a pickle that was excellent in Micklewallop.”

I grinned. “Bizznatch.”

A ridiculous charade. Did Harry think so poorly of my own Talents to think I wouldn’t know? Why bother lying? You’d think after a decade as his DaySitter, I wouldn’t be surprised by his insistence on pointless little lies and games. Sometimes, he lied because he thought it was best. Sometimes, he lied for his own entertainment. It was a quirk I’d grown to accept if not always anticipate.  Of course Harry made shit up; when did Harry
not
make shit up? I should change his ring tone to Voltaire's “USS Make Shit Up.” It would serve the preternatural prevaricator right.

I said, “Oddly enough, I don’t really care.”

It was true. At the moment, the men in my life were not the issue bothering me, unless I misjudged the source of my discomfort.

Golden flopped on her bed. “If it makes you feel any better, the ‘sick’ part will be true tomorrow or the next day. I haven’t had a real vacation in years, so I’m going to drink stuff I can't pronounce until I barf.”

“Do that,” I suggested. I looked around for nearby garbage cans, since the carpet looked awfully nice and it would be rude of her not to at least try and keep it that way. I hooked one out from under the desk and scooched it over towards the bed with a little more force than was probably warranted.

“What’s with you?”

I sighed. “What’s with your face?”

“Nice people skills. You backsliding?”

“Shut your dick-shiner.” I wandered the room, poking things. “Sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Do you want that alphabetically, or in order of importance?” she asked helpfully. I liked her a lot for it, and felt my lips slide into a crooked smile.

“I’m feeling tired and cranky and a little numb. And other things.”

“Such as?”

“You don’t wanna hear about it. I dragged you halfway around the world only to leave you stranded in a hotel. I came to apologize.”

“You didn’t ask me to come, and you didn’t ask me to hang out here.” She reached one finger out and poked at one of the crystals on the bedside lamp’s pull. “Yeah, this is gonna be rough,” she laughed. “I’m in a deluxe king sized suite with all my room service covered and spa services every day. There are probably a thousand strapping Vikings and Valkyries in this town who could show an abandoned American tourist with time on her hands some local hospitality.”

She made a very compelling argument, and if I didn't have to be some kind of decorative revenant court muffin and prevent the Trollpocalypse, I'd be all about a week of that kind of thing. I nodded, feeling a bit better. “You should be perfectly safe here. You’re still under Harry’s banner of protection.”

She nodded, and I knew Harry had explained it to her. “So what’s wrong? I mean, beside the whole ‘harbinger of war’ and ‘stalked by a vampire hunter’ stuff?”

“I’m feeling… uninspired.”

“Sexually?” She drew the word out and made it sound dirty.

“Weird, right?” I let out a long, baffled exhale. “I’m still taking my little white vitamins, the bremelanotide. I’ve even got permission. I just can’t get excited.”

“About…?”

“Anything.” I knew what she meant: was I less excited about Harry, Mark, or my own body? Was I turned off by everything, or something in particular?

She gave this some thought. “Are you depressed? You said numb.”

“Maybe? Generally?” I shrugged.

“You’re going to the seat of power where all the oldest, noblest revenants live and rule. That doesn’t excite you a little?”

“It should. It’s my first time. Instead, I’m feeling out of touch with reality, petulant. I don’t want to be touched.”

“Maybe it has something to do with what’s coming. Maybe dread is killing your vibe.”

“Dread is not the best aphrodisiac,” I agreed, “though it’s never stopped me before.”

“Before I forget, I overheard something when I was fetching a bottle.” She motioned with a thumb to a bag which must have contained whatever her liquid agenda for the evening was. “It didn’t make sense to me, but maybe it will be important to you. There.”

The Blue Sense relayed a bit of disappointment when she mentioned
there
; as much as she was okay with staying behind, she had been looking forward to the experience of visiting the seat of revenant power.

She continued, “Someone said ‘Prost won’t show.’ I remembered that name from a PCU file Chapel had mentioned. That was, Buffalo, right?” When I confirmed that with a nod, she went on, “Then they mumbled something I didn’t hear, and the first one said ‘the doctor is a combat SAMBO champion,’ and then the other said there was ‘no rowan wood except in the sky’.”

I considered things, and made a mental note to jot it in my Moleskine ASAP. It sounded important, though it made little sense to me.
Rowan wood in the sky?
“Thanks for keeping your ears open. And thanks for being cool with the change of plans.”

“Hey, what are friends for?”

I didn’t have many of those, so I didn’t have a good answer to that. “I owe you.”

She grinned. “You’ll be paying me in spa treatments and room service, trust me.”

THE LIGHTS IN THE HALLWAY
of the north wing were dim, since the hotel had sequestered all their revenant guests in a block of rooms there. That made sense; if you had a host of undead guests in VK-Delta all day, the housekeeping staff would know not to wander into any room there until after dusk. I strolled through the carpeted hush of an abandoned lounge, passed the glass wall fronting an empty swimming pool. A little restaurant was open, but the hostess stared at her cell phone, smiling down at her texts, thumbing away. Behind her, all the tables were available. 

I heard a sharp, breathy
pssst
and skidded to a halt by the men’s room. The door was propped open by the shiny black tip of a man’s boot. The lights within were off, offering a slice of dimmer nothingness. I frowned at the boot, wondering why the person who belonged to said foot wasn’t showing his face at the crack in the door. My first thought was,
nope, can’t be a good thing
, but upon consulting the Blue Sense, I picked up only an eager need to connect, or, rather,
reconnect
. There was a touch of anxiety and the subtle undertow of worry, as though the person behind the door really didn’t want to face me at all, but was doing so anyway. Taking a deep breath and steeling myself against my natural expectation of imminent demise, I lifted my chin and said a quick prayer.
Got my back, Dark Mother?

It wasn’t the first time I’d thrown open the men’s room door and pushed my way into the forbidden territory of urinal cakes and lolling todgers, but it was the first time I’d done so in the dark. I readied my fists of fury in case I needed to chuck knuckles. The door swung shut, revealing a familiar face.

Declan Edgar gave me a worried, sheepish smile above a frilly lace cravat. “Hi?” He made it a question, as though wondering if I’d go ahead and use the fists even — or especially — after I saw who it was.

I lowered them to my side. “Hello?” I answered, equally uncertain as to how I felt about seeing him.

I gave him a full inspection: he looked like he was ready to visit Louis XIV at Versailles, done up in layers of silk, lace, and velvet, tights and buckled half boots. His blackthorn walking stick was tucked behind his back. He looked accustomed to the fancy duds. His tidy but soft pot belly had been accommodated in custom tailored black velvet, ruffles and flourishes hiding and flattering in turn. There was only an emergency light on, high above his head, casting a soft green glow that glossed his unruly black curls into an eerie Halloween wig.

“Can we have some more light,” I asked, “or are you going for some ‘romantic interlude in the shitter’ ambiance? We gonna make out like club kids, Irish?”

Declan let out a soft
heh
and reached slowly toward the wall to flick on the light.  “I’m guessing you wouldn’t be up for sucking face with me, Dr. B.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said. “I often make out with dudes I’d like to punch.”

He laughed then, that familiar, warm, caramel-sweet belly laugh that had a tendency to dissolve my defenses and made him instantly more likable. “Is that it, then? You don’t want me to grovel and beg your forgiveness?”