Wrath and Bones (20 page)

The black water, seen up close, was far from smooth. The ship churned through dark slush in patches, and pale, glowing, snakelike appendages writhed beneath the surface, looking like part of something much bigger lurking in the deep, slowly uncoiling in the soupy mess. As the ship slid past, these luminous fingers perused at the water’s surface, as if tasting the wake of our passage. I stepped back from the rail just in case, but Rask hadn’t warned against being snatched by giant squid tentacles, and neither had Harry, so I figured I was safe onboard. I wouldn’t like to go plunging into that dark water in a colony of those whipping tentacles.

I wondered about all the revenants taking ships to get to Svikheimslending; when an immortal crossed running water, be it a trickling stream or a vast ocean, it lessened their powers. Declan always took ships; in that way, he was able to decrease his preternatural signature and land in America largely “unseen” by the senses of other immortals. (“
All the best by sea and sail.”)
Malas hadn’t been aware of a new immortal in his territory until Declan had crossed into the Denver area, approaching as his powers rebounded. Would all those arriving by ship have their powers temporarily squelched? It did allow for a quiet, unobtrusive arrival, but it also left those who were accustomed to being powerful much more vulnerable.

In the dense fog, I thought I heard the low drone of a foghorn. That could hardly be; we were so far from any land that—
there it is again
. Rask paid it no notice, but he did cut his eyes to me, tasting, as any immortal would, my rise in anxiety. He didn't break his plodding, prowling silence to reassure me with words, but the weight of his command settled on my shoulder as palpably as if he’d lowered one of those big mitts across it, and with a single dip of his chin he declared he had everything in hand. I almost believed, in that moment, that the fog was his doing, horn and all. After a long stare out at that black blanket, fog thickening and creeping in around us, I fled belowdecks.

Unlike Rask, Harry hadn’t stopped talking, going into overdrive the minute I was within earshot. He was now swathed in furs in elegant little sleeping quarters that were set up for revenants of an older time; a little pot stove burned coal, the small writing desk was stocked with ink and quills, and a big tub was filled with water. I stared at the water as it sloshed slowly back and forth with every subtle pitch and yaw of the ship.

Harry’s yammering mouth had as many instructions for me as he had criticisms for Batten, who was apparently too common, too simple,
and
too complicated, depending on the second-to-second fluctuations of Harry’s mood. It seemed the closer we got to our destination, the more wound up my Cold Company became. Little by little, the fine threads of Harry’s decorum were unraveling. After each accusation, Batten would shoot me a questioning look; this was an amazing improvement on his former method of dealing with Harry. Last year, Batten would have answered back with a shot of his own. I didn’t know if Batten’s change in behavior was based on respect for my feelings where Harry was concerned, or an increased understanding of Harry’s fickle moods and how to navigate them using the enthusiasm of my eye rolls as a guide. 

I interrupted Harry’s latest tirade about torn denim trousers and farmer’s tans with a question about Harry’s debt vulture that I knew Harry wouldn’t be able to resist. “Why does Ajax never follow you to the revenant homeland, Harry?”

“Given enough time, he would attempt to,” he answered, and the subject seemed to distract him. He looked fresh as a prince in top and tails at Royal Ascot, but I felt his exhaustion through the Bond; he had barely fed and hadn’t rested. Travel was hard on good days, but traveling under the pressure of an imperious summons, much less in the company of a vampire hunter, was starting to wear Harry down. “In order to come through the Bitter Pass, a debt vulture would have to face Mithridates and the eternal bright night of the
jiekngasaldi
, where local truth is different than reality. It confuses them greatly.  Occasionally, a debt vulture manages to traverse these obstacles— the
jiekngasaldi
is, after all, a blessed place inhabited by children of light — and continues its search. It will reach the
mare tenebrosum
off Svalbard; as creatures of Heaven, they will be repelled. Pure light cannot bear the weight of this shadow.”

The fog.
Konrad Rask’s fog
? I didn’t voice this suspicion.

Batten, having been relieved of all his belongings except his gun upon boarding the
Meita
, made an insecure noise. “And those of us who are also creatures of light? What happens to us?”

Harry blinked in surprise at him, and then threw back his head to laugh heartily.

I snort-laughed. “Good one, Kill-Notch.”

Batten ran his tongue along the front of his teeth as though he was insulted by our amusement, but there was a soft lift in the corners of his lips; he’d cut the tension on purpose by offering himself up as a joke. He confirmed this with a sly wink at me. I liked him a lot for that.

Harry pressed a hand to his belly to quell his mirth, but it still leaked from his mouth. “You must not worry about environmental factors, my dreadnaught. I fear that your undoing will be your own misbehavior.” His ash grey eyes settled on me. “And you, my dove… at all times must you follow me. Right here.” He tapped the back of his left thigh like he was calling a dog to heel. “This is your place.”

“Your butt?”

Harry looked nonplussed, and Batten couldn't clench down fast enough not to blurt out a quick laugh.

“Don’t I always follow you?” Harry and Batten gave me matching looks that were an insulting blend of
are-you-kidding
and
knock-that-shit-off
. “All right, I’ll try.”

“You must not get lost at Svikheimslending, my Only One. There are myriad dangers for a mortal, especially a DaySitter. Third Canon: One who has been tasted by death…” He trailed off with an expectant look, waiting for me to fill in the rest.

“Is a warm invitation to the fang,” I obliged.

Harry nodded approvingly. “The blood of a mortal who regularly feeds the undead is a seduction that wets the enamel. When you are not at my side, you are at risk. They will sniff out your submission. The oldest ones will work very hard to honor banners and respect boundaries, but their Youngers may not have the same willpower.”

“Blerg,” I said, trying not to think of some of the grey, dead mouths I’d seen in the past thirsting for my neck. I flashed back to an unfortunate tongue-feeding in a basement, a shrunken Gregori Nazaire and his dislocating jaw, his two sets of massive yellow fangs. Not all revenants were as appealing as my Harry. Then again, our Bond assured that I would only ever see my own Cold Company in the most appealing light. I wondered if Harry’s mouth looked disgusting or inviting to Batten, then shook off that as possibly the worst thing that had ever crossed my mind.

“And Fourth Canon,” Harry prodded further.

I quoted it by rote. “Safeguard oneself chiefly against the dead, for the mind of a DaySitter is far more vulnerable to the call of the grave than is the mind of a mundane. Good thing I have caller ID in my noggin, then. I can block unknown numbers with my hurricane-fu.”

Harry nodded. “There will be mortals with them, DaySitters and their Seconds. Surrounded by so much power, their Talents and your own will be sharpened, enhanced, perhaps to the point where they are overwhelming. I am trusting the other mortals will be told how to behave, but you must not assume that you are safe from their misbehavior, either.” He dropped his voice. “They may… toy with you, my love. Test you. Play games.”

“Yes, Harry,” I said, figuring if I was agreeable, it might stave off his recurring stress.

“Speak to no one without my authority,” he said, flicking a glance at Batten. “As a
servant
of the house, it is not your place to
speak
for the house. You will redirect all questions and comments to me. When in doubt, let your eyes find me. On Svikheimslending, you do not have an opinion. You do not have a voice. You do not speak for yourself; you are mine, and I am your voice.”

“Uh huh,” I said, noting Batten’s jaw clenching and unclenching. I thought he was doing an admirable job of not objecting. Or laughing.

“When we get to court, you must not look at anyone but myself, your own prince, and the Being in the throne,” Harry continued.

I made an uncertain noise. “Okay…”

His voice dropped to a stern warning, and through the Bond, he pushed a healthy dose of caution. “There will be many eyes upon you, my pet, and there will be a great temptation to sneak a peek at them.”

“We should arrange an earlier meeting to dispense with the anticipation,” Batten suggested, and Harry ignored it.

“Removing your eyes from the Being on the throne would be considered disrespectful,” Harry continued, “and so you must resist.”

“Nah,” I teased. “I’m gonna bust that shit open, call out some bitches, and start chucking fists.” I showed them to him, air-boxing a little while dancing on the balls of my feet, and grinned. Despite my balls-out enthusiasm, the chances of me shadow-boxing into the throne room of the
Falskaar Vouras
without tripping over a rug or windmilling madly into a faceplant on the floor were pretty slim. Probably, if I made any sudden unexpected movements, I’d get dive-tackled by guards, anyway. At my best, I am little more than a handful of interesting swear-words, some serious character flaws, and a hardened shell of defense mechanisms swimming in a miasma of self-doubt. I do the best with what I have.

“Guess this is goodbye,” Batten muttered, “since we both know you’re too stupid to make it back.”

“Stupid is a tad harsh, Mark,” Harry said.

“Dammit, Harry, manage your ‘Sitter.” Batten gave me a jab in the shoulder with his forefinger.

“Listen Pokemaster B, your body may be bronze-statue worthy, and you may have a tremendous dong,” I allowed, “but you call me stupid again and I will beat your shitcan.”

“You’ll try,” Batten corrected, “which will prove my point.”

“Need I remind you that I put you on the ground after Ashcroft?” I said.

Batten’s smirk made an appearance. “Tough girl now, huh? Try it again, see what it gets you.”

Harry made a soothing noise and Batten and I settled back in our chairs. “We both know that Malas Nazaire will be in attendance and that he has been, in the past, a…” Harry struggled for a moment with his words.

“Giant, flatulating, one-fanged fuckface?” I supplied.

“I think you should find that I would have used more dulciloquent terms, my Own, but the spirit of your malediction is understandable,” Harry said. “He was barely held to mortal law in mortal lands; despite having ever been a friend to our prince, Malas is absolutely not to be trusted at Svikheimslending.”

Neither is Batten
, I wanted to point out, but since Harry never wanted to bring Kill-Notch in the first place, I thought I’d better not push it.

“I can’t not look at Malas
and
keep an eye on him, you know,” I said. “As you may have noticed, I'm not a frigging chameleon. But since you always call me bird names, what's that kooky one with the huge mouth that can do the thing with its eyes going different ways? The potato? Potoo? Yeah, I can be your petulant, persnickety potoo.”

Harry did not look amused. “Mr. Batten will remain seated near the master of our house when we are presented before the court, and
he
will keep an eye on Monsieur Nazaire.”

“After seeing those things he made with that sick Prior, I wanna raise a whole army of ghouls on Malas’s withered ass,” I said.

“Do restrain yourself this one time,” Harry advised. He turned to fetch my Moleskine and a pencil from my go-bag, and while he was busy with that, Batten leaned over to me.

“You couldn’t actually do that, could you? The ghouls?”

I dropped him a wink. “Bet your tight ass,” I bluffed. Harry handed me the Moleskine and pencil. “Oh, am I taking notes?”

He nodded. “You will look only at the throne, or at me.”

I drew a dick and a big pair of balls. “Right.”
As if.

“You will avoid eye contact especially with any revenant, and should you hear unfamiliar voices in your head, you will ignore their commands.”

I sketched a vagina, realized that I made it way too big, and erased one side so I could make it a little perkier. “Yup.”

“Underline this: You must
never
take the back door.”

I put an X where the anus was. “Never take the backdoor. That sounds like instructions for someone with different equipment.”

Harry inspected my drawing and gave me a
tsk
. “Have you heard the term
mare tenebrosum
?”

I nodded. “Ancient sailors felt they couldn’t sail into the unknowable sea of the Atlantic and gave it this name, but it’s also known as a mythical fog that is haunted and causes ships to sink.”

“That fog is no myth. It is a Talent of the Stormbringers, revenants who have a telekinetic-like ability to summon aspects of storms: wind, rain, lightning and the like.”

The eighth Talent, one rarely spoken of because it was so rare. I understood now: Konrad Rask was a Stormbringer. Tempestakinesis; it was tricky on the tongue but musical in the ear, and didn’t sound nearly as scary as it was, when you thought about it.
Their DaySitters would make bitchin' TV meteorologists
, I thought.

“It isn’t a common power,” I said, hoping Harry would fill in the gaps in my learning. “Preternatural scientists haven’t been able to study it.”

“Only the king and a single house have the talent. Perhaps you have already discerned that House Rask is the home of the Stormbringer. Alas, he is the only one of his bloodkin. It has come to this: he is, at last, an elder with no young, homeless, a drifter, forever on the sea. Crowned Prince of an empty house. The master of a bloodline that goes nowhere. House Rask has no allegiance with the noble houses. He lives apart.”