Wrath and Bones (6 page)

I looked to BugBelly for validation of this; under the tilt of his giant pork pie hat, the sober certainty in his yellow eyes was not reassuring. I tried to repeat “hundreds of thousands” but all that came out of my mouth was a dismayed, whistling exhale.
Dark Lady, be merciful.
“Where?”

“Norway. North of Hammerfest.”

I scribbled that down. “When?”

“Soon.”

“What does ‘soon’ mean?” I cried, throwing my pencil down in frustration. It clattered to the table then rolled off the edge and along the floor. “Today? Next month? Do I have time to reorder my favorite espresso from Italy before the whole planet goes tits-up and I’m hiding in my bunker from the Trollpocalypse?”

Wesley shook his head slowly. “You have to go, Marnie.”

“I do,” I said, and found myself pointing in question at my chest for the second time in two days. “I have to go to Hammerfest. Because I’m the Lumpin’-Spelunkin’-Whosawhatsit? I can’t make portals or scare trolls. Unless they’re miniature. Are they mini-trolls?”

“BugBelly sees you there. With Folkenflik. He sees you in Norway. The trolls want to chew the flesh off our bones, and sing songs of bloodshed and the destruction of mankind. BugBelly sees you at the portal, putting up a brave front to scare off the troll scout, and reviving the portal itself.”

“Oh. Right. Because that’s a thing I do.” I retrieved my pencil, reigned in my temper, and noted the
Folkenflik
bit in my Moleskine for later use. The tip of my pencil was broken but it still made fairly decent, smoky smears on the paper. “So what you’re saying is: legions upon legions of exiled Ninespine Stickleback trolls are returning via a portal north of Hammerfest, Norway.”

“Yes,” Wesley answered for him.

“And that the portal standing between us and the trolls is failing—“

“Will fail,” Wesley corrected. “
Will.
Soon.”

The orc thumped the table and tried to speak. It sounded like he said “taboo” with a mouth full of gravel. I did my best not to flinch, and nodded at him.

“And if the troll scout comes, and we don’t put up a good front,” I continued, “they will ravage humankind and bathe in our blood.”

The orc mystic nodded solemnly.

Wesley corrected again, “
When
the trolls come. Not if. When.”

“And that the trolls have songs about said bloodbath,” I added. “Happy, cheerful, campfire bloodbath songs.”

The orc mystic gave another silent nod.

“Did I miss anything?” I asked, drawing smudgy swirls in my notebook.

“The bone chewing,” Wesley supplied helpfully.

“How could I forget that tasty morsel?” I chided myself, scribbling it down in the Moleskine, reading aloud as I spelled it out. “Bone…chew…ing. Got it. Um, anything else? Anything with less doom? Maybe some victorious booty-shaking on my part?”

I glanced at Wesley as he focused his wilted-violet gaze on the orc’s glistening, rheumy eyes. The Blue Sense tickled under my palms and I felt a swell of unhappiness, though I could tell it wasn’t Wesley’s; it came coated in that orcish smell, pennies and pelt. “He’s certain this will come to pass. The scout will come, and the trolls will threaten the future of all mankind.”

Fuckanut.
I sat back and studied the unhappy orc before me. “And what of your people, BugBelly? What will Orc-kind do?”

Wesley answered immediately, “The orc society is small now, and it is not ruled by a single overlord, but there are a bunch of tribal leaders. Each tribe will do as their leader prescribes; most will probably flee deep underground. Trolls won't follow them down that far; they have bad eyesight and need the light. Abandoned mines, old cellars, caves. Orc-kind will be safe there.”

“The orcs will not stand with mankind against the trolls?” I asked.

BugBelly sighed like a cement mixer grinding to a halt, the corners of his mouth turning down.

“They have no good reason to. Mankind hasn't exactly won any points with the orcs in the last few centuries. Orcs keep score and have long memories. Orcs owe allegiance to no other race. Orcs will look after their own.”

“And who
will
help mankind, BugBelly? This Folkenflik fellow? You said we needed to put up a good front, to maintain the illusion of dominance. How do we do this?”

The mystic’s eyes rolled back in his head until only the whites showed, but even those were sickly yellow. He twitched, and his hand quivered against the table. He swallowed back some froth from the corner of his mouth. Human seers gave the rest of us the serious heebie-jeebies; the orc mystic was only slightly less eerie, and I thought it might have something to do with the heat he was putting out. I felt enveloped by his power as it radiated off his broad form and waited for his next pronouncement. 

Wesley said, “Seek the worm forge.”

Worm forge?
“Like, earthworms? What kind of forge? In a blacksmith’s place? A steel plant? A jeweler? A silversmith, perhaps?”

The mystic shot to his feet, shaking his head. An explosion of words came out of his mouth, then, but I’d be damned if I could understand any of it. Wesley rocketed out of his chair backward, clamping both hands to his forehead, cramming the scar-puckered flesh together in a gruesome mask. The violet of his good revenant eye flashed brightly and a guttural noise issued from his throat. I reached out for him with both hands, but my brother hissed and stumbled back into the corner of the room as though he couldn’t bear to be touched. He curled into a ball to rock, moaning. Helpless to fix it, I turned to the orc, showing him my empty palms in supplication.

“Please, whatever you’re saying, whatever you’re showing him, please slow down, please stop.” I made shushing noises to soothe him, but the mystic raised both arms to the sky like he could call down the rain; he shook them, shook them, groaning. His chin was juddering, his under-bite collecting spittle.

“The worm forge!” I said, nodding rapidly. “Yes, the worm forge.”

“Litenvecht Späckkenhuggar!” the orc howled.

“Right! Yes! That’s me. The Licking-Viking Snapple-Humper!” I thumped my chest. “Me, yes. Here. I’m on it. I’m all over this shit. I’ve
got
this.”

Apparently, I’d said the magic words.

He settled, letting his arms fall down to his sides. Those massive shoulders moved up and down as he panted and watched me expectantly. I watched him, too, not knowing what to do next. The smell of fur was stronger in the small room, overpowering, though BugBelly hadn’t become visibly hairier in his excitement. He tucked his big jaw up to close his panting mouth and his nostrils flared to bring in all the air he needed to catch his breath. For a moment, his chin warbled, and I thought my mystic might cry.

I repeated, “I’ve got this. I promise. The troll scout? He’s not getting by me.”
I have to scare a troll? I can scare a troll.
“The portal? I’m gonna revive that shit.”
I don’t know how to do that, but I’ll figure it out.

Wesley groaned and un-crumpled until he was sitting splay-legged on the floor. “Something about collecting wrath and bones. Gold. Golden honey. And the mummy. Feathers. Nails. And the worm forge, whatever that is. And a warning. The full moon. Honey moon. Wrath. Old bones.”

How does one collect wrath?
I asked, “No other clues?”

“He doesn’t actually know where it is. The solution seems to be scattered all over the damn place. His visions are spotty, like yours, and susceptible to false interpretations. He gets what he gets and his experiences filter the vision. We’re seeing his version of the vision. It’s not a pure reading of prophecy.”

“BugBelly, how do we keep the portal closed?”

Wesley scratched his head. “All other sun sentries must accept loss.” He looked up at me with that wilted violet eye. “You are the harbinger of war, and you must bring wrath to the worm forge, free the bones, and bring the gold.”

“I’m the harbinger of war,” I repeated to clarify, writing
sun sentries
down.

I’d been a lot of things in my life. I’d been a heartsick goober and a helpless lover. I’d been a psychic, a shark, a fool. I’d been food. I’d been a dead guy babysitter. I’d been a conduit for spirits. I’d been a Nutty Squirrel. I’d been zombie fodder. I’d been a boggle’s punching bag. I'd almost been The Overlord's Captain of something-or-other, but had the good sense to decline that particular invitation. I’d never been a harbinger of war before. It definitely sounded like my worst assignment yet.

BugBelly’s shoulders sagged further, and Wesley took a moment to study my face and catch his breath. “Does any of this make any sense to you?”

“Not a goddamned bit of it.”

BugBelly got up, bearing the heavy yoke of his prophecies, and Wesley and I watched his shuffling progress toward the door. The orc moved like an injured creature, his steps tentative, hesitant. Empathically, I didn’t sense physical pain coming from him, but his burden was overwhelming. He paused in the act of touching the door and then returned to the table, crossing to my side. He laid one of his giant hands on my shoulder. I tensed unintentionally, told myself to knock it off, and peeked up at his face.

His yellow eyes had softened around the edges and filled with concern and hope. He patted me there, his big hand gently tapping. The warmth of the gesture wasn’t shadowed by his menacing visage any more than the odd smell of him, and I’d never wanted a monster to hug me more. If he’d tried, I wasn’t sure if I’d have hugged him back or bolted out of my chair, but we shared a moment of not-quite-fearing one another. If he could have spoken to me, I think he would have wished me good luck. Then he nodded, one sad bob of his big chin, and left the room.

“
BARE HAND SERVICES
,”
Batten said, studying my business card. One eyebrow darted up playfully. “Didn’t see a problem with that?”

“Well I do
now
,” I said, exasperated. “Sounds like I give hand jobs for a living.”

“Don’t you?” Batten asked.

I smiled sourly. “Funny. What do I call it, if not that? Groper for Hire?”

“Fuck, no.”

“One-Eight-Hundred-Touch-Your-Junk?”

“You’re bad at this, babe.”

“I’m bad at a lot of things,” I reminded him, since he’d clearly forgotten.

“We’ll brainstorm,” he promised, flinging the card and sending it spinning to the desk. We both looked at the empty spot where the keyboard had been sacrificed to the heat of passion. I hadn’t replaced it yet. I very carefully did not look at him but felt my cheeks warm up. I cleared my throat, very aware of his proximity, even though there was a desk between us.

I’d left a message with Chief Fitchett about my interview with BugBelly before heading home. From the desk, my phone began chanting The Bloodhound Gang's “The Roof is On Fire,” and I grabbed it. Harry would be getting an earful from me for changing Fitchett's custom ringtone; he was obviously more of a “Disco Inferno” guy. I didn't tell him that while we spoke, but did promise that my full report would hit his inbox before I went to bed, and put my phone aside next to my knit cap.

“Still wearing that dorky thing?” Batten said.

“It’s not dorky. It was knitted by a cop. That makes it a badass hat.”

“He was badass, huh?”

“He was ten times the cop you are, and not just because he’s built like a skyscraper made out of moose and donuts,” I said, remembering Constable Schenk with a fond smile. “How was Bolivia? Get any neat insect bites? Speak Quechua now? Bring me a souvenir?”

He shrugged with one shoulder, which I supposed was a
no to all of that
. Maybe he was the souvenir. I allowed myself a free ogle and figured he’d be gift enough; this was Kill-Notch we were talking about, the only mortal on Earth who looked like he had the power to set off fireworks by twitching an eyebrow or a pectoral. I had written in my Moleskine diary about our date:
damn near melted my squee-pocket.

“Chapel sent this for you,” he said, dragging a box from beneath his chair. In it was a black, bulletproof FBI vest with big white letters. I unfolded it and read it with my head cocked.

“This is misprinted.”

“That’s why you’re allowed to have it.”

I felt my lips thin. “This says 'fib.' F-I-B.”

“One of the reasons you should wear it,” he said. “Probably the best reason.”

“That so? Then I guess you'd better reassess all those nice things I say when we're naked.” I glared at him and stuffed the vest, and that mental image, back in the box. “Did you catch your monster?”

“No werewolf. No Chupacabra. Big feral coyote with mange and rabies. Put it down.” He was staring at me steadily, and I could tell by the tilt of his lips that he was still distracted by the memories of the last time we’d been alone in this room together. His voice warmed a notch. “How was New York?”

“Weird and smelly.”

“The orc?”

“Weird and smelly.”

“And your brother?”

“Do I have to say it a third time?”

He snorted softly. “Shit assignment?”

I considered this, puffing out my cheeks then letting my exhale out through pursed lips in duck noises. “That depends.”

“On?”

“How do you feel about prophecies of doom, magic portals, stinky-ass mummies, worm forges, and man-eating trolls chewing the flesh off your bones?”

“Last one concerns me a little.”

“Probably, they’d cook you first.”

“Oh, good,” Batten said.

“Also, uh, this is kinda cool: I’ve discovered —
heh heh
— that I’m a harbinger of war.”

“Sounds about right.”

“Would you be serious for a minute?” I stared. “There’s gonna be a Trollpocalypse-type situation. An orc mystic said so, so it’s gotta be true.”

Batten kicked off his boots and let out a long, exhausted breath. I translated this to mean,
You’ve been home less than an hour and you’re already making my life difficult. 
Instead, he said, “Do you believe everything an orc mystic tells you?”

I chewed the inside of my mouth in thought. “Well, no orc mystic ever told me anything before.”