Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (36 page)

“Sooooo, my brother's undead,” I said.

Neither blinked, but I thought Batten's face shaded with a measure of amusement.

“I don't know how he's gonna eat. I mean I can't feed him, that's like incest, it's disgusting, it's revolting. I won't even consider it. I can't even—won't try to—imagine, it's a big fat no, ugh, yuck.” I heard myself babbling but couldn't stop. “So how about Dunnachie shooting you, hunh Harry? Bet you didn't see that coming. I didn't. For a cop, he's either got really bad nerves, a happy trigger finger, or a hefty dislike of revenants. Probably the last. Man, that's one cop who will never set foot in this house again. First the revenant, then zombie beetles biting him, then the ghoul…not to mention he saw the giant pentagram painted on the floor of my office.”

Batten blinked first, and the knot in my gut uncoiled a bit. “Dunnachie said he'd stepped into the devil's whorehouse, here.” He held up his hands in case he'd offended me. “His words, not mine.”

I laughed tiredly, relieved. “He actually said ‘devil's whorehouse’?”

Harry said tightly, “Satan does not run a bordello. A gambling house in the Court of Hell, yes, but no bordello.”

“You'd know,” Batten said.

Chapel came downstairs, checking his Windsor knot with one hand; the tie had made a reappearance. So had the laptop. “We may be wrong about tying Danika Sherlock to the murder of Kristin Davis.”

“Right, what do I know? I'm not psychic,” I sighed. “I'm fake like Sherlock's tits.”

Chapel put his hand flat on the table. “What we need is proof.”

“Want me to prove I'm psychic?” I made a quick grab for Gary's forearm with my bare hand open wide. He lurched away from me so hard I thought he was going to rocket out of his chair. His tie flew over his shoulder. “No? You don't want me to Grope and tell you what I see, Agent Chapel?”

“I didn't mean proof of your Talent, Marnie,” he said reassuringly. His voice was ever steady but some of the self-assurance had fled his eyes. He smoothed his tie. “Gold-Drake & Cross tests you every year.”

Not anymore, they don't. “I don't read what people are trying to put out there.” I read what they're not trying to put out there. Feelings, emotions, desires. What they're driven to. There's no hiding the impulses of the old brain. There's no subtlety there; it wants what it wants, and it fears what it fears, and I Grope it all.”

“And what does Danika Sherlock want?”

I went momentarily silent. “Harry.”

“Then why kill us all with a ghoul?”

“Because she can't have Harry.”

Harry lectured, “It's a hateful act, the mystic's equivalent of shooting a cop with his own gun.”

I swear the revenant's grey eyes brightened at the thought only for the space of a heartbeat, as his gaze dropped slightly below Mark's arm to where he had hung his holster on the corner of the couch.

Harry went silently into the kitchen and returned with espresso. He knew the way Gary liked it, which needled me. Then he brought mine, topped with a dash of cinnamon and a drip of Tahitian vanilla.

Ok, I'm still spoiled rotten.

“Kristin Davis’ blindness is important, but I don't know why,” I said.

“Blind eyes,” Harry mused. “Les yeux de non vue.”

Usually when Harry slipped into French, I didn't tune in to the words so much as enjoyed the cadence of his voice. This time my skin prickled, but my brain skipped three or four steps ahead. “There aren't a lot of French witches, and a spell in French is rare. Very rare. But that phrase…I just don't know. Dammit, I used to know how to find the answers. I used to be something.”

“Still are,” Batten told me. I cut my eyes to him, to see if he was joking. He wasn't.

“It would take us a long time to solve this without you, Marnie,” Chapel said. “So if you know anything you're holding back…”

“I don't know shit. And if you're counting on my help, we're all screwed.”

“I don't know, you pulled a pretty impressive rabbit out of your hat back there at the funeral home,” Batten said.

“Oh, come on. I chased it away,” I rolled my eyes. “How many times can I do that? How many times can I run and hide? I'm so tired.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you but you're on deck, like it or not,” Batten said, his eyes boring into mine. “So batten down the hatches, Snickerdoodle.”

I knew damn well the best way to find Danika was to return to Room 4 of the Ten Springs Motor Inn and Grope my way around. It was probably a really bad idea, one I didn't offer out loud. They'd hate the idea and prevent me from going, or love the idea and force me to go. Either way, I wasn't sure I could handle being in that room again, so I held my tongue.

“I almost wish the ghoul would hurry up and get here. I can't bear the idea of it lingering over me when I sleep. Oh crap,” I ran a gloved hand over my face tiredly. “I think I just scared myself.”

Batten's lips twitched into an almost-smile in my direction. “So how did the head in the mailbox get reanimated?”

I had her punctured eye crammed in my front pocket.

“Were they two separate spells?” Batten probed.

“You guys saw Davis’ body the day before at the morgue, right? The head had stopped moving? The body wasn't moving by itself?”

“No, it wasn't,” Chapel's fingers deftly found the keys, paused while he thought, then typed some more. “It was like a dead body should be… quiet, and pale, and soft.”

Harry paused in his sipping, the goblet completely still in mid-air. “I say, what an awfully strange sentiment, Agent Chapel.”

I had to agree, though if Harry hadn't mentioned it, I probably would have let the comment go unnoticed.

“I didn't mean anything by it,” Chapel said, blinking rapidly. “I wasn't trying to offend, Lord Dreppenstedt.”

“Not at all,” Harry said lightly. “Most people wouldn't describe a dead body with such sympathy and sensitivity.”

“What you need is a better source,” Batten said without hiding his discomfort, effectively bringing the subject back in line. “Marnie,” he summoned, and I realized my eyes were drifting closed.

“Hunh? Oh, yes. A source of info. Books on flesh magic are going to be real hard to come by.” I finished my espresso and Harry whisked the empty cup out of my hands for a refill before I had it two inches from my mouth.

Chapel tracked Harry's movement. The immortal gave the barest look in return, but in that glance something deeper than polite acknowledgement passed between them.

Chapel, that dirty little nerd, I cursed inwardly. Could it really be true? He'd be the last person I'd have thought would be curious about Harry and the intimate nature of a feeding, but ever since I'd guessed at the possible relationship, I couldn't see past it. It was in their faces, a budding kind of rapport far different than that of two coworkers or casual acquaintances. I realized I was staring suspiciously at the side of Gary's face, and that he was noticing me stare with rising unease. I studied the frogs on my gloves instead. I had to be wrong. I was definitely paranoid. Wasn't I? I wondered where the fang marks were. They weren't on his carotid. That was even more disturbing.

When I looked up, Batten was staring at me trying not to stare at Chapel. I covered a yawn with my gloved hand.

“What was I saying? Yes, I have a few ideas where to start looking for books,” I promised him. “Tomorrow. First thing.”

I didn't hear Harry cross the room but there he was, touching my hair softly. “Oh, dear, someone is très fatigué.”

“Exhausted,” I agreed, relieved that while I seemed to no longer be able to feel him, there was nothing wrong with Harry's side of our Bond. “It's been an incredibly shitty day but I couldn't possibly sleep now.” I'd gone beyond tired into that jittery, dry-eyed, up all night phase. “I've got to take care of Rasta-Thor downstairs and clean up this ghoul sludge and find that other eyeball. Where did I put it? And I should make a list of all the places I need to call tomorrow to find research materials…”

“Piffle.” Harry started shaking his head. “Come along, say goodnight to the nice policemen.”

“But the case…”

“Aren't you considerate to be concerned about the agents’ business,” Harry expressed, taking my elbow. “Surely, they appreciate that.”

“Harry, I'm needed.”

“Quite right, your input is of paramount importance,” he soothed. “However, I trust the agents will excuse their gravely injured and addled colleague for a brief rest. After all, a dull axe shall chop no wood.”

I knew a certain smarmy, condescending revenant who was gonna get a mouth full of fist in a second. He was starting to make me irritable. Again. The fact that he was pulling at my elbow made things worse.

“Come. You tuck in nice and comfy, and I'll be there in a trice after I've made this place fine as five pence.”

“You're going to clean up?” I was almost tired enough not to be suspicious. Almost. I studied him sideways. “What's it going to cost me?”

“As I said, five pence.” His smooth, pleasant face revealed nothing. “Oh and darling? Do set the nice little girl's eyeball on the back porch before you turn in?” he suggested.

I gave him a withering look and plodded to my room.

THIRTY-THREE

My bed smelled like the jealous undead.

Either Harry had spritzed my pillow cases with his 4711 cologne, or he'd rolled bodily in my bed like a cat marking its favorite sleeping place; it amused me to think it was the latter. As I changed into heavy pajamas, I pictured him wriggling in the sheets until it struck me as impossibly ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as the mental picture of him tiptoeing into my room and adding his fragrance to my pillows in ninja stealth-mode. It was nice to be wanted, but what next? Would I catch the revenant scent-marking in all four corners of my room? I laughed alone in my room as I stripped off my gloves then rummaged in Carrie's old hand-me-down dresser for warmer socks.

“Few women can pull off grandfatherly plaid with your inimitable grace.”

I jerked; my laugh ended in an unladylike snort. I hadn't heard Harry come in, or felt him get close. Now that my half of our Bond was hinky, I got a taste of how the revenant's sudden soundless appearance affected normal, mundane humans. Would Wesley be able to creep up on me like that? The thought struck me as unfair.

He continued wryly in his crisp London accent, “Well, perhaps ‘grace’ isn't quite the word for it.”

“Honestly, it's side-splitting entertainment when you sidle up on other people, but it messes me up when you do it to me. Maybe you could knock it off until the Bond heals.”

“Whilst I did not do it intentionally, I do apologize.” He cocked his head, taking the fabric of the pajamas between his fingertips for a rub. “Soft.”

In his murmur, there was a mix of appreciation and disapproval, like he was willing to live with my choices but had to voice his opinion. I waited for it, tensing; he undoubtedly felt my unease, but he said it anyway.

“Comfort over fashion,” he noted blandly. “Evidently, you are too weary to seduce your mortal stud muffin, and I suppose you've no one else to impress this evening.”

I exhaled hard. “I get enough criticism from them, Harry. I don't need it from you.”

He looked genuinely confused. “If I don't criticize, how will you improve yourself?”

“Maybe I don't need improvement.” I turned my back on him to trade my black silk socks for fluffy pink ones.

“That is akin to giving up.” He grimaced like I'd just suggested we spend the evening impaling stray cats for fun.

“Back off, could you? For tonight, for right this second, I'm fine the way I am.”

His eyes widened; he watched me as though I were dangerously insane. “Whatever has come over you, my fluttering cabbage moth?”

“Did it ever once occur to you in a whole decade of living side by side that you could accept my faults the way I accept yours?”

I expected him to argue that he didn't have any faults, and I was ready with a full mental list of them, from A for arrogance to Z for… okay, I didn't have a Z one, but I had plenty in between.

Instead he said, “I shan't put you on a pedestal. You are not perfect, and I cannot in good conscience do you the grave disservice of pretending that you are.”

“I get it, Harry. Between the dreadful hair and the sloppy wardrobe, and the stupid things I do, and the horrible things I say, and my dysfunctional family and my appalling work, I'm just about as useful to you as a tit on a rooster.” And there's the real reason you won't sleep with me, I thought, then swallowed it deep into my gut where it settled in a cold, vicious lump.

Harry's mouth worked at making sound, but his head shook like the words he was trying to get out no longer made sense.

“You must either be tired beyond the capacity for reason, or more upset about your brother's turning than I had surmised, for I said nothing of the kind.”

“You said it all and more, with act, deed and body language.”

His eyes darted up and to the left. “Undoubtedly, my body has been misinterpreted.”

My answer was a simmering glare. He didn't move a muscle, but something in him retreated a full measure until there was a palpable distance between us. I wished all at once that I could still sense what he was feeling, even if it was disappointment, or anger, or misery. Where our Bond once linked us, there was a fresh psychic gorge, a crumbling trench void of warmth and consuming itself at the edges. I shuddered and hugged myself.

“Whatever part of my body indicated such contemptible things to you, consider it duly reprimanded.” He forced himself forward toward me as though the air had become thick enough to wade through. “The stars must be in some funny alignment. We so rarely argue.”

My chin quivered and I bit my bottom lip to stop it. Harry demanded perfection from himself and others, and I didn't want him to change. At the same time, the high expectations every hour of every day wore on me like a constant grinding, something out of sync winding against a gear, especially since I was clearly incapable of living up to his impossible standards.

I thought to explain it to him, then chewed it back; why should I have to tell him, when he knew it as plainly as he knew his own heart?