Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (39 page)

“Vampire Olympics. Now that would be fucking entertainment,” I thought aloud, my mouth hanging open.

A voice on the phone pulled me back to it. “Marnie!”

“Being attacked,” I told him, grim. “Molotovs.”

“Get in the boathouse and lock the door,” Batten ordered. “Stay low. We're on the way. Calling fire and rescue.”

“Fuck that. I'm sick of being afraid,” I snarled and hung up. I flew back into the bedroom and grabbed the Beretta, checked it was loaded, shoved it into my waistband. Passing through the kitchen I shoved my toes in my Keds, not bothering with the heels, then yanked Harry's boning shears from the knife block by the sink, and slammed out the back door. If I got the chance, I was gonna stab that bitch right in the head, and to hell with my karma. Gripping the phone in one hand and the shears in the other I bellowed into the wintry quiet:

“Danika Sherlock!”

The bitter night air answered me, burning my lungs, cold enough to whisk my fogging breath away. My nose instantly began to leak. There were lots of footsteps in the snow, swirled and slushed together into a messy gritty sludge pile; it was impossible to tell which ones were new and which ones had happened earlier. Clutching the shears tighter in my hand I trod out into the yard for the edge of the woods.

“Show yourself, you spooge-sucking skank!” I bellowed.

A flurry of soaking fabric brushed before my face out of nothingness; I fell back, throwing my arms up. Harry grabbed my elbow to keep me from falling on my ass.

“Get back in the house,” he said hoarsely.

“You get back in the house, and where the hell is Wes? You left him out there?” I countered. “Fire plus revenant equals Hindenburg-like disaster.”

“You will immediately return to the house, for you are my concern, not your bloody bothersome brother.”

“Screw you. Besides, it's not in my job description to sit on my hands and hide while someone kills you. I'm gonna…” I clutched the shears until my knuckles were white.

“You will do what?” he challenged. “Bring karmic retribution upon yourself threefold by injuring another?”

I felt my lips tighten into a line.

“Too right, you will do no such thing,” he schooled, his grip on my arm tightening.

“You can't break the law, Harry!”

“There is no law here,” he roared. “Now get in the sodding house!”

There was blood on his bottom lip. “Did you catch up to her? Did you see her?”

He noticed the phone in my hand. “Whom did you ring? Tell me that you did not summon Agent Batten.”

“Only because I thought the house was on fire.” It was thin, but he was distracted by noises behind him, and pointed at our home.

“I am not asking you, I am telling you, go inside. When we can, Wesley and I will join you.”

“Are you out of your undead mind? I'm not leaving you two out here alone!”

His pupils bled rapidly to luminous chrome. “Your disobedience is most unbecoming, DaySitter.”

“Shit,” I breathed hoary frost into the air, as his displeasure washed over me, an icy backwash from the grave. “Fine. Want my gun?”

Harry looked unamused by the sight of it in my hand. I fled to the relative safety of my kitchen.

THIRTY-SIX

I came away from the mudroom windows when Harry and Wes appeared on the back step. Harry's wet-from-the-bath hair clung in frosty strands to his forehead. He shook out of his damp shirt in the mudroom, threw it on the top of the dryer, glowering, his cool cheeks drained of all color.

“I failed to catch him. I lost the trail of his bootless attempt in the boscage and undergrowth.”

“Bootless?” I asked in a rush. “He? Him? He was barefoot?”

“We,” Wesley said, avoiding my eyes. “We couldn't catch him.”

“A man?” I gaped. “Are you sure?

“I am quite sure I know what a woman smells like. And by bootless, I mean of course cowardly,” Harry chided, frustrated, and threw down a backpack that clinked when he drop-kicked it under the kitchen table. “If anyone asks, your brother was resting in my casket this whole time, to where he should now retire.”

He didn't look at Wesley, but my brother took the order without argument. Wes went without another word down through the pantry door to the basement.

I nodded in a daze. “What difference does that make?”

“I found this by the boathouse on my way back in.”

Wooden stakes stuck out of the open zipper of the sack. I couldn't get breath; the sight of them made tiny spots swirl into my vision. “Those look like real rowan wood.”

Harry opened his palm to show me the angry white sores blistering up where he'd clutched one. Two of the welts along the length of his thumb had burst, oozing fluid.

“This was no amateur attempt, my love.” Harry's face betrayed such anger that I was glad I couldn't feel him. “Fire, rowan and
silver. Someone came here knowing precisely what they were doing. I tracked a snowmobile into the woods and lost him at the water's edge.”

“Hunter,” I breathed. “Did you see a boat? Canoe?”

“I did not see any vessel on the lake.” He whisked up a plain dishtowel and rubbed dry his chest. “And the water is painfully cold, barely 35 degrees. No human could survive in it for long.”

I heard boots coming rapidly up the front steps. I looked down at the Beretta held loosely (and let's face it, impotently) in my grip, opened the cutlery drawer and stuffed it under a jumbled pile of spatulas and wooden spoons.

The front door hit the wall. Batten stormed into the house, palpable rage frothing in his wake. I was so startled to actually feel something from his direction as he pounded past me that I didn't realize what he was about to do. He took three running strides and lunged at Harry.

Harry's arm shot out and grabbed Batten by the throat. Whipping around, he heaved Batten effortlessly, slammed him against the wall, held him high, pinning him in place.

“Really, Agent Batten,” Harry said calmly. “I would have expected a federal agent to have better impulse control.”

“Mark, what the fuck?” I shouted.

Batten choked out: “He attacked you.”

“What? No!” I flapped a hand at them. “Harry put him down.”

Harry's voice was deceptively pleasant. “I should love to, darling, if he will remember his manners in my home.”

I saw Harry's knuckles tighten slightly and Mark made a noise that was something between a crude retort and a strangled curse. Batten's boot-tips barely touched the ground. He wasn't about to promise anything, but it took all the strength his arms could afford to wrangle with Harry's half-hearted hold.

Harry wasn't about to let go either, now that he had Mark right where he wanted and with a fair excuse. His lambent eyes dazzled with victory, and he extended his fangs with deliberate slowness.

I stepped forward. “Harry, I mean it. It's a misunderstanding. You have to let Fathead down.”

“The very instant that Fathead promises to be on his best behavior, ducky.”

I dug the Beretta out of the cutlery drawer and sighted on his immortal posterior. “Don't make me shoot you in the butt cheek, fool. Cuz I will.”

“Sure you will,” Harry said over his shoulder at me. Fangs peeked out of his wry smile.

“I will,” I warned. “And then I'll point and laugh the whole way to the ER.”

“There would be no trip to the hospital. As you will recall, it is your duty to remove any bullets in this body, but if you should like to make extra work for yourself, by all means…” Harry said, though the honey dripping from his tongue wasn't in the least bit cordial. It was a reciprocal warning; I should be choosing sides, and I wasn't on the right one.

Chapel rushed in, skidded to a surprised halt, one of his hands going for his Glock. It was then that Harry dropped Batten, stepping out of range of Batten's arms. Mark didn't retaliate; he was too busy massaging the feeling back into his neck muscles and coughing.

Chapel moved to be nearer to Batten, his hand still hovering by his holster. “Marnie, what happened? We were under the impression that Harry was attacking you.”

“Batten jumped to conclusions. Probably because he's a raging moron.”

“You yelled, ‘Harry, no!’ and said you were being attacked.”

What had I said? “Someone was throwing Molotov cocktails through my windows. Why would Harry attack me with Molotovs? Hel-lo? He's more flammable than I am.”

“Doesn't mean you wouldn't burn,” Batten told me.

“You know, for a guy who has a hundred and five kills, I gotta tell ya…” I made a fist and knocked on his forehead. “You're kind of a noob. If Harry was going to kill me, it wouldn't be with fire.” I jerked a thumb at the revenant's full fangs. “It'd be with those.”

In the distance, a fire engine's siren sounded. Again. The sound of them made me suddenly weary. How many times had I heard sirens in the past two weeks? My neighbors were going to petition town hall to get me run out of Shaw's Fist with a torch and pitchfork brigade.

Sheriff Rob Hood blew into the kitchen and came to a boot-shuffling stop, looking rumpled and crazy-eyed. “What the hell happened now?”

“What are you doing all the way out here?” I asked.

“I wasn't far when I heard Chapel's call go out to fire, and I recognized the address.” He shook his head. “Can't catch a break, can you?”

I motioned to the bag on the burnt floor tiles, under the singed table. “Rowan wood stakes. Do you know what that means?”

Hood shook his head. “There a difference between rowan wood and other woods?”

“There's a big difference, in that only rowan is lethal to a revenant.”

Hood's eyebrows went up; big news, perhaps, to the guy who until last week clung to the delusion that revenants were a myth.

“No amateur hunter,” I affirmed. “He hand-whittled these, you can see the strokes of the blade in the wood. There are big fat chains of solid silver links in that backpack, and those things aren't cheap. Even figuring conservatively, that set must have cost well over ten grand.”

“Who leaves behind ten thousand dollars worth of silver?” Chapel pondered aloud.

“Someone who knows that they shall be returning to retrieve it,” Harry said softly. His words left the kitchen in silence while we each considered the implications.

Batten broke the quiet. “Where is your brother?”

“Resting, downstairs.”

“Through all this commotion?”

“It's not like sleep,” I reminded. “You can pound a goddamned stake through his chest and he won't wake up. Right, hunter? You don't even have to be clever enough to sneak up on him.”

Batten took that with an arched brow and turned on Harry. “And you couldn't catch the suspect, even with your superhuman speed?”

Harry looked at him steadily through unhappy eyes. “No.”

I felt a flicker of dishonesty from my companion; I quickly looked away so I wouldn't blatantly search his face. I knew only one person in the room would see a lie on Harry, and that was me.

“So, whose blood is on your lip?” Batten asked.

OK, two people.

“Perhaps I bit the inside of my mouth in excitement whilst I was holding you aloft against the wall, there.” Harry shrugged casually; a ridiculous lie, since revenant blood is light blue. Both of them knew it, but Batten didn't voice it. “I enjoyed your struggle quite a bit.”

“Did you, now.” Batten wasn't amused.

“Indeed, I did. We ought to tussle like that more often.”

Batten looked him up and down. “Why are you wet? Go for a swim?”

“The lake water is frigid. ‘Twould be wholly uncomfortable for me to swim in it, Agent Batten, though the low temperature would not kill me.”

I supplied, “We have plans for emergencies. Fire is Code 6. Revenants of Harry's advanced age are extremely flammable, more so than younger ones. Harry's job is to get wet in the tub and stay down.” I cast Harry a glare. “My job is to put out the fire and call for help if I need to.”

“Is it also part of Harry's job to eat the person who set the fire?”

I felt my eyebrows scrinch. “You got proof of that, or are you just showing your prejudice again, Agent Batten?”

“Just asking a question, Baranuik.”

“Uh hunh. You know, if he had eaten someone, there'd be a body left out there.” I pointed with the Beretta at the back door. “Why don't you go look for them? Mind the corpse beetles. Ask Dunnachie, those pincers hurt.”

He turned on me, losing his cool, and his eyes fell to my hands. “How many of those goddamn mini guns do you own?”

“Just this one. It fits my grip.”

“Is it loaded?”

“How should I know?”

“Put it away!” he ordered.

I rolled my eyes and went to the gun safe in my office. “Yes, sir, officer, sir,” I muttered. In the gun safe, I noticed the small bag of dried goo that was Dead Kristin's missing eye. I left it where it lay, and locked the safe.

When I plodded back, Hood was talking logistics with Agent Chapel. Harry had hauled several large slats of plywood up from the
cellar to put over the broken windows until a carpenter could be called in the morning. The firemen were in, doing their due diligence with a sweep, in case I hadn't put out all the fires.

“Did you go running out there?” Batten asked. “I told you to lock yourself in the boathouse and wait for me.”

“Yeah, I don't have the energy for your phallocentric bullshit, Batten.”

“This has nothing to do with you having a pussy. It has everything to do with you being a dunce.”

Sheriff Hood turned smilingly away from the argument without comment, several long nails tucked between his twitching lips, Harry's hammer in his hand.

“Thanks, gonna put that on my new business cards,” I told him. “Marnie Baranuik, PhD. Paranormal Biology. Freelance forensic psychometrist, clairempath and professional dunce.”

“Amateur dunce,” Batten corrected, taking a pull from the beer bottle Harry put in his hand. “There's no way you're a professional anything.”

“Goes to show you haven't had my very pro blow job yet.” I gave him a neener-neener smirk and poured myself a Dr. Pepper on ice while Harry choked out about a hundred old English admonishments that no one else in the room understood.

Some of the irritation leaked out of Batten's eyes; now that no one was hurt and the adrenalin was fading, tired humor replaced it. “I'm sure the firemen are enjoying you making a fool of yourself.”