2 Death Rejoices
Authors: A.J. Aalto
Copyright 2013 A.J. Aalto
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.
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Cover Design by Greg Simanson
Edited by Rafe Brox
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to similarly named places or to persons living or deceased is unintentional.
PRINT ISBN 978-1-935961-78-9
EPUB ISBN 978-1-62015-100-6
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2013938337
For Rafe Brox
Personal trainer, editor, life coach, mentor, therapist, minister, muse, and general pain in my ass. This book could not exist without you, and so it is to you and your ridiculous cow slippers that I dedicate
Death Rejoices.
You are, in a word, magnificent.
But don't get a big head about it, eh?
CONTENTS
MORE GREAT READS FROM BOOKTROPE
A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without Katherine Sears, Heather Ludviksson, Jennifer Markman, Wendy Logsdon, and Jesse James Freeman of Booktrope Editions, and all their hard work and support, I'd still be a crazy-haired lump in a ditch somewhere, muttering horrible-yet-creative swear words at strangers instead of putting them on paper-space where fine folks like you can enjoy them. Because of them, I am fully clothed, employed, and semi-sane. Okay, let's not be ridiculous, of course I'm not fully clothed. But I am employed, and that's a start.
I also want to thank those hearty souls who read the early editions of this book and sat patiently while I peppered them with a million stupid questions, or who offered opinions and help, especially my long-suffering Chief Beta Reader, Heather Goldie, and my always-supportive Guardian of Secrets and Tea and Stuff, Berenice “Machinery” Jones.
Writing is a solitary and sometimes lonely business, and I am always grateful to the people who tolerate my long absences and welcome me back when I'm ready to rejoin them. I am especially thankful for those who insert themselves into my headspace when I'm gone too long, to remind me that there's still a real world waiting outside my door. I'm lucky enough to have a large crew of assorted nutbars and weirdoes; you guys know who you are.
C
HAPTER
1
“NUTTY SQUIRREL TO PURPLE PUSSY.
Come in, Purple Pu-
snuhhhhfffuckchoo
!” I sneezed with gusto, spraying the microphone inside of the fursuit's helmet with a fine mist. With one fuzzy brown paw, I braced myself against the wall and tried to suck hot air into my lungs, letting it out in what could best be described as a death rattle.
“—the fuck?” Agent de Cabrera's Cuban accent pushed through my headphones.
If I hadn't been getting sick, the humidity inside the costume might merely have been annoying and gross, but I was brewing a fever and could barely breathe through one nostril. I hadn't been this physically miserable since the time an old lady tried to use me as a demon's sock puppet. My knee-jerk reaction was to complain heartily enough to make a Barbary pirate blush, but in exchange for flexible hours at the lab, I'd made some short-sighted promises to my new boss, Supervisory Special Agent Gary Chapel of the FBI's Preternatural Crimes Unit: less bitching, less swearing, less klutzery, and one poorly-thought-out commitment to something called “defensive tactics training” with Sheriff Rob Hood. All things considered, it was really hard not to lose my cool.
Instead of saying several un-squirrel-like things, I took a deep breath, coughed desultorily, and wished I'd been smart enough to bring some tissues. Squirrels have cheek pouches to store stuff, right? I didn't need a face full of nuts, but I'd have killed for a cough drop and a hankie.
My name's Marnie Baranuik, and I'm not usually a squirrel; I'm a recovering cookie addict, ex-forensic psychic, and head of the pre-
ternatural biology department at the Boulder branch of Chapel's PCU. Mostly, I feed rat brains to zombie beetles and fail to solve Sudoku puzzles. Don't get me wrong, I've done dozens of super-serious stake-outs; this time, it was even for a real case.
“I've got a bit of a cold, but don't worry, I'm still badass.” I had a six-inch, hand-whittled rowan wood stake on my right calf, and Chapel's personal Columbia tactical folding knife sheathed above my jaunty red Keds on my left. The idea that I might need either was not reassuring. Trying to grab them with furry paws hadn't crossed my mind when I'd suited up, nor had the struggle to simply pull up the heavily-elasticized cuff of the suit's pants. At least I would die with well-armed ankles.
“Not that,” de Cabrera said. “Purple Pussy?”
“Code names,” I explained patiently. “This is a covert operation. You can't have a good covert op without code names, everybody knows that.”
“You don't need—,” he cut himself off with a sigh. “There are only two of you. If a man speaks, it's Chapel. If a woman speaks, it's you. And if you hear this sexy accent, it's me. And use your mute button when you sneeze. Were you raised in a technology-averse barn?”
I heard the implied
duh
right along with the telltale click of Chapel hitting his own mute button so I wouldn't hear him chuckle. “Elian, stop crying, and take some Midol.”
So, I was antsy; something about a suspected predator in a white unicorn costume is vaguely creeptastic, all the more so when you're waiting for him, dressed as a prey animal, in a vacant corridor outside a convention hall bathroom. Add to this that A) he wasn't alone in there, B) I could hear him grunting and panting in the stall, and C) I couldn't eat the black jellybeans in the glass bowl on the table beside me because my hands were covered in yak fur, and I was not having the greatest night of my life. My misery had company, but it was just making things worse.
The female in the stall with him oinked enthusiastically —
reeeek, reeeek! —
followed by a squealing giggle. My shoulders bunched unhappily; I'd never be able to read
Charlotte's Web
again.
For the millionth time, I wondered why I wasn't home in bed. Officially, Chapel hadn't hired me yet. I wasn't on payroll. The lab in
which I was squatting didn't have my name on the door; it had a pink sticky note on it that read
UnBio
in Chapel's blocky handwriting. The papers I filled out every morning had a conspicuous blank space where my employee code belonged. That bothered me. I should have numbers. Everyone else had numbers. The whole thing was tentative, uncommitted, up in the air.
Yet, here I was, an oversized rodent with stuffed breast mounds ten times the size of my own mammalian accoutrements, waiting for my mark to haul me away somewhere private and do Goddess knows what. Three people had gone missing from the convention yesterday; long enough to spook the other early-arriving Furries, but not long enough to be declared missing persons. A sympathetic sergeant at the Denver PD got a hunch and kicked the case over to Sheriff Hood, who'd made an unfortunate reputation in his neck of the woods by getting involved with the PCU's previous case. Hood made sure a copy landed on Chapel's desk at the PCU, along with formal invitations to check it out. We'd gotten a lead about some parties off-site, and rumors of something less human than the costumed creatures among whom Chapel and I mingled.
The LoDo Fur Con wasn't the place one would expect too much crime. In the sparsely populated ballroom, on the Thursday night before things really got started, there were only three artists set up at stations for me to pester: two dealers, and one author of a popular Manga-inspired comic series involving a busty anthropomorphic jaguar woman toting a pair of ray guns in a space cowboy theme, which sounded like a damn good read to me. The voices of the fifty-odd guests in attendance barely reached this end of the convention center's hallway. A solid half of the Furries were in full costume (
fursuit friendly dance Friday ten P.M!
), with most of the rest sporting cute little tails and ears; they were an amiable crowd, a herd that had no inkling it was being culled, instead congregating around the snacks table to top off cups of punch or nibble on several varieties of cookies.
