2 Death Rejoices (52 page)

“All good?” he asked, his voice gone low and tentative.

I avoided his eyes, swallowed hard, maintained my cool. “Yep. All good.” I watched his chest rise and fall for a comforting moment, imagined I could hear the steady, vigorous pump of his heart, and silently thanked the Dark Lady that Kill-Notch had made it through yet another close call. I felt him move away and didn't like it.

“Why ‘Death Rejoices’?” he asked. “Why would Death rejoice about vampirism? Isn't being immortal the exact opposite of what Death would want?”

“It's from an old Latin phrase. You find it in morgues sometimes.” I tried not to look at either of the bodies on the floor while a flurry of activity outside the plate glass window reminded me that I was stuck with corpses and contagion. “
Taceant colloquia; effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae.
Roughly translated, ‘Let conversation cease; let laughter flee. This is the place where Death rejoices to teach the living’.”

“I see what that has to do with a coroner's work, but what does it have to do with vamps?”

I heard the V-word, but after what I'd just witnessed, it didn't sound offensive. He could have said monster and it wouldn't have fazed me. “You're not going to like the answer.”

“Tell me.”

“Death Rejoices is used by DaySitters to mark the difference between us and them, a submissive display. We are Bonded, but we are not partners, not equal. Death still comes for the DaySitter, still rejoices to claim us in the end. To the old ones, this distinction is a comfort; that's why DaySitters offer it. That phrase exalts the revenant. It reminds him that he is special, untouchable. Death may rejoice to claim me, but the revenant denies Death his victory.”

The vampire hunter's lips curled. “Wanna bet? I'm going to hunt; Death
will
rejoice when it claims the thing that just flew out the window.”

“Fine. Just don't expect an end-of-the-rainbow jackpot waiting for you.”

His sigh was weary. “Of all the people who suck at crime fighting, you suck the most.”

“I'm ridiculously competitive like that,” I agreed. “Also, failing to die properly isn't a crime, last time I checked.”

“I should have insisted you quit after that
Psychic Watch
show started a dead pool on you.”

“You put money on when I'd buy the farm? Dick.”

“November fifteenth. Try to live that long.” When my eyes narrowed, he gave a what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it shrug. “You make Scooby Doo look like an evil genius.”

“If I wasn't still holding out for one more filthy night of passion with you, I'd drop your ass through this floor.”

“Ditto.” He mimed strangling me, both hands tiredly playful at my throat; I quelled the urge to dive-tackle him onto the bed.

“CDC is coming in, please remain where you are,” the intercom informed us, and we slumped apart, turning to face the guys in the big white suits.

C
HAPTER
41

“IT WAS A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT,”
I muttered to myself, trying the motel swipe card again, “and while she struggled like a moron to open her door, the monsters ate her head, the end.”

We'd found a little motel on I-70, the Starlight Dreams, which happened to be the
only
motel along I-70 that had a vacancy. I could see why: the place looked like it should have been condemned before I was born.

It was nearly four A.M. and as dark as Leviathan's asshole. The streetlight nearest the parking lot was burnt out and there were no other lights in the area. Rain pelted the sidewalk around me. Wet, tired, scared, and tired of being scared, I bent over, squinting like a drunk trying to fit car keys into an evasive lock. The red dot mocked me with my failure. I swiped the card again. Fail.

Before trying once more, I cracked my knuckles, because sometimes when you show inanimate objects that you're serious, it works, at which point I discovered I scream the exact same way whether I'm being tapped on the shoulder or mugged by a Yeti. I wheeled around with a desperate shriek.

“It's just thunder,” a drippy Batten misdiagnosed as I attempted to swallow my heart back into my chest cavity.

“You scared me,” I said.

Batten took the key card from my hand, flipped it over, swiped it, and opened the door. “Get in, you're soaked.”

“Is Declan okay?”

“He had no trouble with his lock,” Batten said. I sensed that inside he was laughing at me; it made me want to sweep his feet
from under him, straddle him, and strangle him with my underpants. I might even take them off first.

Outside, the storm threw buckets of water against the big window while howling wind shoved against the building, making it seem unsettlingly flimsy. The windows sounded like they might break under the pelting. The back of my legs were drenched from the slanting rain as I came into the cool hush of the room and threw my backpack in the corner.

“I've been wondering about something,” he started.

“Careful, unkind words about my character will not be tolerated.”

“How can an Empath be so unsympathetic?”

I propped my fists on my hips. “Just because I'm forced to feel everything with my Talent doesn't mean it's bright for me to get attached. That serves no one. I prefer to do my science at a prudent distance.”

“I noticed.”

“But I also don't like being excluded.”

“It bothered you when Chapel ordered you to the car.”

“You remember
Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom
? I'd be Marlin Perkins, and you'd be Jim. You go ahead and grapple the wildlife. I'll be there, but only to take pictures and provide commentary. Ooooh, I wonder if Harry could impersonate David Attenborough. That man could narrate making waffles and make it sound enthralling.”

He looked at me dubiously. “Waffles.”

“Speaking of wildlife,” I said, “did you get a whiff of the motel office?”

“The owner has three cats.”

“And three litter boxes, all in that tiny room. The piss fumes nearly melted my retinas.”

“I don't think the hookers in the first two rooms mind the smell.”

“I'd be the only hooker on Earth to haul around Glade plug-ins in her ‘ho bag’. Is that the PC term for hooker-purse?”

“You're asking the wrong guy, I just have my kit.”

Someone rapped on the door behind him, sparing him a withering cut-down about his grandfather's man-purse. “Besides, so what if I'm good at remaining clinically detached? You're not?”

I went to unlock the door and Batten pushed me aside. His big palm hit the door. He eyeballed the peephole then unlocked it, shooting me a dirty look. “You always open the door without checking who it is?”

“It's Declan.” I rolled my eyes. “I knew it wasn't the boogeyman without looking, dude. I could
feel
his little leprechaun vibes out there.” To Declan I said, “Come in. Why aren't you sleeping?”

“Why are you two standing here arguing in the dark?”

“Why shed any light onto the farce that is my life?” I asked.

“Why do I bother?” Batten said brusquely, and disappeared into the rain.

“Why do you only travel by boat?” I asked Declan, frowning at Batten's retreating form until I lost him in the fog. “You said that once, and that needs to be answered before we play any more of the ‘why’ game.”

Declan flipped on the overhead lights; they blinked a bit like they were not committed in the least to coming on. One of them gave a sizzling spit and he slapped at the switch to turn them back off.

“Let's go talk in my room,” he suggested, “it has working lights.”

“Try not to take this the wrong way, but I'd rather zonk out.”

“Could you sleep,” he asked, “after what we just saw?”

I considered that. Maybe a bit of small talk would make us both feel better about what happened at the hospital, about Anne's escape, about what might be lurching around Glenwood Springs in the dark. I had no idea where the hell Cosmo and Roger were, and who might be controlling them, and why. He was right; I'd never sleep if we didn't talk.

We ran down the puddled cement sidewalk to the very next room with our arms over our heads, which did nothing to keep the torrent of rain back. When we got inside, he picked up where we left off easily, shrugging out of his wet jacket.

“I quite like the history of the high seas,” he said. “One of my non-work-related interests.”

I flopped down on the bed on my back, and then rethought that position as too suggestive and sat with my back against the headboard. “Vikings? Pirates? Sea shanties? Swashbuckling?”

“Aye, all that. Pour you a drink?”

I eyed the bottle he took from his ever-present doctor's bag and shook in my direction. “You're not trying to get me all liquored-up and out of my panties, are you? Cuz I'm not that kind of girl.”

He gave me a shrewd glance. “You're exactly that kind of girl. And if I wanted you out of your panties, I wouldn't need a dram of this fine spirit.”

I scowled, my honor besmirched, and watched him use his toes to slide off the heels of his sensible black shoes and step out of them. Lightning flashed in the heavily curtained window and the overhead lights blinked as though they might not make it through the storm. I could have sworn, just for a second, that Declan Edgar, silhouetted in the lightning burst, was a heck of a lot shorter than he appeared in artificial light. When thunder rolled overhead, the lamp on the night table shook. I glanced to make sure it wasn't going to fall, and caught Declan closing the curtains hurriedly in my peripheral vision. Lightning flared again, a triple-shot, and the sight of him blurred and jolted up and down. I didn't have any sort of rational explanation for that, except the possibility that I was losing my mind. Or…

“Are you a leprechaun?” I asked him point blank.

He blinked rapidly. His left cheek dimpled deeply. “Because I'm Irish?”

“No, because your eyes look like raw emeralds, and no human being looks shorter in the natural flash of lightning than they do in incandescent light.”

“You're serious?” He laughed.

“I met a necrophiliac half-breed undead ogre this week. We just watched a hybrid zombie-revenant fly out a window. If you told me you're a leprechaun, you'd still be a distant third, boyo.”

“And if I was, would you still drink with me tonight, Dr. B?”

“There was an
ogre
licking my
revenant
,” I stressed. “I don't see why I shouldn't spend the night drinking with a leprechaun.”

He affected the thickest TV-commercial Irish accent possible. “Would ya wrestle me down for me pot o’ gold?”

“Absolutely, that and more,” I said, doing my best to imitate the soft, lyrical sounds of his mouth; I must have screwed it up badly, judging by the broad grin he gave me.

“Then I'm sorely disappointed that I'm just a man.” He dimpled again. “All human, with far more to lose to a woman like you than a bit of gold.”

“Awfully sure of yourself. And what do you mean ‘a woman like me’?” Apparently my competition knew I had a serious weakness for stiffies. “Ah, hell. One drink won't kill me.”

“I haven't got any mixer,” he warned.

“Whatcha got?”

“Single-malt whiskey.”

Gulp. “Ice?”

“I didn't see an ice machine, but I can add a splash of water to yours if you're hell-bent on ruining it.”

That sounded like he knew I couldn't handle my booze. It irked me that he knew so much about me, and had no business knowing it.

“Only if you need water in yours,” I challenged.

He turned to me with a questioning eye and handed me a plastic cup full to the brim.
Hoo boy
.

Declan Edgar tipped his cup and toasted, “Best while you have it, use your breath. There is no drinking after death.” Nobody knew that better than a couple of UnBio nerds.

We drank contemplatively for a few moments. Well, it was more sipping and wincing on my part. “You seem upset,” he said.

“A lot on my mind, and none of it makes sense. Wait!” I held up my hands in a warding-off gesture. “Do not make the obvious joke, please.”

“Never,” he said with a courtly half-bow. “Let's get your mind off things. Let's brainstorm.”

“Offer you a brain sprinkle?” I said. “I'm pretty tapped-out tonight. I feel like I did that one time I got lost in the weird part of YouTube for four hours.”

“There's a not-weird part?” He grinned impishly. “I'll say a word, and you say the first thing that pops into your mind.”

“Cock.”

“Wait ’til I say the first word, Dr. B.”

“Guppy.”

He sat on the bed beside me. “Your own name makes you think ‘guppy’?”

“Fish bowl. I'm in a fish bowl. And everyone's goggling at me. What do they want from me? Make them stop!”

“Whoa. Let's try another direction,” he said, sitting forward, taking my whiskey-hand in his and urging my glass up to my mouth, “before you hyperventilate.”

I gulped, choked on the whiskey's burn. “Yes, please.”

“Okay. Crime?”

“Justice.”

He nodded. “Solution?”

“Night vision.”

A frown. “Interesting. Night vision?”

“Goggles,” I answered.

“Goggles?”

“Spaceman,” I snarled, getting tired of his game.

“Space,” he prompted.

“Rocketing into a dimension of pissed-off never before charted by mankind.”

“Marnie?”

“Yes, Declan?”

“Seek help.”

I cracked up, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now I feel better. Pour me another, Dr. E.”

“Sure thing, Dr. B.” He filled my glass again and I had to hold it very still and sip off the top for it not to spill.

Declan said, “People have been asking me questions about you and I don't know what to tell them.”

“What questions?”

“How old you are. If you're really a witch. If you're shagging Batten.”

I choked on my booze. “Twenty-seven, yes, and no.”

“Is that no as in ‘not currently’?”

I stared into my glass, wondering how it got so empty without me noticing.

Declan persisted, “Have you ever?”

I met his emerald gaze, unnerved. “Is that a ‘people wanna know’ or a ‘Dr. Edgar wants to know’?”

“That's an ‘Agent Golden wants to know’. I'm on a secret mission to uncover the truth.”