2 Death Rejoices (57 page)

At first, nothing happened. Batten let go, and Declan scrambled back, kicking to gain distance against the asphalt. Then Cosmo went stiff, and his back arched clear off the ground. The asphalt began to smoke beneath him. Cracks swam out in multiple directions, hissing fissures opening like an old, dry mouth. Rain sizzled like water droplets on a hot skillet where the cracks heaved. Molten rock pushed up beneath him, like a hand from hell, clutching at him, and swallowed him into the yawning, frothing ditch. Declan and I scurried back, clutching at each other's arms. Batten didn't flinch: he'd looked into far too many graves in his lifetime to be intimidated.

I stared down at the bubbling asphalt, where torrents of molten rock were crackling with a new, cool skin. Nifty. The scientist in me wanted to know how it worked, the witch in me wanted to try it again, and the coward in me was really super glad it was over.

Sirens were wailing in the distance. They were too late. The only thing for the health department or CDC to do now was collect any evidence left on Rob Hood's truck.

Batten came to stand panting over my shoulder. “Harry calls you ‘radish leaf’?”

“I've stopped asking,” I said, numb from the neck down.

“Better question: do you like kidney pie?”

“I seriously doubt it.”

Declan rubbed the back of his neck. “You okay?”

“I'm still sucking wind. That counts, right?” I looked around. “Now what?”

“To the sea?” he rallied half-heartedly.

I winced. “Only if I can barf in it.”

“I fucking hate this zombie bullshit.” His Irish snuck through, softening his vowels and giving his regret a lyrical tilt.

“C'mon, now, don't blame the zombies. They didn't ask for this.”

His cheeks pooched-out like he might lose his breakfast and his forehead started to sweat. I touched his forearm and whispered, “I need to ride back with you.”

Declan eyeballed Batten, who was storming over to meet the local cops through a whirl of fogbank and colored emergency lights.

“Can't ride back with Agent Batten?”

“Wouldn't be wise at this time,” I said warily.

Declan made a thoughtful noise. “He's going to be a while. We'll let him know we're going, and get you home.” He picked up his doctor's bag and we started to walk back to my room, dodging the same curious onlookers, both of us soaked and tired and in a fuzzy, stunned state. Declan flapped an evidence bag at me, and I deposited Cosmo's phone in it.

“Did we do any work last night?” I asked.

“Let's see. Is this work-related?” He read back from his iPad, squinting blearily, “And I quote, ‘That jackass plunged into me like I was the last evacuation shuttle off an imploding Earth’.”

I almost dropped the evidence bag. “Who said that?”

“You did, about Agent Batten.”

I blinked rapidly. “Sweet fancy Christ!”

“You also said he was, quote, ‘a visual picnic for my sex drive’ and ‘unforgivably good with his tongue’. You then made sure I knew you meant ‘sex of the oral variety’. Thanks for clearing that up, by the way.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I should probably delete all that.”

“Ya think?” I squawked.

“Are we of a different opinion about Agent Batten this morning?” he asked, and then tried to hide a knowing smirk behind his iPad. “The walls are awfully thin. Between you and the prostitutes, there's a whole lotta panty-dropping going on at this motel.”

My shoulders fell. “You heard?”

“Every damn word.”

C
HAPTER
45

UPON OUR RETURN TO SHAW'S FIST,
my yard was full of scientists, because apparently my milkshake brings all the nerds to the yard. The CDC had set up a tent in my driveway, more or less where I'd blown Dunnachie to rotten chunks. I had no idea what was going on inside the tent, and I didn't really want to. A very official-looking laminated sign on the tent-flap said:
Department of Special Pathogens
and
CDC
and at the bottom, warnings of a fate worse than death with the terms
forced resurrection
and
plague
and
contagion
underlined, and, in case there was any doubt remaining, a big, crimson biohazard symbol.

Harry was waiting in the kitchen, his apron in place across one of his blue Turnbull & Asser shirts. I threw my go-bag in the corner and collapsed into a kitchen chair beside Agent de Cabrera, who was eating, and didn't bother to look up.

“You'll let me know if there's anything I can do for you,” de Cabrera said.

I mumbled something foul.

De Cabrera added, “Cheer up. Use your positive words, remember? The CDC brought everyone their own personal gas mask.”

“The fact that I could use a gas mask is
positively
depressing,” I said.

Harry gave me a glare full of platinum disapproval as he prepared a plate for me. “You were very curt with me on the phone. I was not amused.”

“Look, before you go dick-whipping me into submission, I've had a bad few days. I was in the middle of fighting a fucking zombie and had an armload of extremely used cat litter, so can the angst, bat-breath.”

Harry made an unhappy noise and put kidney pie in front of me, nudging aside a small bowl of blood that I hadn't noticed was there.

I wrinkled my nose at it. “What's this for?”

“Good heavens. I suppose a man may drink blood in his own kitchen without being interrogated.”

“You're miserable, revenant, what's wrong? Is the CDC making life difficult for you?”

“So many anxious men, flitting about with their paranoia and cold dismay,” he exclaimed. “I daresay, it's enough to drive one mad.”

The Blue Sense had been tormenting him. I'd been too worked-up with my own stress to even notice anyone else's; I gave Harry an understanding smile.

“You're late,” he continued, “and I've been waiting to feed before I rest.”

“I'm
so
sorry that my zombie killing made you late for your nap,” I replied, aiming for dry. “I'll serve you as soon as humanly possible. Want me to dress up for the occasion? Maybe that raspberry silk and chiffon robe with satin sash and cuffs?”

“That sounds not unsatisfactory, darling,” he said, missing the sarcasm completely, “only, do eat first.”

I lifted a forkful of organ meat to my nose, sniffed, and sighed. “Do I have to?”

Harry scowled. “I do not mean to speak slightingly of present company,” Harry said tightly, “but you left me alone with such intellectually-deficient attendants that my well-being has suffered greatly.”

De Cabrera muttered, “I can hear you,” though it seemed he'd adjusted to the revenant's attitude readily enough; he propped his cheek on his fist and rolled his eyes.

“Now you sass me in front of said company and insult my offerings,” Harry finished.

I stared at my plate. “When I left, you were with Chapel. You like Chapel.”

“Your Agent Chapel had to attend to the CDC's arrival, both here and at the fish camp.”

“Hey, I didn't know”.

“You ought to keep yourself better informed.”

“Nobody's perfect, Fancy-Pants, not even you.”

“Oh?” His argentine gaze fixed on me, and he lit a cigarette.

“Yeah. For instance, you make kidney pie for lunch. Nobody eats that shit.”

De Cabrera picked up his plate, paused by the stove to pick up the rest of the entree under discussion, and walked out the mudroom door. I glowered after his retreating back.

Harry retorted, “Well, you cock up just about everything you attempt.”

“You Bogart the remote.”

“You talk in your sleep. Correction,” Harry pursed his lips primly. “You
swear
in your sleep.”

“I swear when I'm awake, too. You wear too much cologne,” I said.

Harry tapped his ash in the ashtray. “You need hardly remind me of that, and you know precisely
why
I do so.” He watched me through cigarette smoke for a long moment. “You give up too easily.”

“You call me French pet names that I have to Google. And you eavesdrop.”

“I have preternatural hearing that cannot be helped,” he pointed out. “You refuse to relax.”

“You change my phone to annoying ringtones.”

“You second-guess yourself.”

“You drive like a maniac.”

“You drive like a septuagenarian.”

“You think you're so much smarter than me.”

“Am I not?”

“No, you've just been around for-fucking-ever. Also: you're too good at yoga. You make me look bad.”

“Oh, sweetness, you hardly need
me
to make you look bad,” Harry said. He pointed at my damp t-shirt. “You dress like a slob.”

“And you're a snob.” We sat in silence for a few not-unaffectionate minutes, during which I could have sworn I saw a smirk sneak across his lips, quickly hidden. I opened my mouth to point it out, when something dark shot across my field of vision and went
flap, flap, smack
into my forehead.

I rocketed out of my chair, sending it crashing, slapping to backhand a meaty little fluff ball away from my head. It shrieked and stuck little hook-like feet into my hair, at which point I ran across the room like a wild invalid, yelling “Harry, get it, get it!” because I'm super brave when my Cold Company has my back.

The thing shoved off my temple and spiraled through the air, landing on the kitchen table with a fuzzy
floof.
I pointed at the waddling gob of brown-grey fur with open-mouthed shock.

“Why is there a bat in my house?” I demanded.

“Such a fuss you make,” Harry said placidly. “He's perfectly harmless.”

“It tried to gnaw my brains out.”

Harry huffed. “He's a tad ungainly, I'll admit, but that's no call to be ill-mannered.”

“Ill-mannered? Harry, there's vermin on my table!”

“
Shhhh
,” Harry chided. “You'll upset the lad. He's doing his best.”

“Lad?” I crossed my arms over my chest, a sinking feeling in my gut. “Harry, please tell me that isn't… you didn't…”

“I told you we had some lovely surprises for you; this is the first, and dare I say, the grandest.”

“You turned my brother into a flying rat?”

“I did nothing of the sort. He did it himself, and I believe he did a passable job, considering it was his first time. What
is
the matter?”

I motioned unhappily to the little bat on my table. “My brother turned into frickin’ vermin, and what I'd like to know is… well, since when is that an option?”

“He
is
a rather pitiable specimen.”

“A vampire bat. Isn't that a little clichéd?”

“To be sure, your brother has a dreadfully limited creative well from which to draw.”

“Are you saying, if he could have pictured something else, he could have become it?”

“Naturally,” he said, “as long as the choice was within reason. I daresay, he could not have become a centaur or a dragon, and had he tried, the transformation would have gone very badly indeed. Happily, I do not believe those options ever occurred to him.”

I scratched the back of my neck, thinking about this while Harry went about warming blood from Shield in a glass measuring cup in the microwave. He tipped a tiny bit more warm blood from the cup in the saucer for Wesley to lap at.

At first, the bat nearly tumbled into the dish, and then flapped a wing in it, casting sprinkles of blood on the Formica table. My brother, the spastic bat.

Harry said, “Come, chap, don't muck about,” and helped maneuver him to a better drinking position.

I couldn't watch the bat's little tongue dipping in and out, and had to look away.

“So, forgive me for having trouble wrapping my brain around this, Harry, but what sorts of animals can
you
shape-shift into?”

Harry turned to run the water in the sink, washing the measuring cup and shaking the drips from it, setting it in the dish drain.

“Not going to tell me?” I asked.

“Why should you be interested in such mundane matters?”

“Mundane ma— Harry! Shape-shifting is the very antithesis of mundane. And I'm interested because I was under the impression… scratch that, the whole scientific community is under the impression that revenants shape-shifting into bats and rats and wolves is bullshit.”

“Legend. Myth, perhaps,” Harry corrected, his Queen's English crisp, “but respectable scientists do not say ‘bullshit’.”

“I'm a scientist.”

“You may note my emphasis on respectability,” he said.

“Don't change the subject. I want to know what animals you've turned into.”

“One wonders what you could possibly gain from the knowledge, dearest.”

I boggled. “You're kidding me! You're really not going to tell me?”

“I don't see why I should. If you'd been paying attention, you could have easily discerned the answers yourself.”

“You've done this while I was around?”

“Numerous times,” Harry admitted; I thought his smile looked rather smug.

“I don't like this side of you, vampire,” I grumbled, holding up my hand before he corrected the term. “Yeah, I said it. You heard it.”

The mudroom door creaked open, and I knew it would be Batten; I wasn't sure how or why, but the V-word only ever slipped into my vocabulary when he was nearby.

“We're going to talk about this later,” I warned Harry.

“If you insist, though I ought to warn you: you shall get no further with your inquiries.”

“What's up with Batface?” Batten grumbled, opening the fridge and helping himself to a beer. Harry drew himself up to retort when Batten cut him off with an impatient wave of the brown bottle at the bat. “I meant Wesley.”

I froze. “What makes you think…” I laughed as if he were nuts. “That hideous little bat is my brother?”

“For one, you have a bat in your fucking kitchen and you're not freaking out.”

“I almost never freak out,” I said, daring him to argue.
Also, you got here too late to see the freaking out portion of the proceedings.

“And secondly,” Batten continued between draws on the bottle, “during transformation, Wes was unable to form fur on the left side of his face because of the holy water scarring.”

It hurt me to hear him say that in so casual a tone, until I saw the faint sheen in his eye.