2 Death Rejoices (58 page)

“Revenants can't transform into bats,” I said. “That's Hollywood bullshit.”

Batten just grinned with his lips on the beer bottle.

“What?” I demanded.

“You didn't know they could do it,” Batten said. Not a question.

“You did?”

He leaned back against the refrigerator and nodded. “Noob.”

I wilted. “I suppose I deserved that.”

“Felt great to say it, too.”

“How did you know?”

“I'm not just another pretty face, babe.”

Harry shot him a look at the term of endearment, sniffed the air unhappily, but said nothing. Through the Bond, I felt a quiver of unease.

I fished both of the phones from my go-bag, handed Batten the evidence bag that contained the one that had been in Cosmo's fursuit,
and turned mine on. “Do you think Wes would show up if I took some pictures?”

“Unlikely,” Harry replied. “Wesley has not
become
the bat, he is merely in the animal's form. He is still as he was, as he will be evermore. That is to say, undead. And it is the power of Eternal Grace which prevents your picture-taking.”

Wesley wobbled close to the edge of the table, beat his soft-crinkly wings rapidly, and fell, tumbling end over end, landing with a furry little thud.

I leaned across the corner of the table to peer down as the tangled pile of wings and limbs writhed to regain his footing. I wrinkled my nose. “For someone with Eternal Grace, he's as lame as a two-legged show toad.”

Harry bent to whisk Wesley up into the protective cup of his hands and hold him away from me. “He's new,” he said crisply. “You leave him be. He's doing an awful lot better than
you
would ever do, considering he shares your ungainly Baranuik genes.”

“God, Harry, I've never seen you like this. You're like a proud papa teaching his baby to walk.”

“We needn't listen to this codswallop,” Harry told the bat, scratching Wes behind the ear. “MJ, I shall be in my room. Please do knock before entering. Viktor is finding the weather quite unbearable and often goes unclothed.”

Trying not to think of the ogre half-breed naked or wonder if he was hung like a bull moose, I watched Harry retreat to the pantry with the bat cradled in the crook of his arm; I could have sworn I heard him cooing encouragements on the way down.

Declan came clomping in just in time to watch Harry usher the little bat away. “Your brother made bat?” Declan's eyebrows went sky-high, impressed. “I thought he was new dead.”

“
You
knew they could do that?” I righted my chair and slumped into it.

“Have you forgotten what I am?” Declan asked.

I grumbled, “A smart-assed leprechaun who's about to get shit-canned?”

Batten let out a bark of laughter.

“Are you okay, Dr. B? You seem a little dazed.”

I scowled at him. “Let's see. I battled a zombie in a beaver suit and discovered my brother can shape-shift into vermin. Also, there might be a naked ogre in my basement. No, I'm not okay. I need a box of cookies. No, I need a case of cookies. I need to mug a Girl Scout.”

“Fig Newton?” Declan offered.

I flicked Batten a dirty look. “I
can't.”

“Why'd you look at me when you said that?” Batten asked, and then held up a hand to stop me from explaining. He was thumbing Cosmo's phone with one hand, holding his beer with the other. “Taking this over to de Cabrera, see if he can hack the password and trace the last call. Was that zombie wearing a Bluetooth headset?”

I nodded. “I'll let Chapel know,” I said, waggling my phone at him, omitting that Chapel wouldn't be surprised.

The mudroom screen door creaked open and banged shut.

Declan joined me at the table. “Agent Batten's going to want to go out there.”

“Where? Malas’ mansion?” I asked, puffing air up at my bangs. He was right, of course, and though I knew I couldn't let Batten go out there alone, I was too tired to consider the prospect of joining him. Maybe I could just send my assistant on my behalf, and spend the rest of the day curled up in a bubble bath with a juicy Jackie Collins novel and a bag of Jujubes.

“Who gave Cosmo Winkle a Bluetooth headset and a cell phone?” Declan asked.

“I'm assuming the
bokor
did it.”

“When?”

“Cosmo didn't have it in his ear when his body was found, so I'm guessing it was at the morgue.”

“Why?”

“To control him.”

Declan nodded; deep in thought, we stared at the wet spot that Batten's cold beer bottle had left on the aquamarine Formica.

“It would be almost impossible to control a berserker zombie,” he said.

“I guess that's why he got away. I doubt the
bokor
sent Cosmo to kill a couple of random carjackers.”

“Carjackers outside our motel rooms. In Hood's truck.”

“I see your point.”

“You knew he'd have a Bluetooth,” Declan said, not a question, “and a phone. You weren't surprised.”

“Harry found a melted scrap in the remains of Zombie Dunnachie.”

“You didn't mention it to me,” Declan said. “You don't trust me?”

I peeled my gloves off and rubbed my face with my sweaty hands. “I gave the scraps to Chapel and let him make the call. It was a need-to-know thing.”

“You can trust me, Dr. B.,” he said, “and I can't help you if I don't have the whole story.”

I said nothing, but I thought he looked sincere. As always, he was impossible to read. His wall was every bit as impenetrable as Batten's.

“Anything else you haven't told me about?” he asked.

Just then, something rattled in the pocket of my jeans like a tiny vibrator accidentally knocked into high speed.
The Waterloo tooth
, my brain supplied, immediately also supplying
blerg.

I tapped my forehead. “Lots of shit up here, Dr. Edgar.” I said. “But I promise, if I think I need your help with any of it, I'll let you know. Now if you'll excuse me, there's an ogre to check on, my revenant needs to be fed and tucked in, and then I'm taking a bath.”

Declan consulted his iPad. “It's Tuesday tomorrow. Isn't Tuesday your day off?”

My lips peeled into a big smile. “Best news I've had all day. Boy, I do love having an assistant.”

“I'll check on Chapel and the team.” He swung out of his chair and knocked meaningfully on the table. “You didn't get much sleep, maybe you should go rest. If we need you, I'll call.”

C
HAPTER
46

FEEDING HARRY
relieved some of my headache and lifted my brain out of the fog I'd assumed was mostly hangover. The flu, however, was not getting any better; my fever was still high, and sometimes a rush of chills would race up and down my arms and legs. After a rather heated text dispute with Batten regarding my not immediately telling him about Dunnachie's Bluetooth bits, a cup of tea, and a long, hot bath, I threw myself into bed in a tank top and underpants — just to rest my eyes — and fell asleep fast and hard.

Bad dreams are rehearsals for the struggle to survive; they exist to prepare us in the waking world. Even knowing that, and even though most of my dreams are lucid, I still wake drenched in sweat from regular nightmares.

It began like a typical escape dream: me, alone, running away from something in the dark.
Must go faster, must go faster, it's almost on me, it's going to get me.
When I looked back to see what the it-
du-jour
was, the darkness cloaked all but a hand. A rotting hand. A squirming hand. That wedding ring. Dunnachie's hand. Then it was Malas’ withered hand, rising in the dark, sending off sparks. Then it became Cosmo's hand, holding a phone. Hood's hand, grabbing my wrist, over and over. Batten's hand, grabbing my hip, cupping my ass. My mind lingered on that, played with the sensations of Mark's magic hand, stroking me fondly, sliding under my clothes. Harry's hand, bringing me to the brink and spilling me into ecstasy. Now Chapel's hand, reaching for my shoulder. Rot. Pestilence. Skin slipping. A brightly-painted, lime-green fingernail fell off. Closer, he's closer. Too close. The stench overwhelmed me. Chapel's cheeks
pale as a corpse. Wet, smacking noises behind a dentist's paper mask. Running through mud. The asphalt melting underfoot. I had to get away, but my shoes were sticking, pulling through melted tar and hot muck. My thighs burned with effort. Sweat rolled down my face. The palm of Chapel's reaching hand sprouted a mouth. Chapped lips, peeling. Pus-filled blisters. Broken teeth jutting from a raw, red slash. A black stump of a tongue slurped out.

When the hand finally landed with a triumphant slap, I physically felt it and woke to darkness with a gurgle-shriek. I flipped out of bed, face-planting on the carpet, mashing my nose and rug-burning my upper lip. My hands flew up to grapple with the drawer of my nightstand, and wrenched it open. Felt for my mini-gun. Gripped the wrong weapon. Prepared for battle, I went to one knee and aimed, only to realize I was kneeling in tank top and a G-string, threatening my bleary-eyed boss with my vibrator.

Chapel's voice was as composed and soothing as ever, like this was an every-night occurrence, my waving a sex toy in his face. He opened his arms, showed me his empty hands, maintained his distance, dropped his chin and half-smiled apologetically.

“Marnie, it's me. It's just Gary. You're okay. It's all right. Are you awake? You slept all day…”

I held my breath and stared up at him for one heart-strafing minute, peering through the messy wisps of my bangs, seeing him in a white undershirt and business-casual cotton Dockers, no dentist's mask. I waited for a zombie-mouth on his hand to open and snarl. When it didn't, I let my muscles go lax and exhaled hard.

“Don't mind me,” I said, “I'm just enjoying a little recreational paranoia.”

“Bad dream?”

“I dreamed about you.”

“Not in a good way, I take it.”

No, your hands were not the ones sexing me up, they were the ones rotting off.
“You were a zombie.”

“Dreams are a result of the brain moving information from short term to long term memory across the dream center, right?”

I nodded, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. “Some say. You were a large part of the dream. I must be worried about you.”

“You don't have to worry about me, Marnie.”

“Maybe not,” I said, “but you were my
dhaugir
, and I take care of stuff that belongs to me.”

He looked sweaty, pale, and generally unwell, but managed to drum up a smile for me. “I
was
your
dhaugir
, Marnie. Past tense. Back to bed?”

I nodded, and he offered his hand to help me up; it was warm enough that I wondered if he'd been holding a hot mug of coffee before coming into my room. The clock said eleven P.M. Kinda late for caffeine.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“I banged my kneecap pretty hard. I'm glad you asked. That means you aren't feeling my pain anymore.” I threw Mr. Buzz back in my drawer and slammed it shut. “You're right. Past tense.”

“For the most part,” he added.

I squinted at him. “Gary? You're sweaty. Why are you sweaty? The heat wave broke and it's not even warm tonight.”

“A summer cold.” He used one finger to poke under his eyeglasses and rub the inside corner of his eye. “Climb in.” When I didn't get back into bed, he frowned. “Marnie?”

“I'm sorry I woke you,” I said warily.

“You didn't.” He smiled benevolently. “I was sitting up reading with Harry.”

That explained why Harry hadn't come in to check on me after the nightmare; under normal circumstances, he'd be lounging in the doorway, complaining about the fuss I make, reminding me that real monsters could dispel the imaginary ones.

“Couldn't sleep?” I asked. When Chapel nodded, I added, “Too much caffeine and too many monsters?”

“I just can't get comfortable. I'm sore all over. It's nothing.”

“No,
I'm
uncomfortable and sore all over.” I touched his forehead, and he allowed it, but mouth-shrugged as if to say I was being silly. “Are you sure you're not sharing my suffering?”

“Positive,” he said, too harshly. A faint smile couldn't erase that, but he tried.

“What are you not telling me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifted from one bare foot to the other. I waited for him to spit it out, but when he finally did, I really wished he hadn't.

“I seem to be experiencing your, um, feelings of desire, or gratification. I'm not sure what you said, exactly, during the spell you concocted to remove the bond—”

“I found the spell online, I didn't make it up,” I said, remembering how the bottle of Harry's little white “vitamins” tipped into the circle and the spell's odd aftereffects. The bremelanotide, the pills that boosted libido.
Oh, fuckballs
.

“Well, whatever you said, Marnie, it switched our connection from pain to pleasure.”

I thought of Batten and me at the motel. “Uh, are you sure?”

Chapel leveled his sharp, hazel gaze at me through his glasses. “I am absolutely certain.”

I cringed, felt suddenly like I should put on more clothes. A lot more clothes. Like, maybe everything I owned. And I should throw away my sex toys. And torch my porn. And never, ever look at Mark Batten again.

“So, I guess you think that yesterday I might have… but I
so
didn't. I was just thinking thinky-thoughts. You know. How you do, when you…”

“You don't have to explain, Marnie.” He took his glasses off, fiddled with them, decided to clean them on his undershirt. “Just fix it. Please. This is much, much worse.”

I opened my mouth to argue that, and thought better of it. “If you're feeling my pleasure, then why are you sharing my illness? A flu isn't gratifying.”

“I've just got a little summer cold,” he repeated.

“Let me see your eyes.” I took his shoulders and turned him to face the light coming from the kitchen; he had to slouch a lot to help me see. In the corner of each eye were fine, red veins feathering through the whites. “Stick your tongue out for me?”

“This isn't necessary,” he assured me.

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. “So humor me. It'll shut me up.”

He did. His tongue was covered with white spots and a green film. I wrinkled my nose. “Ick. Lemme see your belly. Lift the t-shirt.”