Wrath
and Bones
The
Marnie Baranuik Files
Book
4
A.J.
Aalto
Genre: Paranormal/Fantasy
Publisher: Booktrope Editions
Date of Publication: December 28, 2015
ASIN: B018MNEBKQ
Number of pages:
486
Cover Artist:
Greg Simanson
Book
Description:
Marnie Baranuik is confident that her new psychic
detective agency will be a great success, and she has eight million business
cards to prove it. But before the paint even dries on her open for business
sign, she’s summoned to face the Demon King Asmodeus in His own playground, the
revenant court, home of the undead nobility, to participate in a conclave of
the most powerful immortals on Earth.
Orc prophets have forewarned her that danger is
looming in the far north. In her most ambitious adventure yet, Marnie must
harness her powers, gather trusted friends to wade into battle, and complete an
international treasure hunt that would make Indiana Jones break into a cold
sweat, before raising a new revenant house to rule from the Unhallowed
Throne... and do it all without getting her heart or legs broken. Storms are
brewing, threats are piling up, and the stakes are higher than ever, but Marnie
is determined to dance with danger to the very end. There’s only one thing left
to do: deal with it, Baranuik-Style.
Does anyone know if yetis like take-out? And when
you're on a date with a mummy, who picks up the check?
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Excerpt:
Chapter 1
“Remind me why we’re doing this? On a Friday night?
The day after Christmas? With no pizza? And no beer?” Golden asked, standing on
her tiptoes so her paint roller would reach the edging along the high ceiling.
“Nope,” I said, turning my binoculars out the frosty
office window to peer at the silver Volvo shining beneath the streetlight
across the street, commercial-grade parking job and all. No real people parked
like that. They'd even got the five-spoked wheels perfectly aligned. The
leather of my old tan gloves creaked as I fiddled, adjusting the focus, as if
the frogs embroidered on the cuff were getting quietly jiggy; they provided a
touch-psychic like me a valuable barrier between my psychometrically sensitive
hands and the unfamiliar items in Mark Batten’s new house, any one of which
could send me reeling with unwanted visions. Thin and supple though they were,
they didn't do anything to diminish my innate klutz tendencies, and I
over-corrected back and forth a bunch of times before I could see my target
clearly.
“We’re here because of you,” she said. “You can’t
say no to Batten.”
“I can so,” I murmured, tempted to believe my own
words. I tried to imagine Batten asking me to do something to which I’d say no,
but since he’s a sexy jerk, I nearly sprained my brain before giving up. “I
didn’t have to say no; he didn’t ask.”
“You offered? You?” She paused in the process of
dipping her roller in the tray, blowing her bangs out of her face with an
upward puff of breath, then swiping at them with the back of her unoccupied
hand. “But that’s a nice thing to do. You don't do nice. You do sneaky, or kooky,
or clumsy, or awkwardly slutty, or exploding, or – ”
“I'll throw another zombie spider at your melon if
you don't shut your wang-hole. I do the occasional nice thing when I think I’m
going to get something out of it,” I reminded her primly.
She aimed the roller at me, and the plastic drop
cloth rustled under her feet. “He’s not even here helping.”
“He’s out of town on a case.” In fact, Mark
“Kill-Notch” Batten was not just out of town, but out of the country, somewhere
in Bolivia; his new independent work as an international vampire hunter,
unhindered by his old FBI rules, took him to far-flung places tracking monsters
that had chosen not to play by the rules. I didn’t like to think about him
adding to the collection of tattoos on his right pectoral with fresh black
hashmarks, one for each revenant kill, but I did like to think of him chasing
down other types of baddies, and I assumed, with unrepentant sexual immaturity,
that he did so buck-ass naked, his bronze tan slick with sweat and his big
muscles glistening in the sun. Meowsa.
“You’re thinking about him naked again,” Golden said
with a sigh.
It was bad enough that my brother Wes was
legitimately telepathic; having mundane-as-fuck Heather Golden peg me like that
was intolerable, even if I was totally obviously ogling Batten's ass in my
mind. I had to change the subject, fast. “Nu-unh,” I lied, as tonight’s prey
came into sight. “I’m checking out this dweeb.” White kid. Early twenties.
Shirt. Tie. Clean shave. Bright smile at the Mustang pulling in his driveway.
My name’s Marnie Baranuik, and being nosy comes with
the territory. I’ve worked as a forensic psychic for both Gold-Drake &
Cross and the FBI’s Preternatural Crimes Unit. But now, I was flying solo,
opening my own psychic detective agency. How I was going to manage as a
business owner was anyone’s guess. Since I could pick my own cases, I expected
a lot less ghoul scum and fewer opportunities for being chased around in my
underpants by zombie Labradoodles. Blowing away human zombies with Diet Dr.
Pepper, propane canisters, and kitty litter was still totally on the table,
though. I was, I reminded myself, a badass. Now, I just happened to be a badass
with tax paperwork. Oh, Goddess, I was turning into an adult. Abort, abort!
“Besides, it’s our office,” I continued. “I’ll be
using it, too. I just volunteered us to paint while he’s gone, that’s all.”
“That’s awfully domestic. You hit your head on the
refrigerator door the other night?”
“Whoa, slow your roll, troll,” I said. “I’m not
helping him pick out fucking curtains.”
“You’re not painting, either,” she said. “I am.”
Point: Golden. “I will, I will,” I promised, “but
Volvo Boy’s bugging me.”
She put her roller down and stepped over the mess,
weaving through sheet-covered furniture to cross the room. The office was in
the front of Batten’s house, a cute two-bedroom-one-bath with a fenced back yard,
compact and cozy, perfect for one guy. I hadn’t thought any further than
sharing an office, because the idea of pursuing anything domestic with
Kill-Notch made me queasy. Didn’t I already have a serious domestic arrangement
with Harry? Can you have more than one of those? Come to think of it, I doubted
I'd ever seen Batten cook; he'd always come over to my place, where Harry did
the cooking, and filched the beer I bought specifically because I knew he liked
it.
Batten and I had been on exactly one date. It had
started with dinner and a discussion of what movie we might see, and ended in a
giant fight about robots followed by vigorous,
can’t-make-it-as-far-as-the-bedroom sex on his kitchen floor, sex that had left
us both speechless and smelling like lust and linoleum polish. And if I'd hit
my head on the refrigerator in the middle of it, I wasn't about to tell Golden.
Two days of stunned silence followed, during which
Harry wrestled with the shift in attention, focus, and power by being an
absolute prince. My Cold Company’s unperturbed reaction was more disquieting
than if he’d blown a fuse, but I was dreading any sort of candid confrontation
about it. If I was being honest, I was more afraid he’d say it was fine; I’d
learned from Harry's combat butler, Mr. Merritt, that my Grandma Vi had had
many suitors while she was living as Harry’s previous DaySitter. Was Harry a
Bond-boffing voyeur? I wondered. Bad enough that Asmodeus gets his jollies when
I get lucky, but my Harry, too? I pondered the uneasy mixture of trepidation
and sexiness into which that might coagulate.
My
intermittently torrid and annoying chemistry with Batten wasn't news to Golden.
She was my only girlfriend in the whole country, the only person who could drag
my ass to Claire’s Early Bird for coffee, girl talk, and various forms of sugar
and grease. She’d settled nicely into her role as my dirty-secrets confidante,
sensing my preference for shallow jabs over deep connections, stowing neither
her sharp wit nor her blunt attitude. Now, she leaned over my shoulder and
squinted through the window at the blond boy standing in the snow across the
street. She always smelled like lily of the valley, an old lady’s perfume
turned warm and classic by her skin chemistry; it was a scent I was still getting
used to. In the field of new relationships, Batten wasn’t the only person
dropping their guard, showing me the chinks in their armor, and inching closer
to my battlements. My people skills weren’t good enough for me to drop all my
defenses yet, but I was trying.
“Just some punk dealing,” was Golden’s assessment,
watching the exchange between the young man and his visitors with cool
detachment; though my secondary Talent woke to offer me empathic glimpses of
her emotional state, it didn’t take a psychic to gather she was
unimpressed.
I felt a smirk curl onto my lips. “The most
notorious vampire hunter in the nation, currently contracted by the Bolivian
government to hunt a Hagenbeck’s werewolf in the Andes, Mr. Ex-FBI Badass, is
living across the street from a drug dealer?”
“He’ll stop dealing when his mom runs out of pills.”
“This is America,” I chided, aghast. “Moms don’t run
out of pills.”
Golden preformed a very feminine move, an effortless
sweep that brushed escaped locks of strawberry blonde hair back over her
shoulder where the rest of her ponytail laid; I couldn’t have matched the move
without teetering over. Then she flipped me off. It was odd seeing her in
garage-grey coveralls and black Converse sneakers with little skulls on them.
Agent Heather Golden usually wore navy suits and crisp white shirts buttoned to
the neck when working at the Boulder branch of the PCU, where I had worked,
too, until recently. When we went out for coffee together, she still looked
pretty professional, skipping the suit jacket but keeping everything else
dry-clean-only. I knew from past adventures that her toenails were likely
painted black. They might even have red stick-ons in the shape of little drops
of blood. Golden had a fun streak that predated her work with the PCU. I was
determined to drag it into the light so it could breathe a little.
She caught me staring up at her and made a face,
crossing her eyes and sticking out her tongue. “Adorable, right?” she asked.
“So, do you figure Batten moved to Ten Springs to be closer to you?”
I choked on my surprise and horror, and blurted,
“No!” Then I went back to a safe subject, returning to hiding my face behind
the binoculars; I swung them back to the street. “Look at this twerp.”
Golden would not be distracted. “Why else would any
sensible single man move to this godforsaken ass-crack of a town?”
“Sensible?” I snorted. “Batten?”
I could hear
the smug smile in her voice. “Why would
he add long and treacherous commutes to his life?”
“If he didn’t like treacherous, he wouldn’t be
dating me,” I pointed out.
“Fair point. Why would he add a long commute?”
“If you had that Bugatti, wouldn't you want to drive
it? Besides, he said he wanted to find peace and quiet,” I said, slowly, like I
was explaining to a Cocker Spaniel how not to pee on my shoe.
“He couldn’t find peace and quiet in Boulder?” she
asked doubtfully.
“Can’t get much quieter than Ten Springs, population
five hundred and forty,” I pointed out.
“Five hundred forty-one,” she amended. The smugness
in her voice had thickened, and I Felt her wary approval; she hadn’t always
understood Batten chasing my skirt, but her opinion on the matter had changed,
and she was currently rolling with it, happy to have something to tease me
about.
Point: Golden.
“Look at this dickazoid. Whoever heard of a drug dealer wearing a tie?”
I asked, not exactly feigning my outrage, but trying to ham it up and change
the subject.
“You’re Canadian. Deal with it Canuck-style.”
“That’s what I’ll do,” I agreed. “I’ll write him a
sternly-worded letter. Dear Drug Dealer: You’re doing it wrong, eh? Sorry.
Sincerely, Anonymous. P.S. Here's some maple syrup.”
“Things are changing, Marnie-Jean,” she said. Nobody
had called me Marnie-Jean except my mother until Golden found out what the J
stood for. She rolled paint onto the walls, wide chocolate stripes of paint
over the original, boring beige.
“The sissification of punkdom?”
“We’re all heartbroken about it,” she said solemnly.
“Especially Henry Rollins.”
“I like my crooks like I like my coffee: strong,
smelly, and liable to choke me.” I considered the boy who waved politely at his
customers as they drove away; he held up his hand and just curled his
fingertips down. Once, twice. A cute little finger-wave.
“Stop obsessing,” Golden said, “and help me paint
your boyfriend’s walls.”
“He’s not my... for fuck’s sake, this crook drives a
fucking Volvo.” I clutched the binoculars tighter. “No, don’t you do it. Don’t…
Ohhhhhh, bitch.”
“What’s he doing? Helping an old lady cross the
street?”
“He saw me. He gave me one of his cute waves.”
“You’re going to get shot in the face,” Golden
predicted, doing precisely nothing to stop it.
“He went inside and opened the curtains in his
living room.”
“Maybe he thinks you wanna jump his bones. Gonna put
on a strip show for ya. You're the one ogling him through binoculars like the
world's most boring stalker.”
“He took his shirt off. Aaaaaand now he’s doing yoga
in his front window. Like a dick.” I shook my head, but could not take my eyes
off the wiry little jerk doing inversion poses in what I assumed were Gap for
Kids chinos.
“Doesn’t Harry do yoga? Don’t you do yoga?”
We both did, but admitting that wouldn’t support my
irritation in this case. Golden passed behind me to look out the window and
steal my Dr. Pepper. I would have slugged her if it had been a cup of espresso,
but my new machine hadn’t come in, so I was stuck with soft drinks, and she was
welcome to them.
I dipped my own roller and started on an untouched
wall. In the mixed light from the ceiling fan and the camping lantern we
brought to brighten up the corners, the velvety brown paint looked like a
delicious blend of rich coffee and dark chocolate. I hadn't covered more than a
quarter of it before I felt Harry approaching. Well before Heather or I could
have heard the purring rumble of the Kawasaki come down the street, the Bond
sending a pleasant thrum of anticipation through my belly, a vibration more
metaphysical than biological, designed to awaken a DaySitter’s senses in
preparation for their companion’s presence. I knew he felt me, too; like two
machines checking one another’s distance and readiness, Harry and I pinged each
other, striking metaphorical bells and whistles, and in response, dark urges
rolled to life in my veins. It felt like hope, like the night was rife with
endless possibilities, like I had sprouted wings and could take a swan dive off
the roof without fear. His hopes, his endless possibilities, his reckless
excitement, true; I got a mere sampling of his high. The creature who owned me
cruised down my boyfriend’s street, an English revenant approaching a vampire
hunter’s abode with a monster’s smile hidden beneath a vicuna scarf.
“This guy must travel with Cirque du Soleil,” Golden
continued. “I can’t even imag—” She dropped to a crouch, still clutching the
binoculars, and the Blue Sense roared open to blast me with an interesting
one-two punch: alarm, followed by vigilance.
“Did he catch you ogling him?” I asked, but my humor
failed, and I dropped the roller and got down on hands and knees to crawl to
her position. “What’s wrong?”
“Harry’s here,” she whispered.
I relaxed with a smirk. “Duh. It’s after dusk, and
he knows where I am,” I reassured her. It’s not like I could hide from him if I
tried. “It’s absolutely fine.”
That was a minor exaggeration; my relationship with
Mark Batten had always been a nettle in my Cold Company’s backside, but one he
was tolerating better these days. I often felt a wary concern through our Bond
from my companion when the subject of Batten came up, but it was tempered with
curiosity, and an eagerness that I didn't quite understand. Harry continued to
dote on me while holding ground in a wait-and-see place. What he was waiting
for was anyone’s guess.
For my part, I waited until Golden returned to her
painting before swiping my roller again.
“So why is he here tonight?” she asked.
“He’ll say he’s coming to help,” I guessed, “but
what he’ll actually do is snoop around and make disparaging remarks about the
state of Batten’s wardrobe.”
“Care to make a wager?” Golden suggested. “I’m
betting because I’m here, he’ll take over the painting. You know, rescue the
damsels in distress from the dragon that is this job.”
I smiled; I could see why she’d think that. Saying
Harry was a little old-fashioned was like saying the Pope was kinda religious.
That being the case, I couldn’t imagine my Cold Company doing manual labor that
risked getting paint on his Anderson & Sheppard trousers, not for Golden,
not for me, and certainly not for Batten.
“You're on. Next check at Claire's?” We shook on it,
and I tried to remember what the most decadent thing on the menu was. I think
it was a chocolate croissant with maple filling. Maybe I'd get two, just to rub
it in.
When Harry did come wading through the maze of
haphazardly-stacked cardboard boxes, wearing the high collar of his bespoke
navy pea coat popped against the inclement weather, the temperature of the room
began to sink; revenants carry a chill with them like an immutable cloak, and
some mortals get an involuntary shiver crossing paths with the undead. His touch of the grave felt familiar and,
oddly, my half of the office began to feel temporary, like my arrangement
sharing office space at Batten’s was a short-term deal. Then again, to my Cold
Company, Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, just weeks into his four hundred and
fortieth year, most anything would seem short-term. Harry was waggling my cell
phone at me urgently; I’d left it in my purse at the front door and hadn’t
heard it ring.
“The Orc Quarter is on fire, love,” he informed me
without the preamble of a greeting. His posh British accent was crisply
summoning, and laced with immortal power that likely set Golden’s goose bumps
flaring. I couldn’t have ignored his voice if I tried. Few humans could, but
certainly not his DaySitter. “The fire chief would like you to pop over and
take a peek.”
Normally I’d have said something cheeky, but the
words “Orc Quarter” stomped my wit. I felt my brow knit. “I’m sorry, the what?”
“The Orc Quarter in Schenectady.”
“Schenectady,” I said, seeking clarification, “New
York?”
“Just the place, yes.”
“Has an Orc
Quarter?”
“Well, I assume they must have, ducky, if the
Schenectady Fire Department is ringing you up to attend to it,” he chided, then
tried to hand me the phone. When I scowled at it, he clucked his tongue.
“See, this is exactly why I stopped working for the
feds and went freelance, so I can tell people who call me on Boxing Day with
flaming orc problems to hop up their own ass,” I said. “Besides, there are two
preternatural biology labs in Manhattan and a branch office for Gold-Drake
& Cross. Why do they want me?”
“One wonders,” he agreed. “Shall I inquire?” I
rolled my eyes; Harry mistook this as a request, and spoke into the phone.
“Might one inquire as to why you are requesting the presence of Ms. Baranuik of
all people, Chief Fitchett?”
I sighed, took my Dr. Pepper back from Golden, and
downed it, wishing there was more. I had a feeling I was going to need it.
Harry relayed, “Mister Fitchett says the Schenectady
police have one resident in custody that is refusing to talk to anyone but the
Litenvecht Späckkenhuggar.”
I waited for the rest of it. When there wasn’t any
more, I prompted, “And?”
“Apparently, my pet, that would be you.”
“I’m the Licken-Vicken Spackle-Smuggler?” I pointed
at my chest with a gloved finger.
“Quite so.”
“What the hell is a Lite-Bright Spunk-Shucker?”
“Since the
Orc language is a largely borrowed tongue, and they originate in the area now
known as Sweden, I’m going to translate the phrase roughly as either ‘small
killer whale’ or ‘Little Orc-Killer.’”
My jaw dropped. “But I’m not the little orc killer.
Or a big orc killer. I've never met an orc, much less killed one. Unless they
mean I'm little, which, I guess is true. But still, that's some bullshit.”
“This I know,” Harry replied patiently. He continued
to waggle the phone at my face.
“I’ve never even seen an orc, except for blurry
videos and a preserved fetus in an UnBio lab.”
“This does not surprise me in the least.
Nevertheless, they would like you on-site as soon as possible, and when you’re
done with that, the Schenectady police have an orc in custody with whom you are
to have what I hope should be an illuminating conversation.” When I made no
move to take the phone from his outstretched hand, he noted, “My heavens, but
your entrepreneurial spirit certainly does leave something to be desired.”
I had started my own business as a private psychic
detective, hanging my digital shingle online just the day before – a Yuletide
present to myself, in a way – and until Harry had shoved the phone in my face,
I wasn’t aware my number was even listed on the site yet. I was tempted to
answer with, “How'd you finger my digits?” but that might not be good customer
service.
“Harry, you are the worst secretary ever.”
He nodded his head in assent, but I could feel the
mirth swirling through our Bond, so I pursed my lips and flipped him and
Golden, who was trying to muffle some unprofessional laughter behind one fist,
off.
I listened for sounds of drooling or panting or
chewing on the other end, and when I heard no such monster noises, I sighed and
cleared my throat. “Bare Hand Services, how may I help you this evening?”
About
the Author:
AJ Aalto is an unrepentant liar and a writer of
blathering nonsense offset by factual gore. When not working on her horror
novels, you can find her singing old Monty Python songs in the shower,
eavesdropping on perfect strangers, stalking her eye doctor, or failing at one
of her many fruitless hobbies. Generally a fan of anyone with a passion for the
ridiculous, she has a particular weak spot for smug, pseudointellectual
a**holes and narcissistic jerks; readers will find her work littered with dark,
imperfect creatures and flawed monsters.
AJ cannot say no to a Snickers bar, and has been
known to swallow her gum.
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2 paperback copies (US/Canada only)
2 ebooks
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