Stiff Competition: A Marnie Baranuik Between The Files Story Read online

  STIFF COMPETITION

  A Marnie Baranuik “Between the Files” Story

  By A.J. Aalto

  Copyright 2017 A.J. AALTO

  This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.

  Attribution — You must attribute the work in the manner specified by the author or licensor (but not in any way that suggests that they endorse you or your use of the work).

  Noncommercial — You may not use this work for commercial purposes.

  No Derivative Works — You may not alter, transform, or build upon this work.

  Inquiries about additional permissions should be directed to: [email protected]

  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: 978-0-9952004-6-3

  Dedication

  For Tracy Dinga, who loves brownies, and is the goofiest broad I know.

  It is an unwritten rule that when there’s a knock on your door late at night while you’re in the middle of packing for a trip, you should not, under any circumstances, answer it. Especially if your name is Marnie Baranuik.

  Unfortunately, that is my name, and there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping on my cabin door. Well, not-so-gently rapping, it sounded more like a linebacker from the Denver Broncos was trying to pound some dogshit off of his cleats.

  I was bad at following the rules, but I was getting better. For instance, I was in the middle of following Umayma Eyasi’s prudent advice as my office manager, so Harry and Wes and I had not rushed immediately back to Niagara when the news about Ashton Sarokhanian’s departure reached us; Mark Batten was supposed to be dead, not undead and waiting in ambush, so we played it cool, spending the summer as we usually did, with playful twilight swims in the lake at Shaw’s Fist, watching Wes flit back and forth from bat form to human in his continuing quest to heal his facial scarring, having midnight BBQs where the hot dogs were for me and the bent neck was for Harry. Now that October was finally here, Harry had booked flights. I could barely contain my hurry to get home, and was busy plundering my unmentionables drawer, tossing froggy-print underwear, cotton bras, fuzzy socks, and extra gloves in the general direction of a gaping gym bag, when a thundering of knuckles on wood interrupted my packing.

  My immediate thought was not who could that be at this ungodly hour, but how many fists does it take to make that kind of racket? I should have heeded my initial instinct, which was to stubbornly refuse to be summoned so unexpectedly late at night. On top of everything, it was a Tuesday, and Tuesdays are my day off; no exceptions, no interruptions, my sacred day to be silly, lazy, and irresponsible. It was only three minutes into Tuesday, and somebody was already fucking it up.

  I set my scowl to how-dare-you and stomped into the kitchen to see if either of the dead guys could handle it, but both revenants had disappeared into the basement to pack. Wafting up from Harry’s bedchamber, I could hear Vivaldi. One does not disturb Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt when Big Tony V is on the stereo, unless one wishes to have the rough side of a four hundred-forty-year-old man’s tongue run up one side and down the other. Having had centuries of practice, my Harry could, with surgically-applied condemnation alone, neatly deglove a person’s self-worth.

  I aspired to mimic Harry's snooty censure as I stormed to the front hall, placed one carefully-gloved hand on the knob, and whipped the door open to face the night.

  There was a collection of early trick-or-treaters on my porch. That was my first impression, anyway. It took me a beat and a solid double-take before I realized that they were not, in fact, folks dressed up as the Halloween stereotype of a “wicked witch,” but actual dark witches who hadn’t got the memo that pointy black hats, striped knee socks, and straw brooms were not mandatory uniforms. There were a few robes and staves, too, and the smell of patchouli was a pungent accessory. One of them shifted uncomfortably and I heard the impatient tinkling of crystals and bells. I warily counted six heads; six very serious faces revealed nothing of their impression of me in return.

  I shot a glance at the near-full moon and cleared my throat. “Yo, witches. What up with your bad selves?”

  The tall, painfully-thin brunette woman in front was the only one who didn’t wilt, roll her eyes, and make guttural noises of frustration. She was the one I refocused my full attention on; her cool, calculating demeanor reminded me of Harry, and I was accustomed to juggling his nonsense. This one would be the most trouble, if trouble was coming.

  She tried on a smile like it was a bra made of wasps, and nothing had scared me that much in a very long time; thin skin stretched over a bony skull, and the near-rictus of it died before traversing the sharp peaks of her all-too-visible cheekbones, never even getting within shouting distance of a pair of cool, hazel eyes. “Marnie Baranuik?” she asked.

  I considered lying, but they’d found my house, and I’m a pretty shitty liar, so I shrugged. “You’re not the We Hate Marnie Fan Club, are you? Or the Were-Vixens Flogging Society? I’m really in no mood to be flogged.”

  She motioned to the short, plump blonde standing at her left shoulder. “My name is Lavinia, and this is Eunice.”

  I smiled sourly. “Those are not your names. You took old lady names when you became black witches,” I pegged them, “because that’s a thing you do. I’ve never figured out why. Maybe you can illuminate? Oh wait, illumination ain’t your bag.”

  “Ms. Baranuik, please,” Lavinia seemed perturbed with my attempts at charm. “We come to you with a serious and timely warning.”

  “Timely,” I said, nodding. “Great. Because this is the worst possible time you could have picked. I’m on a plane first thing in the morning, and I still have to pack.”

  “You won’t be going anywhere,” Lavinia assured me. “Not until after Samhain.”

  “Did you see that in your crystal ball? Get three knocks on your day planner with a suspiciously well-worn personal massager, so you knew the call was for me?”

  She deadpanned, “Scrying bowl,” and I wasn’t sure if she was kidding or not. “If you do not heed my warning, Ms. Baranuik, you will not like the consequences. I—“

  Her face drained of color and she tightened up even further, which I thought was a neat trick since she already looked like skin on a stick. I felt the purl of cold air behind me and smelled citrusy 4711 cologne as Harry glided up, literally having my back, and my skin prickled with a pleasant wash of goosebumps. My undead partner made a soft, delighted noise at the sight of late company, a breathy sound like a cat’s contented purr, and he clucked his tongue near my ear.

  “My pet, why have you not invited our guests out of the cold night wind?” he chastised.

  “Uh, because I don’t want a bunch of weirdos in my cabin?” I said. “I mean, extra weirdos. Nobody needs extra weirdos.”

  “Shruff and cinders, ducky, I think you’re a little late to the platform for that train,” he said with a chuckle. “If you will do the honors, I’ll hot the pot, shall I, and get our guests some savories and nibbles?”

  “No,” I objected as he turned on a heel to go do exactly that, ignoring my cry. “Harry, we’re not having left-hand witches in for tea and cheddar scones at midnight. We’re busy! It’s important. We’re…” I trailed off, knowing it was useless. Harry was curious, and, despite everything
else going on, he would have his company.

  “Balls,” I said, sulking backwards from the door, making room for them to tread inside. “Fine. Get in here. Don’t summon any demons. Don’t filch my herbs. Don’t even look at my sea salt chocolates. If you pilfer one, I will flay you alive.”

  Not a one of them decided to remain outside, even though my bloodsucking life partner was making no attempt to appear alive. He’d fed recently, and if he wanted to, he could have passed for mortal quite well; he chose not to this evening.

  Lavinia passed me stiffly, followed by Eunice, who seemed the only huggable one of the bunch. Next came a young dude with a plain face, long, poker-straight black hair, a concave chest, and a tall top hat that must have been five times older than he was, judging by the wear on it. He used a walking stick, but leaned on it heavily enough that I suspected it was not an affectation. There were two other men next, twins by the look of them, seventy if they were a day, gingers, one bearded and one smooth. They wore matching robes, the bearded one in forest green velvet, and the cleanly shaven gentleman in pale beige with his hood up. When Lavinia chose to sit in Harry’s chair next to the cold woodstove, the hairier of the ginger twins asked her if he should start a fire.

  “You won’t be here that long,” I spoke up, giving Lavinia the I’m-in-charge-here eyes. She demurred and waved him away.

  “No, Gus, thank you,” she said. “Ms. Baranuik, this is Gus and Felix, and the young gentleman is Wymon.”

  The last lady came in, also a redhead, a strikingly pale woman with soft curls and dead green eyes beneath nearly transparent brows and lashes. She wore black denim and a frayed t-shirt that had once been black, faded to a deep grey, with a music group on the front that was so worn down that none of the band members had a face. I deduced from the font, though, that it might have been Metallica. She looked the least interested to be here, and when I pulled up enough psi to read the room, I got only ennui from her direction, as well as a world-weariness that did not fit her comparatively young age.

  Lavinia said, “And our last member is Blanche.”

  “Of course it is,” I said, glancing at the clock on the mantle; twelve-fifteen. I smothered a yawn. “I recognized her from her years on The Golden Girls. Let’s get on with this. Who are you people, and what seems to be your problem, besides the obvious?”

  “We aren’t the ones with the problem, Ms. Baranuik,” Lavinia told me, and there were nods all around the room. “You are. It has come to our attention that you are in possession of Ruby Valli’s grimoire.”

  Just then, Harry swept in with a tray loaded with his best china and a silver tea service. He caught the end of Lavinia’s sentence and cut his eyes at me. He didn’t have to say “told you so.” We’d been discussing what to do with the damn grimoire for ages.

  “Let’s say that I did,” I started carefully, taking my favorite cup from the tray. Harry had filled it with espresso and dusted it with cinnamon. Instead of sipping it right away, I took my gloves off and put them in my pocket, then used a spell called Vestalia to draw a jolt of caffeine from the cup through my bare hands, a new trick I’d been toying around with; I wasn’t exactly a good fit for Vestal Virgin, but I’d been leaving Vesta, the Roman goddess of the hearth, weekly offerings in my woodstove, in exchange for her blessings and the focus and ability to draw energy from my belongings and my base of power. “Why is Ruby grimoire any of your concern?”

  “Ms. Valli was a member of our coven for decades, Ms. Baranuik. She left an immeasurable treasure in your possession when it clearly belongs to us. However, she also placed a witherward spell on it; whosoever owns it on the fifth passing of Samhain shall be bonded to it irrevocably, and all his or her spells forthwith shall be imbued by the power of the grimoire in question.”

  All my spells tainted by the power of Ruby Valli’s dark mojo? I’d never stay on the right hand path with that sort of gunk clinging to my craft.

  “Listen, Shifty McGrundle,” I said, “how do you know this?”

  Eunice offered, “We believe that Ruby Valli’s spirit communicates with us through Lavinia’s scrying bowl, with the help of a glaistyn.”

  I grimaced. “The little hairy Manx goblins? How would a glaistyn speak with – or for – the dead?”

  “I don’t think it does, myself,” Wymon spoke up. “I don’t even think he exists. I haven't seen him. Frankly, I think Lavinia is tippling from her sherry bottle too often.”

  Ah, dissent in the ranks, I thought. Lavinia pursed her lips but did not defend herself. Instead, she carried on like she hadn’t heard him. A real trooper, this one.

  “Your time is limited, Ms. Baranuik. If you don’t deal with this problem now, I promise you, you’ll live to regret it.” She tasted her tea cautiously, her eyes flickering in the direction of the kitchen as if considering whether or not my Cold Company would drug her. A ridiculous suspicion; Harry wouldn’t need drugs to make a mortal roll over and beg. I'm more of an arsenic girl, myself, but it doesn't usually go well with tea.

  She continued, “I know you’ve made some attempt to remain green in your magic and, at the very least, grey, when it comes to black and white. You had been, at one time, known in our world for being incorruptible.”

  I didn’t buy that for a second, and the Blue Sense told me she was attempting to flatter me. “You want the grimoire,” I presumed.

  “No,” she said, setting down her cup daintily. “I cannot accept it, even if you chose to give it to me. I’m not one of the nominated. You must consider one of the others. There really isn’t any safer alternative. We are the highest council of dark witches in North America.”

  “So that’s the only way for me to ditch this thing?” I asked, aiming my question a second time internally, this time in a loud and pointed thought towards the floor, in an attempt to summon my telepathic brother. “Give it to one of you?”

  A susurration, barely audible and certainly not comprehensible, pressed into the meat of my brain as Wesley objected to being interrupted from his video gaming; he was playing Prop Hunter, dragging his heels about packing. I thought angry curse words at him and demanded his cooperation, sensing his grudging, affirmative response.

  “There are other ways. You could walk backward barefoot through the mud at Red Holly Grove holding a dead chicken,” Wymon suggested, leaning more heavily on his walking stick.

  “No,” Lavinia said with an angry curse. “We already agreed that won’t work.”

  “You could harvest all the finger bones of the living and deceased enemies of Ruby Valli in an effort to stall her spell and appease her spirit,” Gus, the bearded ginger twin, suggested, “but you’d have to know who they were, and it would take an awful long time. Time is not something you have in abundance.”

  “Yeah, thanks,” I drawled, “but I’m going to put grave-robbing and hand mutilation in the NO column if that’s okay with you guys. See, Harry? This is what happens when you invite freaks into the house.”

  “Ms. Lavinia,” Harry said, clearing his throat politely, “could you perhaps suggest the best method by which my DaySitter might choose a suitable petitioner as the new owner of the grimoire in question?”

  “They will present their individual cases to her and demonstrate the extent of their powers. We’ve come a long way to be here and will remain for two days. Having very little time to waste, we should begin at dawn,” Lavinia said, as though her decision on the matter were final.

  Harry nodded. “Very well, we will hear the first petition at dawn, retire by ten for my rest, and we can hear the remainder after dusk.”

  “Not ‘we,’ Mr. … ” Lavinia left it hanging.

  “Oh, how terribly rude of me,” Harry said, smiling beatifically. “I didn’t introduce myself. Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt, Viscount Baldgate. How do you do?” He took her hand and kissed the back of it in a courtly manner. “Now, shall I assume you’d prefer that I make myself scarce?”

  “I’ll not have the undeniably overwhelming presenc
e of an immortal mucking up the proceedings,” Lavinia told him.

  “If you will forgive me,” Harry replied pleasantly, “but I’ll not have a coven of dark witches playing havoc with my pet’s nerves whilst I am not available to comfort her. I do hope we do not find ourselves at an impasse.”

  “Oh, blergity-blerg,” I gagged on their sugary sweetness. “Will someone just please take the fuckin’ book?”

  “I will!” Blanche barked, popping out of her seat.

  “Blanche!” Eunice scolded, and her cute little frown was just the thing to put Blanche’s tushie back on the couch. “We have to do this properly. It’s for keeps, you know. Ruby wouldn’t like it if we messed things up.”

  Well, well. The most seemingly-disinterested of the bunch, Blanche had pounced like Bob the cat on a dropped morsel of tuna. Nerves had been set all a-twitter by her declaration. The twins eyeballed me nervously, as if I were going to toss it over my shoulder like a bride with a bouquet. Wymon’s hand had whitened on his cane, presumably in case he had to launch forward and snatch the grimoire from the air. Only Lavinia was cool in the face of the uncertainty in the room; perhaps she really couldn’t take Ruby’s grimoire from me, though I didn’t quite believe that. The sour twist of her lips, a subtle flinch about her eyes, told me that she was here less as a monitor and more as a participant in something.

  I glared at the room full of witches as it slowly sank in: they were fairly determined, if unorganized, and their lack of togetherness did not in any way mean I was off the hook. I didn’t sense any blatant lies in the room, and I was convinced that their claim was legit: Ruby Valli’s grimoire would bind to me. Their offer to take it off my hands was sincere. Each one of them was willing to bind that spell book to them for good.

  I wanted to ask them if they were all evil idiots, or just the regular kind.