Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) Read Free Page B

here.”
    The knot in my gut dissolved instantly. The sound of Harry's smart London accent was an injection of refinement and gravitas, like switching on the BBC news or summoning one's English butler. My housemate lounged in the threshold, effortlessly more vibrant than either of the humans. He was only five foot seven, short for aman, but the unnamable otherness that marked him as immortal made him loom, and his whip-slim build masked infernal strength. Any room Harry entered soon became ten degrees cooler; he carried it with him like an immutable cloak, the chill that seeped in around my ankles.
    Harry was a revenant who refused to dress it down. His nobility predated his turning. I suspected his egotism and fastidiousness did too. Today he looked like Fred Astaire might have, sartorially speaking, if Fred had been undead while tapping Putting on the Ritz: black coat tails and dove grey ascot, white spats on immaculate black Oxfords. Garnet cufflinks were like fat droplets of old blood on French cuffs that covered a fresh tattoo on his pale wrist. Except for the three tiny platinum loop piercings in his left eyebrow, and the thin white iPod ear bud cord snaking down into his shirt collar, he looked like the perfect aristocrat. The top hat was missing; I was sure it would be resting on his end of the kitchen table.
    “Gentlemen, it would appear that you have worn out what short-lived welcome my DaySitter had afforded you,” he observed. “I must insist on escorting you to the door. Might I recommend you not return without an invitation?”
    It was not a question. Batten's square jaw worked on clenching and unclenching again. If he wasn't careful, he was going to gnaw a hole in his cheek. His eyes were impenetrable dark matter, nailing me across the vast expanse of Harry's desk. It satisfied me to know Harry could sidle up silent and unheard behind the infamous vampire hunter: Kill-Notch was only human, after all.
    “Got a license for that thing?” Batten said low. He knew perfectly well that Harry was legal.
    “Why?” I leaned across the desk, splaying my fingers like I was planning on doing push-ups. “Did you bring rowan wood into my house?”
    “Kit's in the trunk of the car,” he assured me.
    I felt my lip curl. “And what makes you think you'd make it as far as the fucking car?”
    “Ducky,” Harry reprimanded me softly, and then addressed the hunter. “I salute your optimism, Mr. Batten.”
    “Agent,” Batten corrected.
    “Hmm, yes.” Harry sounded unconvinced. “Your darling imitation of testicular fortitude notwithstanding, I have offered to escort you out. ‘Tis conceivable you have grown muscles betwixt your ears and consequently may be excused for not hearing. To be sure, I should not have expected to repeat myself for an attentive gentleman such as Agent Gary Chapel. How do you do, Agent Chapel?”
    “Good morning, Lord Dreppenstedt,” Chapel said over his shoulder, as he subtly checked his watch. “I hadn't anticipated you to be… around, at this time of day.” He stood, swiftly collected his things, zipped his heavy coat right to the neck almost protectively. “I'm sorry you had to see any of this, Marnie.”
    “She's seen worse.” Batten's eyes flicked meaningfully at Harry and settled on his chin, avoiding direct eye contact. “Nice tux.”
    Harry performed the shallowest of bows. When he straightened, the feather grey of his irises had fled, leaving a thin warning ring of high-gloss chrome. I lifted my cup to my lips to hide my smile and let my Cold Company have his moment; how he did enjoy his subtle dramatics.
    Harry's unearthly glance flicked at me in question, seeking permission; through our Bond I felt the stirring push of anticipation. I gave the barest shake of my head: don't you dare.
    Chapel paused at the door, lingering close to the revenant: ballsy or trusting? Gary Unflappable Chapel. “Marnie, I have to ask you both where you were on Tuesday night?”
    “Don't