little while with my worldly knowledge. Alas, there was no point in fibbing to someone; as soon as we got there, if not as soon as Harry showed up, he'd find out how deep my ignorance truly ran. I took a stab at it, if only to offer him some reassurance that I wasn’t a total knob.
“I can say with confidence that he’s a dude who speaks at a court. Since this is the same kind of invitation with the fancy gold writing that I got when the Overlord accepted my invitation to show up at Shaw’s Fist that one time, I’m gonna go ahead and give you a solid sixty percent chance that the court has something to do with revenants.” It’s not every day you get a formal invitation from the demon king Asmodeus hizzownself, and that’s something you don’t tend to forget.
Batten glared. “Sixty percent?”
“Fifty,” I said, pointing at him with the card. “Okay, forty. But those revenant names are a big clue to, uh, bad stuff. And my presence probably makes the bad stuff forecast like a hundred and six percent with a chance of shit storm overnight.”
“Why are you being invited to court?”
“I get invited places,” I said defensively, complete with bluffing scowl.
“No you don’t.” Batten scowled back. “Not for good reasons.”
“Cocktail party?” I guessed. “Witness an execution? Orgy? Man, I hope it’s not an orgy. That’s a lot of undead wang.”
Batten held up a hand to cut me off, and sought patience in the darkness of his closed eyelids again. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth before speaking. “I don’t like sharing you with one bloodsucker; I’m not sharing you with seventeen others.”
I did a quick head count. “There were only eight.”
“Eight is out, too,” he said loudly, as though it shouldn’t need saying. That made me forget my impending death for a moment, and I grinned at him.
“You like me lots, huh?”
Those deep, lake water blue eyes warned of a storm brewing. “Less by the moment, so keep talking.”
I put the invitation down and came around to his side of the desk, propping my butt on it. “The card says a guide will meet us in Hammerfest, Norway. I am assuming they take us through the Bitter Pass to this court.”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re not going to Hammerfest.”
“I have to. Besides, you’re missing something.”
“There’s more?”
“Remember BugBelly the weird, smelly orc mystic?”
“Choosing to forget the weird, smelly orc mystic,” he informed me tiredly.
“Well, sorry to fuck your brain right in the eye, but that orc mentioned Hammerfest, too,” I reminded him, reaching back onto the desk for my lime Moleskine. I flipped the pages and then showed him my scribbled notes. Mostly it said Hammerfest? And: What a bitchin’ name for a town . And then: The exiles return . On the back of the page, I’d written the last note: What the figgity-fuck is a “worm forge?”
I didn’t let Batten see that bit.
He asked, “It doesn’t say why you’re supposed to show up?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “But I can promise you that if Harry is summoned to the Bitter Pass, he’ll go. And I’m expected to go with him. I can’t imagine he’ll ask you to go without my input, but you seem like the obvious choice to me. I wouldn’t bring Golden or de Cabrera. Bringing Wes would be even worse.” With his penchant for feeding revenants and the ability of immortals for sniffing out willing throats, Gary Chapel would be the last person I’d take to face a whole group of them. I left this unsaid, but I suspected Batten was thinking the same thing. I watched emotions flit across his face, wishing for the millionth time that I could use my psychic Talents to suss him out.
“Malas Nazaire,” he said.
“Still have a warrant to stake him?”
He nodded once. “In my kit.”
“And Prost?”
“Same.”
“Would you? If you could?”
He cut his eyes at me. “In a heartbeat.”
I thought about Declan Edgar, that funny
“I can say with confidence that he’s a dude who speaks at a court. Since this is the same kind of invitation with the fancy gold writing that I got when the Overlord accepted my invitation to show up at Shaw’s Fist that one time, I’m gonna go ahead and give you a solid sixty percent chance that the court has something to do with revenants.” It’s not every day you get a formal invitation from the demon king Asmodeus hizzownself, and that’s something you don’t tend to forget.
Batten glared. “Sixty percent?”
“Fifty,” I said, pointing at him with the card. “Okay, forty. But those revenant names are a big clue to, uh, bad stuff. And my presence probably makes the bad stuff forecast like a hundred and six percent with a chance of shit storm overnight.”
“Why are you being invited to court?”
“I get invited places,” I said defensively, complete with bluffing scowl.
“No you don’t.” Batten scowled back. “Not for good reasons.”
“Cocktail party?” I guessed. “Witness an execution? Orgy? Man, I hope it’s not an orgy. That’s a lot of undead wang.”
Batten held up a hand to cut me off, and sought patience in the darkness of his closed eyelids again. He ran his tongue along the front of his teeth before speaking. “I don’t like sharing you with one bloodsucker; I’m not sharing you with seventeen others.”
I did a quick head count. “There were only eight.”
“Eight is out, too,” he said loudly, as though it shouldn’t need saying. That made me forget my impending death for a moment, and I grinned at him.
“You like me lots, huh?”
Those deep, lake water blue eyes warned of a storm brewing. “Less by the moment, so keep talking.”
I put the invitation down and came around to his side of the desk, propping my butt on it. “The card says a guide will meet us in Hammerfest, Norway. I am assuming they take us through the Bitter Pass to this court.”
He shook his head slowly. “You’re not going to Hammerfest.”
“I have to. Besides, you’re missing something.”
“There’s more?”
“Remember BugBelly the weird, smelly orc mystic?”
“Choosing to forget the weird, smelly orc mystic,” he informed me tiredly.
“Well, sorry to fuck your brain right in the eye, but that orc mentioned Hammerfest, too,” I reminded him, reaching back onto the desk for my lime Moleskine. I flipped the pages and then showed him my scribbled notes. Mostly it said Hammerfest? And: What a bitchin’ name for a town . And then: The exiles return . On the back of the page, I’d written the last note: What the figgity-fuck is a “worm forge?”
I didn’t let Batten see that bit.
He asked, “It doesn’t say why you’re supposed to show up?”
“Nope.” I shook my head. “But I can promise you that if Harry is summoned to the Bitter Pass, he’ll go. And I’m expected to go with him. I can’t imagine he’ll ask you to go without my input, but you seem like the obvious choice to me. I wouldn’t bring Golden or de Cabrera. Bringing Wes would be even worse.” With his penchant for feeding revenants and the ability of immortals for sniffing out willing throats, Gary Chapel would be the last person I’d take to face a whole group of them. I left this unsaid, but I suspected Batten was thinking the same thing. I watched emotions flit across his face, wishing for the millionth time that I could use my psychic Talents to suss him out.
“Malas Nazaire,” he said.
“Still have a warrant to stake him?”
He nodded once. “In my kit.”
“And Prost?”
“Same.”
“Would you? If you could?”
He cut his eyes at me. “In a heartbeat.”
I thought about Declan Edgar, that funny
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