Free Wrath and Bones by A.J. Aalto

been running late already, I’d have… nope, better to put that out of my mind for the time being. I had a flight to book as soon as possible.
    I ogled his lap to reassure him of my continued temptation, then smiled and gave him a little finger wave that reminded me of the twerp across the street. For a second, I considered telling him about the noobtacular dealer we had for a neighbor then thought it might be more fun to watch him make the discovery himself. “I’ll be in touch.”
    He just grinned.
    “It doesn’t always have to be about crotch-touching, Kill-Notch.”
    He didn’t look like he was buying it. When I left, he was still grinning.
     

CHAPTER 6
    HARRY, WES, AND I LIVED IN the last cabin in a row of old converted summer cottages on Shaw’s Fist Road, which was little more than a stone path through dense forest leading to and around the mountain lake of the same name. The cabin wasn’t the ideal place for someone of Lord Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt’s stature, but it was perfectly cozy, if a bit worse for wear. Harry had spoken with a builder to look at upgrading the kitchen, but I hadn’t committed to anything beyond replacing the old linoleum, which was still scorched from some assbag's Molotov cocktail before he got turned into a zombie and I blew him up. I guess I hadn’t replaced it because I liked the reminder of our survival. Vampire hunters: 0, Marnie: 1.
    Coming home to a single, exposed bulb lighting up the porch through the snow gave me the warm fuzzies. In the trees to the west, I could hear the bickering between Harry’s debt vulture, Ajax, and Wesley’s own vulture, which he’d named Homer. Harry had been mildly impressed with the literary choice until Wes admitted that he'd named the bird after the cartoon character. I pulled into my driveway, a little after dusk, and through our Bond I could feel Harry, awake and uncomplainingly hungry, moving through the cabin. There was smoke curling lazily out of the wood stove's chimney, and the air carried the comforting tang of it to me as soon as I got out of the car.
    There was a strange mark on my front door. Under the fine, harsh glow of the halogen, it looked like a fancy arrow drawn in chocolate. I draw stuff there all the time; usually dicks, to amuse myself and the UPS lady. This was the first time someone else had scrawled something there. I shifted from foot to foot uncertainly for a moment, snow crunching under my Keds, then went ahead and sniffed the mark hesitantly.
    Shit. Definitely shit. There’s a poop arrow on my door. If it was a green arrow, it might have been a superhero symbol, but I was pretty sure the Toxic Avenger didn't use an arrow as his calling card. Was this some random, drive-by fecal graffiti? Did my neighbors suffer similar nonsense? Or was it a message to me from a shitty admirer? Was it a threat? Did someone wanna shoot me in the butt? The fact that this didn’t surprise me at all was mildly depressing. The fact that it could be many people wasn’t reassuring, either.
    “Okay, shitstain, your artiste better have their act together. I've had badass training.” It wasn't just bluster and bravado, either. Rob Hood had been dragging me out of bed five days a week for hand-to-hand combat, agility drills, time at the gun range, and runs through the forest, and Harry had done absolutely nothing to dissuade him. To the contrary, my Cold Company would usually set out a small cooler with bottled water and fruit while Hood was kicking my ass, so we wouldn't leave sweaty drip trails from the front door to the kitchen. It was working, too; I'd even given Hood a shiner when I caught him with a surprise elbow, and he was occasionally breathing heavily enough that he couldn't laugh at me. Harry also made me join him during his yoga practice, and while he would tsk softly and adjust my poses, there was no hiding the pleasure that trickled through the Bond as I got into positions that used to end up with me squawking and