Free [Marnie Baranuik 02.5] Cold Company by A. J. Aalto

any way I can pry your stubborn ass out of this little log mausoleum here to try?”
    Shit. Don't look at his zipper don't look at his zipper…
    Amazingly, my eyes obeyed and met his with a cool steadiness I didn't feel; I was fine until I realized memories of our enthusiastic sex were written all over his face, subtle but unmistakable, a hot glint in his eye meant only for me. My self-control jerked off-balance like a high heel on a patch of ice. Mental clutzery, my specialty. I was forced to swallow hard, broadcasting the direction of my thoughts. One corner of his lips twitched into a knowing curve. He returned to his chair, leaning back, knees open in invitation. Point: Batten.
    I forced my eyes on the last picture; grossing myself out helped. This photo captured the slight headless body plus a set of women's long legs. Instant recognition sucker-punched me: Michael Kors wedges, opaque nylons on shapely calves, silver ankle bracelet with dangly charms. Silver bells. I knew the clappers tinkled with every step she took.
    I slapped the folder closed and shot it back across the desk in Batten's direction. It spilled onto the floor in a fan of photographic gore.
    “You don't need me.” I heard my voice tremor and forced it out evenly. “Time for you to go.”
    Chapel scrambled to gather up his pictures. “Is there something…?”
    “Sorry, Gary,” I clipped. “You have to leave. Now.”
    Batten stood. “Marnie—”
    “Get out!” I shouted, bolting up. My chair clattered to the floor. If I was pyrokinetic, Mark Batten would be a pile of ash in a second. He opened his mouth, and there wasn't any way I could hear him say my name again without bursting into tears. “Are you fucking deaf? Get the hell out of my house!”
    “Too right,” a crisp British voice agreed from the office doorway. “I should think that will not be an issue, now that I am 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 a man, 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