Synopsis:
The media has a nickname for Marnie Baranuik, though she’d rather they didn’t; they call her the Great White Shark, a rare dual-talented forensic psychic. Twice-Touched by the Blue Sense–which gives her the ability to feel the emotions of others, and read impressions left behind on objects–Marnie also has a doctorate in preternatural biology and a working knowledge of the dark arts. She is considered without peer in the psychic community.
Then her first big FBI case ended with a bullet in one shoulder and a chip on the other, a queasy heart and a serial killer in the wind, leaving her a public flop and a private wreck. When the FBI’s preternatural crimes unit tracks her down at a remote mountain lodge for her insight on a local case, her quiet retirement is promptly besieged by a stab-happy starlet, a rampaging ghoul, and a vampire-hunting jackass in tight Wranglers. Marnie figures the only real mystery is which one will kill her first.
Too mean to die young, backed up by friends in cold places, and running with a mouth as demure as a cannon’s blast, Marnie Baranuik is about to discover that there’s no such thing as quitting time when you’re Touched.
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Excerpt:
The legs that straddled the threshold were wide, sturdy and
undeniably masculine. And dressed, I noted deliriously, for a winter
night’s ride. A double-breasted chesterfield overcoat I recognized
flapped around his thighs, above salt-flecked biker boots that were
otherwise perfectly polished. Only one man I knew was that
persnickety. A cry of relief leaked from my throat.
Harry moved swiftly across the room in his dizzying blink-step,
pale lips curled back in a silent snarl. He kicked the ruined TV out of
his way; it tumbled through the air casting shards of glass and metal
in a shower. Sweeping down beside the bed on one knee, whispering
in furious French as he always did when angry, his tongue worked
the words like a spell, his mouth caressing the sounds with a voice
slightly sibilant around a hint of fang. The scent of blood in the air
had him trembling badly. The old ones may play poker-face better
than any human, but in times of bloodshed or in the face of arterial
spray, even they inevitably lost their cool and had to work hard at
controlling near-ejaculatory enthusiasm.
“Who’s a brave soldier, then?” he said as he assessed and
surveyed the damage with quick hands that scanned and catalogued
too fast to follow, unzipping my jacket, clutching my shirt front to yank
it out of his way. With a sharp jerk he shred its remains up the front.
“This…” Apparently there was no word for it in any of his
languages. He diagnosed the wounds rapidly with bleak ash-grey
eyes that had seen centuries of triage and casualty, much of the
latter caused by him. “Right, then. Do not fight me, love, there is no
other way.”
His hand snaked behind my head and pulled my face into his
left elbow. I hadn’t seen him break his skin there, but a small wound
was pressed to my lips. Dizzily, I closed my eyes and calculated the
odds that he knew better than me what was best. Something leakysweet
passed my lips and hit my tongue. Heady like thinned
molasses but strangely tingling, alien and funky like a tomato gone
bad. I didn’t want to swallow as it trickled to the back of my throat; I
gagged and turned my head.
Harry growled impatiently; the hand on the back of my head
tightened, fingertips digging into my scalp as he forced my face back
to his elbow.
“Time for trust, Dearheart.”
“Don’t rush me, I’m enjoying the foreplay,” I groaned.
When I gagged a second time, he said, “You are out of options,
now, DaySitter. You have lost too much.”
I’m going to die in the vomit-stink room. I opened my mouth
around the wound and sucked, hastily swallowing. Unfortunate
images flashed in my mind’s eye: a waterlogged grave, a dripping
crypt, an age-slicked corpse in a swamp. Once the cool, runny fluid
of Harry’s veins cleared my taste buds, something deeper inside me
rolled over with savage energy, swirled its cold fist around in my
gut like it was stirring a slushy. I felt Harry’s fingertips dabbing at
my wounds, and that same ancient, unnatural energy ravaged my
skin, tingled icy-hot like Vick’s Vapo-Rub. I thought deliriously,
revenant blood would be great for chest congestion due to cold and flu.
Harry was watching me with a medic’s attention. Satisfied, he
shoved my gloves in his pocket and collected me carefully, lifted me
as though I weighed nothing. Considering he could bench press a
two-ton dumpster, my hundred and twenty pounds wasn’t a huge
struggle. He gathered me into his chest to shelter me from the cold,
hurrying from the room before I could wail an objection. The clouds
were good and deep above us, solid asylum, and the wind had
picked up to howling intensity, screaming through the Aspens.
(“Don’t you die yet, Marnie—don’t you die on me yet, bitch!”)
Harry’s persimmon-red Kawasaki Vulcan lay on its side, hastilydiscarded
next to Room 4. He slid me into the back seat of the Buick
awkwardly. I backpedaled on my hands across the faded plush tan
fabric. Despite the pain ripping into various parts of my body, I’d
never been happier. My Cold Company was here, and as close to
alive as he’d ever be. As a big plus, I was now feeling pain right
down to my toes. I wasn’t paralyzed. Yippee!
“Lay still, perfectly still. Are you hearing me? Place your hands
here,” he advised, moving my hands to my burbling belly wound.
“This is the one that yet requires attention.”
“She wants you,” I told him, my breath-fog making his face a
momentary blur. My teeth started chattering. “She’s after you.”
He hovered inches above my face, shrugging out of his coat. He
hadn’t been able to calm down enough to retract his fangs yet. In his
urgency, he’d nicked his bottom lip. A translucent droplet bloomed
there like a pale blue drop of alien oil and my mouth watered in
response. Turning my face, I buried my nose in the bench seat.
“Calm down,” he said sternly. “Stop moving.”
“Harry, you’re in danger.” I looked at him again, avoided his
mouth this time.
“Yes, it is our very good fortune she is not your adversary, isn’t
it? Did you have a terribly nice visit?” Anger furrowed his brow. He
hesitated, possibly considering stains, before tucking his coat around
me. It smelled lightly of his 4711 cologne under embedded cigarette
smoke, and the peculiar scent that marked the immortal, the burnt
sugar tang of revenant power.
He whipped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door.
“Here’s hoping blood can be removed from tweed. Hospital?”
I hesitated. “Can’t you heal this much damage?”
He craned around in the front seat. “Not without turning you.”
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Buy Touched:
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About the Author:
A.J. Aalto is a proud native of the Niagara Region. Born in St. Catharines, she currently resides with her wonderfully peculiar husband Jason and two quirky kids, a puppy that drives her boners and two cats who are undoubtedly plotting her demise. When not writing horror or dark urban fantasy, you can find A.J. researching horrible things, braying her unladylike guffaw, making dick jokes, mentally undressing strangers or sitting cross-legged on her front porch eating peanut butter M&Ms by the spoonful.
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Connect with A.J. Aalto:
Website: www.ajaalto.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/
Twitter: @AJAalto
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