Dark Currents (11 page)

“Umm . . .” I glanced at Cody.

“The victim was found with a matchbook from the Wheelhouse in his pocket, and there was a phone number written on it,” Cody said. “Unfortunately, it was illegible. But someone here gave it to him. We want to know who and we want to know why.” His voice dropped an octave, a hint of a growl in it, a reminder that he was a predator, too. “And we want to find Ray D and question him. Badly. Very badly. You claim to be in charge here. Is that too much to ask?”

They had a brief staring contest and it was the ghoul who looked away, although I had the feeling it was more about maintaining self-control than any sense of intimidation. “I assure you, every effort will be made.”

For now, it would have to do.

Remembering Hel’s warning, I wondered what would happen if he failed.

Eighteen

K
nowing what I did now, I couldn’t help but check out Jerry the bartender as we left the Wheelhouse.

Bracing his hands on the bar, he fixed me with a long, flat stare. “You gonna blow up my kegs again, blondie? Or do you like what you see?”

In fact, I most definitely didn’t like it, because what I saw was
La Araña
, the spider from my mom’s reading. An intricate tattooed web covered Jerry’s right shoulder and upper arm, the spider squatting amidst it.

Oh, crap.

“Yeah, um . . .” I made myself smile. “Sorry about that.”

He shrugged. “Whatever.”

I opted to keep quiet about this discovery for the time being. I wasn’t sure how much stock Cody put in Mom’s reading, and I was definitely sure Detective Wilkes wouldn’t approve.

It was a relief to escape from the dark confines of the Wheelhouse to the bright sun outdoors in the parking lot. The driver of the Town Car emerged to hover patiently beside it. Ignoring him for the moment, Lurine put her sunglasses back on. “Are you done playing with ghouls for the day, cupcake?”

“For now, yeah. Thanks.” I paused. “Practically your goddaughter, huh?”

“Well.” A mischievous smile curved her lips. “Why not? It worked, didn’t it?” Her smile vanished, and she lowered her sunglasses to give me a serious look. “He’s an old one, that Stefan, and dangerous, and you’re like catnip to these things, Daisy. I wanted to make sure he knows I consider you under my protection. Now he does.”

“Do you know him from . . . before?” I asked.

Lurine shook her head. “No. I’d remember. And believe me, so would he. He was just baiting me.”

“Ah . . .” Detective Wilkes glanced at his notes. “You said he was old. How old are we talking?”

“Aren’t you cute?” Lurine patted him on the cheek, not deigning to answer. “Baby girl, you
call
me next time, okay?”

“Okay, okay!”

She settled her sunglasses in place. “I know you can take care of yourself under normal circumstances, but it’s just that you don’t have any defenses against this kind of thing.”

My hand went instinctively to my straw satchel, feeling the shape of
dauda-dagr
nestled inside it. “That’s not entirely true.”

Lurine’s face paled beneath her sunglasses, and she drew in a sharp breath, her voice taking on that bronze-edged tone it had when she summoned the naiads, making the sunlight seem to shiver over the hot pavement of the parking lot. “Daisy Johanssen, tell me you’re
not
thinking of invoking your birthright!”

“No!” I protested. “God, no! Of course not.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Don’t scare me like that, cupcake.” Behind the dark lenses, her gaze shifted to Cody, softening. “Of course you’re not defenseless,” she said. “With a big, strong, handsome police officer at your side. My apologies, Officer Fairfax. It was rude of me to imply otherwise.”

He blushed. “Please call me Cody.”

“Cody.” Lurine smiled at him. “I like the sound of it.” She pointed at me. “Call me.”

“I will!”

She glided back into the Town Car, and the driver closed the door after her. Cody and Detective Wilkes stared after it as it pulled away.

“All right.” The detective gave himself a shake. “I think . . . I think I need to rethink this case and how we’re going to handle it.” He stared at his nice leather-bound notebook. “I’m at a bit of a loss here. I’m not sure how to even report on this. Mind if we go back to the station and conference?”

“Not at all,” Cody said.

Lifting his head, Detective Wilkes gazed at the highway in the direction the Town Car had gone. “That really was Lurine Hollister, wasn’t it? I’d heard the rumor that she lived in the area, but . . .” He glanced at me. “What the hell
is
she? For that matter, what are
you
? And what did she mean about invoking your birthright?”

“Nothing germane to the case,” I said firmly. And yes, I was a bit pleased with myself for remembering the word
germane
and using it correctly in context. My old teacher Mr. Leary would have been proud. “Shall we go?”

Back at the station, we sent out for sandwiches and conferenced, the chief sitting in on our discussion. Away from Lurine oozing preternatural, predatory charisma all over the place, and the glittering eyes of ghouls, Detective Wilkes regained a measure of confidence.

“You weren’t kidding about this one, Dave,” he said to the chief. “It’s a tricky son of a bitch.”

Chief Bryant nodded. “Told you.”

Detective Wilkes spread one hand over the open pages of his notebook. “Here’s what I’m thinking. For now . . .” He raised one finger for emphasis. “For
now
, I’d like to leave this eldritch angle under wraps and let your people handle the fieldwork on it.”

“Sounds good.” The chief bit into a ham sandwich on marbled rye.

“Any ordinary
human
leads, my team will run down,” the detective continued. “We’ll run a background check on that bartender. . . . What was his name?” Lifting his hand, he squinted at his notes. “Jerry Dunham. And there’s the name the vic’s younger brother gave us, too. Matthew Mollenkamp, the Triton alum from Van Buren College. That whole secret-society-within-a-society, Masters-of-the-Universe business. I don’t see any follow-up here. You looked into it yet?”

Cody shook his head. “No time.”

“Make time.”

The chief chewed and swallowed a bite of ham sandwich, taking a swig of water and clearing his throat. “Speaking of time, how much time are we talking about, Tim?”

“Not a lot.” Detective Wilkes gave him a bleak look. “Four, five days. A week at best. I can’t keep it under wraps forever.”

“Gonna get ugly if it blows up.”

“I know.” The detective sounded sympathetic. “At some point, we’re going to have to bring those boys back in for questioning.”

Chief Bryant grimaced. “When?”

“Give it another day or two. Let’s see what more we can dig up.” Detective Wilkes took another peek at his notes. “No leads at all on the whereabouts of this Ray D? Not even a last name to go on?”

“It’s hard enough tracking down a human member of the Outcasts,” Cody said. “Or any biker. Most of them go by nicknames or aliases. It’s ten times harder when it’s a ghoul. The majority of them are at least a hundred years old. Any official ID they had is ancient history. And you know what motorcycle clubs are like.”

The detective nodded. “There’s a pretty fierce code of loyalty at work. Was this Ray D involved in the meth lab we busted back in April?”

“Yeah, but no one would finger him.” Cody turned his hands palms-up. “Never been able to bag a ghoul. Humans won’t flip on them.”

“Maybe they would if they didn’t know what they were doing.” For the first time in hours, the shrewd light was back in the detective’s eyes. He tapped his notebook. “Let me make some inquiries down at county, see what I can shake loose.”

“The ME released the vic’s body today,” the chief observed. “Funeral’s scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. Thought it might be good politics for me to attend it. Be interesting to see who else is there.”

“You think Ray D might show?” Detective Wilkes asked.

Chief Bryant shrugged. “It’s the kind of thing a ghoul would do, especially if he’s the perp.” His heavy gaze slid over to me. “Daisy, I thought you might come with me. See if there’s anything hinky. Any eldritch presence.”

“It’s not likely,” I said. “Not outside Hel’s sphere of influence. The funeral’s in Appeldoorn, right?”

“South side,” he said. “Along Big Pine Bay. Cuypers and Sons. It’s on the outermost limits, but it’s in range.”

I sighed. “I’ll go. But I didn’t, um, exactly make a good impression on the family.” I picked up the copy of the
Appeldoorn Guardian
still sitting on the table. “And we’re not exactly their favorite people.”

“That makes it more important than ever to keep up appearances,” the chief said. “Pay our respects.”

“And intrude on their grief,” I said morosely.

He wasn’t cutting me any slack on this one. “No one ever said this job was easy.”

“Right.” Tim Wilkes closed his notebook and stood. “All right, I’ve got enough to get started on here. I’ll be in touch. Meanwhile, keep me in the loop.”

“Will do,” Chief Bryant promised.

Once the detective had gone, Cody rose, too. “Chief, if it’s all right with you, I’ve got a couple more possible leads to run down. Known associates of Ray D that I didn’t get to yesterday. Probably no point, but . . .” He shrugged. “No stone left unturned, right? Daisy, I think it’s best if you lie low until we get word from Ludovic that Al’s off the streets. Stay here, maybe catch up on some filing.”

“Wait.” The chief raised one meaty hand. “Back up a minute. Al?”

At his insistence, we filled him in on the attack of Al the ravening ghoul and its aftermath. I left out the part where Cody got a little furry and toothy in the process, and Cody tactfully avoided mentioning Lurine’s presence. It warmed my heart a little to see him honoring the unspoken eldritch code, which in turn made me think of Jen with a guilty pang. I checked my phone surreptitiously.

Nope, no messages.

Chief Bryant agreed with Cody that I should lie low. “No point in taking unnecessary risks,” he said pragmatically, lumbering to his feet and heading for the conference room door. “And Patty could use a hand in the front office. With everything going on, she’s backed up.”

I sighed again.

Daisy Johanssen, part-time file clerk. Last week I wouldn’t have minded a bit. Now it felt like a bit of a letdown.

Cody grinned at me, his gold-flecked topaz eyes crinkling at the corners. “It’s for your own good, Pixy Stix. Don’t worry; it’s only temporary.”

“Hang on.” I caught him before he left, remembering Jerry the bartender’s tattoo. “There’s something I wanted to tell you.”

He listened, looking skeptical. “It doesn’t prove anything, Daise.”

“It fits the reading,” I said. “So did the bottle. That’s the one solid piece of evidence we have that the kids were lying.”

It was Cody’s turn to sigh. “Yeah, it does. But we can’t bring him in for questioning on the basis of your mom’s reading a deck of
lotería
cards any more than we can a ghoul’s say-so. Understand?”

“I guess.”

“Have you looked into other possible interpretations?” he asked.

“I meant to,” I admitted. “No time.”

“I know.” Cody lowered his voice. “As long as we’re being honest, you didn’t mean me, did you? In the parking lot?” he added when I looked at him with confusion. “When you said you weren’t entirely without defenses?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” From his mild tone, he took no offense. “What, then?”

Opening my satchel, I showed him the gleaming, rune-etched length of
dauda-dagr
, its keen edges already fraying the satin lining. “Hel gave me a weapon last night,” I said. “Its name means ‘death day.’ It can kill the undead. She thought I should have it.”

Cody sucked in his breath, phosphorescent green flashing behind his eyes. “Because you’ll need it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stared at it. “Daisy, do you have the first idea how to handle an edged weapon?”

My tail twitched with indignation. “I have a general idea. After all, it’s pointy, right?”

He exhaled hard. “Okay. Later this evening, we’re going to have a little lesson.” His tone turned firm. “No arguments, all right?”

“All right,” I agreed.

Nineteen

I
spent the afternoon catching up on a backlog of filing, skimming the reports for any telltale signs of eldritch involvement. As far as I could tell, all was quiet on that front. The community was lying low.

A little after three o’clock, there was a commotion on the block outside the station, a flurry of excited shrieks and gasps.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” the chief called from his office.

Patty and I exchanged a glance. “I’ll go take a look,” I volunteered, jumping at the chance to take a break from filing.

The source of the commotion turned out to be none other than the head ghoul himself. Stefan and two other members of the Outcasts had parked their motorcycles halfway down the block, and were approaching the station on foot.

That was why the tourists were shrieking. I couldn’t blame them. There was no mistaking the trio for human. It was a bona fide eldritch sighting. In broad daylight, the underlying ghoul pallor was more pronounced, and an otherworldly aura that even an untrained mundane could recognize surrounded them.

Especially Stefan. And I realized, watching him walk down the sidewalk like a victorious warrior returning from battle, that I didn’t respond differently to him just because he was gorgeous.

He was
different
. Lurine had said he was old. Maybe it was age that had slowly altered him, turning the dull and creepy carbon of a ghoul like Al the Walrus into something hard-edged and glittering, like a scary diamond.

Okay, a bit of a mixed metaphor, but you get the idea.

At any rate, the tourists continued to point and exclaim and take photos. Courtesy of the misapprehensions of popular culture, I heard the word
vampire
thrown around with delight. Vampires in daylight? Trust me, it does not happen.

Ignoring the tourists, Stefan halted in front of the station to greet me, inclining his head. “Miss Johanssen.”

I couldn’t help but notice that his chest rose and fell as he took a slow, patient breath. Unlike vampires, for example, Stefan lived and breathed. For a being whose entire existence was predicated on some kind of complicated spiritual loophole, he seemed very physically present. Very much there, very much alive. There was actual blood beating in his veins. And I could not help but be very, very aware of it. So aware it made my skin tingle.

I tried not to think of the Seven Deadlies, especially lust. Which was hard to do, what with the tingling and all.

“Um . . . hi. You can call me Daisy,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded toward the station’s front door. “I have come to report. May we go inside?”

“You came in person?” I asked.

Stefan raised his brows. “You are Hel’s liaison. Proper protocol requires more than a phone call.”

The crowd was beginning to get bigger, so I ushered Stefan and his . . . his lieutenants, I guess, into the precinct. At the front desk, Patty stared, openmouthed. The chief poked his head out of his office, but he withdrew with a shrug when I waved him off.

I closed the front door. “So what’s up?”

“I wish to notify you that Al has been secured and is under guard,” Stefan said in a formal tone. “When the ravening has passed, you will be informed. As I said, it is best you avoid contact with him.”

“As
I
said, not a problem.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, a dimple forming in the crease.
Oh, crap.
“These are my lieutenants.” He indicated the two ghouls with him. Got the terminology right—yay for me. “Rafe and Johnny. If ever you do encounter a problem and I am unavailable, they can be trusted.”

“Hi,” I said to them.

They nodded in reply. Rafe looked like he might be part Native American, with black hair, a pale coppery hue to his skin, and dark eyes that should have partially hidden the wax-and-wane ghoul effect, but somehow didn’t. Johnny had long, sandy-blond hair caught back in a ponytail and an expression that might have been congenial if it weren’t for the dilated pupils glittering in his eyes.

Avid, but in control. Still, it made my skin stop tingling, giving way to the creepy-crawlies.

“I spoke to Jerry.” Stefan withdrew a folded piece of paper from a pocket inside his leather vest. “After some questioning, he admitted to having given the boys Ray D’s phone number.”

My pulse quickened. “Did he say why?”

All three ghouls’ pupils dilated further.
Uh-oh.
Best not to get too excited around these guys. Stefan’s contracted pretty quickly. “He claimed the boys were looking to score.”

The word
score
sounded oddly anachronistic coming from him. “Meth?”

His jaw hardened. “Yes. He claimed he merely gave them the number to get rid of them, knowing that I disapproved of such matters being discussed on the premises and that Ray D hadn’t been seen for months.”

“Did you believe him?” I asked.

“No. But I cannot disprove it.” The words were clipped; I think the admission cost him. “Not without resorting to means outside the law, which I am loath to do under the current level of scrutiny. And as a human, he is under the jurisdiction of your mundane authorities, not mine.”

“Ray D’s one of yours,” I observed.

“Theoretically, yes.” Stefan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “And I will continue to search for him. But I cannot even confirm that he remains in Pemkowet.” He handed me the folded paper. “The telephone number Jerry provided me goes unanswered. Assuming it is valid, I trust your people can trace it.”

Not my area of expertise, but I certainly hoped so. Unfolding the paper, I saw a phone number written in a precise, blocky hand with the sort of penmanship you just didn’t see in this century. Beneath it, the bartender Jerry Dunham’s name and home address were written in the same hand.

I glanced up inquiringly.

“I dismissed him from his position,” Stefan said in answer to my unspoken question. A look of distaste flitted across his face. “But I thought you might wish to know where to find him.”

“Thanks.”

His expression eased, and he smiled. “You’re welcome . . . Daisy.” His smile widened a little.
Gah!
Ghouls weren’t supposed to have dimples. “If I learn anything further, I will contact you.”

“Thanks,” I said again. “I appreciate it.”

“Have you given thought to my offer?” he asked me.

“Your offer?” Belatedly, I remembered Stefan telling me at the Wheelhouse that I could benefit from the assistance of a skilled and compassionate ghoul, that I could experience my emotions safely. It was appallingly tempting. A hot flush ran over me. “Jesus!” I lowered my voice. “Do you know what I
am
?”

Stefan’s face was grave. “Yes. At first I was not sure. But I made inquiries. Your story is known.”

I waved one impatient hand at the ceiling, at the invisible presence of the Inviolate Wall far, far above it. “Then you know what’s at stake?”

He arched that eyebrow. “You are what you are, Daisy. In and of itself, passion is no sin. It is deeds that matter in the end.”

“What deed did you commit?” I asked him. “For heaven and hell alike to reject you?”

He was silent.

Behind him, his lieutenants shifted from foot to foot, glancing uneasily at each other with waxing-and-waning eyes.

I winced. “Sorry. We don’t know each other well enough to ask that, do we?”

“No.” Stefan Ludovic accorded me a courtly little bow. “But it was I who overstepped the bounds of propriety first. It’s just . . .” His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated, then shrank to highly controlled pinpoints. “Forgive me?”

I nodded.

He bowed again. “My thanks.”

With that, the trio of ghouls took their leave, lieutenants Rafe and Johnny falling in behind their commander. I waited, listening for the inevitable shrieks of the tourists followed by the coughing roar of three Harley-Davidson motorcycles being kicked to life, throttles open, chugging out of town.

“Damn!” Behind the front desk, Patty Rogan fanned herself. “What have you gotten yourself into, Daisy Jo?”

“Trouble,” I said briefly. “Okay if I clock out for the day, Patty? I’ve got some research to do.”

She made a face. “Go ahead.”

I called Detective Wilkes and left a voice-mail message for him with Ray D’s purported phone number.

I studied the autopsy report, and confirmed that the tox screen of Thad Vanderhei’s blood didn’t turn up anything but alcohol. No methamphetamines, no drugs of any kind.

Okay, so maybe they didn’t score. Or maybe if Jerry the bartender was lying, he was lying about the meth, too. The Tritons had a reputation as a hard-partying fraternity, but crystal meth wasn’t exactly a common collegiate drug, especially at a conservative place like Van Buren College.

But if they weren’t looking for Ray D to score drugs, what the hell
were
they looking for?

I had a feeling Detective Wilkes was right: We needed to look into this Masters of the Universe angle. I also had enough sense to know better than to tackle it on my own, which is why I decided to look into spider mythology instead. Maybe Jerry’s tattoo symbolized a connection.

For that, I had two choices. I could take my chances at the library with the Sphinx. Depending on her mood, she would either direct me toward the appropriate research materials or pose me an indecipherable riddle. Or I could ask Mr. Leary. Depending on his level of sobriety, he would either treat me to a long series of rambling anecdotes or give me a succinct answer in a lot less time than it would take to do the research. All things considered, I decided on the latter option.

Mr. Leary lived in a charming little cottage in East Pemkowet, and in case you’re wondering, yes, Pemkowet and East Pemkowet are technically two separate towns. Because Pemkowet proper is divided by the river, their boundaries overlap in a crazy-quilt fashion. Every other decade, someone proposes combining them into one entity, and every time it happens, one side or the other votes it down.

Anyway.

The shade garden in Mr. Leary’s front yard was looking good, which was a hopeful sign. I made my way up the walk past the arching fronds of ferns so tall they looked almost prehistoric, and immense broad-leaved hosta plants in every hue of green imaginable, some of them sending up narrow shoots of pale blue flowers.

“Daisy Johanssen!” Mr. Leary greeted me with delight when I rang the doorbell. He had a drink in hand, but he was steady on his feet and he sounded lucid. “How is my favorite little eschatological time bomb?”

For the record, no, I don’t know exactly what that means. It happens a lot with Mr. Leary. But I always appreciated the fact that he never, ever talked down to his students. A lot of teachers did, especially if you happened to have a single mom who waited tables and took in sewing for a living or an abusive handyman dad. Not Mr. Leary. Jen and I had always liked that about him. We might not have been his best students, but we studied hard for his classes. I was proud of those B-pluses.

“I’m good, thanks,” I said.

“No,” he corrected me. “You’re doing well, thank you very much.”

I hid a smile. “I’m doing well, thank you very much. And you?”

“I’m doing splendidly, thank you kindly.” Mr. Leary hoisted his drink in response. He was tall and lean, in his late sixties, with a long, mobile face and a leonine head of white hair, kind of like a more benign-looking Donald Sutherland. “Come to pick my brain, have you?”

I nodded. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” Stepping back, he gestured. “Come in, come in. Can I offer you a gin rickey?”

“No, thanks.”

“Ah.” Mr. Leary gave me a broad conspiratorial wink. “Of course, you’re on the job.” He shook his glass, half-melted ice cubes tinkling. “I hope you don’t mind if I refresh my own. Can I offer you something else? Club soda?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “But please go ahead.”

Watching Mr. Leary make a drink was like how I imagine watching a Japanese tea ceremony must be, every movement precise and ritualized. He emptied his glass, washed it under the tap, and dried it with a tea towel, then folded the tea towel just so and placed it on the counter. Three ice cubes were plucked from an ice bucket with a pair of silver tongs and placed one by one in the glass. Half a lime was squeezed with a fancy little juicer and poured atop the ice, followed by an exactly measured one and a half ounces of gin, topped with club soda until it fizzed to the rim.

I waited patiently, knowing there was no rushing him. Actually, it looked pretty damn refreshing.

“Ahh!” He sighed in bliss at the first sip. “There’s no finer libation on a hot summer day. Are you sure I can’t tempt you?”

“I’m sure.”

In the living room, he took a seat on the overstuffed sofa, the arms and back covered with old-fashioned antimacassars. I sat opposite him on a matching chair. “Is this about the Vanderhei boy?” he asked me.

“You know I can’t comment on that,” I said.

Mr. Leary’s wide mouth curved in a saturnine smile. “It’s always worth a try. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but satisfaction brought him back. What can I do for you, Daisy?”

“I’m looking for a spider.”

“A spider.” He didn’t ask me to elaborate; he didn’t have to. I’d come to him with this kind of puzzle before. He simply set his glass neatly down on a coaster, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes in thought.

Despite being a regular full-blooded human, Mr. Leary knew more about mythology, religion, and folklore than pretty much anyone in the eldritch community except the Sphinx, and he was a lot more loquacious. And yes, that’s another one of his vocabulary words. According to the folk wisdom of Mrs. Browne, madmen, poets, and drunkards all have half a foot in the eldritch world. I figured Mr. Leary qualified on at least one count, and I had a suspicion he might write poetry, too.

Beads of condensation formed on the glass containing his gin rickey, trickling slowly down. “There’s Arachne, of course,” Mr. Leary said without opening his eyes. “I should hope one of my students would have thought of
her
.”