Dark Currents (14 page)

It was a very pretty picture, but today, it felt fragile. Vulnerable. I couldn’t shake the memory of the protestors. Only three or four, but if we didn’t solve this case, their numbers would grow.

“We need a break, Daisy,” Cody said in a low, quiet voice. “Before this blows up even worse.”

“I know.”

Twenty-three

T
hanks to Jerry Dunham’s lack of cooperation, I had some time to kill before attending Thad Vanderhei’s funeral.

After changing into a black linen pencil skirt with a cream-colored sleeveless top and a little black cardigan, I paid a visit to the Sisters of Selene occult shop to check in with the Fabulous Casimir, finding him unwontedly subdued.

No turban, no wig, no bling—not even false eyelashes. It was more than a little unnerving.

“Hey, Miss Daisy,” he greeted me, attempting to summon his usual flair and falling short of the mark. He just sounded tired. “Tell me something good, girl.”

I shook my head. “Sorry. You?”

The Fabulous Casimir shrugged. “I’ve got a whole lot of nothing, darlin’. At this point, I’m just glad I don’t have protestors on my doorstep.”

“Cas, have you ever heard of Dr. Midnight’s Traveling Sideshow?” I asked him.

He pursed his lips. “Maybe.”

I perused his shelves idly, reaching high to pick up a shrunken, tallowy claw that was labeled as a genuine Hand of Glory. Turning it this way and that, I examined it. “What was their one true thing?”

“Girl, don’t go touching that nasty thing!” Casimir swooped down to take it away from me, stretching to put it on an even higher shelf. “You of all people ought to know better than to go messing with the black arts. It is
not
safe for you.”

“Dr. Midnight?” I pressed him.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “All I ever heard was rumors.”

“Rumors of what?”

Casimir shrugged again. “Rumors that they had a genuine attraction. Like you said, something real.” He rubbed his forefinger and thumb together. “Something worth the mundanes paying to see. But that circus never came to town, and what it may have been, I cannot say. That’s all I know, Miss Daisy. I swear. You know I’d tell you otherwise.”

“How about the Masters of the Universe?” I asked.

The Fabulous Casimir looked blank. “The
He-Man
cartoon? Oh, please. Only that Prince Adam was obviously a total closet case in every sense of the word.” He gave a discreet cough. “Not that I’m old enough to remember it, of course.”

I smiled. “No, of course not. Thanks, Cas. If you do hear anything about either, let me know, okay?”

“I’ll ask around.” He shook a finger at me as I left. “No matter how bleak it looks, you stay away from temptation, Daisy Johanssen! I mean it.”

“I will,” I called over my shoulder, bells tinkling as I exited the shop. “I promise.”

Temptation.

What the hell did that mean, exactly? There were always the Seven Deadlies, which I struggled with on a daily basis, always trying to control my temper. But behind them lurked the greater presence of my birthright.

I could invoke my father, Belphegor.

I could claim my birthright.

My tail twitched at the mere thought of it, swishing back and forth beneath my linen pencil skirt. Until this case came along, I’d never really chafed at the lack of material powers that came with my half-breed status. Oh, sure, I’d entertained a few revenge fantasies in my teen years—what adolescent hell-spawn wouldn’t?—but I always knew it would be wrong. And I always had my mom there to guide me. But what if I could claim my demonic birthright and put my powers to work in the service of
good
?

It was a heady thought, and I was pretty damn sure it was a dangerous one, too. I wished Casimir hadn’t put it in my mind. As much as I loved Pemkowet, it wasn’t worth risking a breach in the Inviolate Wall to save the town’s reputation.

So I pushed the thought aside, got into my car, and drove to Cuypers and Sons to attend Thad Vanderhei’s memorial service.

The funeral home on the southern edge of Appeldoorn was a gracious old family-owned establishment. I’d cut it closer than I intended, and the chapel was already quite full. I recognized the Vanderhei family in the front pew, and Chief Bryant’s bulky, uniformed figure a few rows behind them, as well as a thickset couple who might have been the Huizenga boy’s parents. It was hard to tell from behind. Otherwise, there was no one I recognized, except . . .

I narrowed my eyes at a tall man alone sitting in the rearmost pew. He was good-looking with high, rugged cheekbones, longish black hair caught back in some kind of silver clasp.

He looked familiar, and yet not. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, a black shirt, and a black satin tie, and, oddly, a pendant on a silver chain over it, some kind of smoky quartz crystal. He was sitting quietly, calm and collected, his eyes half-closed.

And . . . there was a glamour over him.

With an effort, I made myself see through it. His skin took on an otherworldly pallor and his features came into sharper focus.

I slid into the pew beside Stefan Ludovic. “What the hell are you doing here?” I asked under my breath.

Stefan’s eyelids remained lowered. “Much the same thing you’re doing, I imagine,” he murmured. “Do you mind being quiet? It’s difficult to concentrate this close to the fringe.”

“You’re
tasting
them?” I whispered in horror. “What happened to not feeding on the unwilling?”

At that, his ice-blue eyes opened. “I am siphoning off a measure of raw grief,” he said with soft precision. “It is an ancient compact, and a service for which a wise and experienced funeral director knows to be grateful. In this instance, I am also sifting through it for unexpected strains of guilt or denial.”

I regarded him. “Since when can a ghoul spin a glamour?”

“Since never.” Stefan touched the pendant that hung from his neck. “The charm is in the stone. It was a gift from a dear friend long ago. Now, if you wish me to share my findings with you, I suggest you heed my words and keep silent.”

Since the service was beginning, I heeded.

It was long and painful. No matter what Thad Vanderhei may have done, he was a young man cut down in the prime of his youth, and those who had known and loved him were grieving deeply. I sat and listened while his family and members of the community offered tributes, painting a portrait of a daring, adventurous, high-spirited boy who had lived life a little too recklessly and paid the ultimate price for it.

As I listened, I scanned the crowd for any twinge or tingle of eldritch presence, but the only two beings present who weren’t fully human were me and the ghoul beside me, who sat motionless with half-closed eyes and sifted through the mourners’ grief, breathing slowly and deeply, his lips slightly parted.

When it was over, the family exited the chapel for the reception room, the crowd following slowly, the chief among them.

As the last mourner passed us, Stefan opened his eyes. “Do you wish to pay your respects to the family?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Beyond the door came the sound of raised voices. Curiosity and prudence warred in me, curiosity scoring a swift victory. “Hang on; let’s just see what’s going on.”

Stefan followed me past the threshold of the reception room, where we found an ugly confrontation between Chief Bryant and Jim Vanderhei in progress, the latter stabbing at the chief’s broad chest with one indignant finger.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here!” the victim’s father was saying, his patrician face flushed with fury.

The chief raised his hands. “Mr. Vanderhei, I assure you, I’m here out of the utmost respect to convey—”

“To convey what? More lies and evasion?”

“Our investigation—”

“I don’t give a damn about your investigation!” Spittle flew from Jim Vanderhei’s mouth. “Your town
killed my son
!”

There were a disturbing number of
amen
s and righteous murmurs of agreement.

A surge of anger rose in me, fierce and irrational, with no regard for the grief that fueled the ugliness. I fought to suppress it, but my nerves were strung too tight. Even the effort made my fury slip further out of my grasp, spiraling out of control. My hair lifted with static electricity, and the scent of ozone crept into the room as the air pressure tightened. I could see the chief glance around uneasily. A framed portrait of Thad Vanderhei rattled on its easel, and a montage of photos tacked to a display panel began fluttering around the edges.

Sue Vanderhei let out a piercing wail.

Oh,
crap!

If I was outed as a hell-spawn with anger-management issues at Thad Vanderhei’s funeral, Pemkowet’s reputation might never recover from it. For sure it would be the end of Chief Bryant’s career.

“Daisy.” Stefan laid one hand on my shoulder, turning me toward him. His pupils dilated like dark moons. “I can help if you will allow me. Do you permit it?”

“Yes!” I gave him a frantic nod. “Hurry!”

It was nothing like it had been with Al. Stefan took another slow, deep breath, and I felt my violent emotions spill out of me, to be swallowed in the boundless depths of his ancient yearning, a transaction tempered with discipline honed by centuries of practice. It was incredibly intimate without being in the least invasive. I consented and he accepted, and yet, it went both ways, too. The pressure surrounding me eased softly, gently, the tightly wound coil of anger unspooling into the cool, still place that was Stefan Ludovic.

It felt . . . good.

I can’t explain it. It was like my anger was a raging fever, and Stefan’s essence was a cold, deep well that quenched it. Or maybe a nuclear reactor, and . . . whatever cools down nuclear reactors. I could sense an echo of his pleasure, of the sustenance he took from the exchange, vibrating between us. I had the feeling that if it went on long enough, I could get lost in the reflected sensations, like staring into one of those infinity mirrors. At the same time, I felt safe. Protected, at peace.

His pupils shrank to pinpoints, and he gave the faintest of shudders. I think it was good for him, too. “Better?”

I nodded again. “Much. Thank you.”

Stefan’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I think it would be for the best if we left. Do you agree?”

The portrait on its easel was quiet, the photo montage still once more. But people were beginning to talk in hushed tones about witchcraft, supernatural doings, and Thad Vanderhei’s restless ghost.

“Definitely.”

Twenty-four

O
utside Cuypers and Sons funeral home, Stefan offered to buy me a cup of coffee.

“You’re serious?” I asked him.
“Coffee?”

“Is that not the convention of the day?” He raised his eyebrows. “We should talk, Hel’s liaison.”

I ran my hands over my face. Now that the moment had passed, I felt acutely aware of the unique intimacy Stefan and I had just shared. “Okay. Yeah, sure. Meet me down at Callahan’s Café.”

Approximately twenty minutes later, he did, roaring into town on his Harley-Davidson.

At this hour of the afternoon, Callahan’s was quiet. Stefan slid into the farthest corner booth opposite me.

Even with the glamour lending him human semblance, dimming his aura and his ridiculous good looks, he was eye-catching. Tina, the waitress on duty, hastened to bring him a brimming mug of coffee.

Stefan sipped it. “Dear God. This is dreadful.”

“I know.” I poured creamer into mine. “But the refills are free. Did you learn anything today?”

“No.” He took another tentative sip. “No, I’m afraid not. Did you?”

“No.” I wrapped both hands around my mug, determined to keep this on a professional level. “Not there. But we spoke to Jerry Dunham. He wasn’t very cooperative, but he’s got a whole lot of fancy motorcycles he shouldn’t be able to afford. And it looks like the two of you turned up in Pemkowet around the same time, which is also the same time Ray D disappeared. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Stefan blew on the surface of his coffee. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t
know
you,” I said. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“Untrue,” he said. “You trusted me today. Did I give you cause to regret it, Daisy?”

I shrugged. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”

His ice-blue eyes gazed at me with disconcerting directness. “Very well, Hel’s liaison. What do you desire to know?”

“Ever been to Seattle?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“So you’d never met Jerry before?”

“No. He was already employed at the Wheelhouse when I arrived.” He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I had no previous cause to dismiss him.”

“Did you have anything to do with Ray D’s disappearance?” I asked.

“No.” Stefan’s tone took on an edge of asperity. “In fact, I’m quite perishingly weary of being questioned about someone I’ve never met.”

“Your territory, your responsibility,” I reminded him. “How about Mary Sudbury?”

He blinked. “Who?”

I stirred my coffee. “Remember the undines said there were two ghouls in the boat that dumped the body? One male and one female? Apparently, she’s Ray D’s lady love. Something none of your fellows have seen fit to divulge thus far.”

Something subtle altered in his expression. “He’s in love with another ghoul?”

“So it seems,” I said. “Does it matter?”

“It changes things.” Following my lead, Stefan stirred creamer into his coffee, frowning. “Two
ghouls
, as you call us, two of our kind cannot sustain each other. For both to attempt to feed on each other, it creates . . .” He gestured absently with his plastic stir stick. “I believe the term your modern science accords it is a closed feedback loop. Call it emotional cannibalism if you like. Ultimately, it is an unsustainable system.”

Okay, now we were getting somewhere. “So what’s the fix?” I asked him. “An outside source, right?”

“Yes.”

“Like killing a mortal boy?”

Stefan shook his head. “I told you before, Daisy. There is no sustenance to be gained from the dead. A pair of ghouls in love would require a sustainable source of emotion.”

“Like what? Some kind of hostage?”

“Possibly,” he admitted. “Have there been reports of missing persons in recent months?”

“No.” I blew out my breath. “Okay, how about Dr. Midnight’s Traveling Sideshow. Ever heard of it?”

His face was blank and innocent. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

I studied him. “Okay, here’s an easy one for you. I get the impression
ghoul
isn’t exactly a polite term. So what should I call you?”

It startled a faint smile from him. “Over the ages, there have been many names for our kind.
Ghoul
is among the less flattering, but it is the term that has endured. In truth, there are far too many of those among us deserving of the name. You may as well continue to use it.”

“What do
you
call yourself?” I pressed him.

Avoiding my gaze, Stefan pondered the depths of his coffee mug. His black hair was no longer bound in a clasp, and it swung forward to obscure his features with a perfection an anime illustrator would have envied. “Outcast,” he murmured. “I number myself among the Outcast.”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the biker gang. There were a lot of emotions behind the words, all of them intense, all of them held fast with steely discipline in that cool, still place inside him. I knew because I’d caught a glimpse of it, and my emotions were still resonating like a tuning fork. Which, frankly, unnerved me a little. I fought the urge to stroke a lock of hair back from his temple and focused on the issues at hand. “Stefan, who are you and where did you come from? Why are you here? I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but I’m trying to figure out what the hell brought you to Pemkowet.”

Stefan’s head came up, but there was a guarded look in his eyes. Yep, definitely overstepped my boundaries. “My story is a long one,” he said at length. “And I do not intend to tell you the whole of it yet.
My
trust must be earned, too, Daisy. For now, let it suffice to say that most recently, I lived a comfortable existence in a town in Poland.”

“There’s a functioning underworld in Poland?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

It worked. He gave me a look of mild reproof. “Is that any stranger than Michigan? Yes. In Wieliczka, Poland. Many of the major elder deities fled Europe during times of upheaval, but there are lesser ones who remained. Peklenc is one such.”

“Never heard of him.”

He smiled wryly. “As I said, he is a lesser deity, forgotten even by many Slavic folk.”

I propped my chin on one hand. “So why did you leave?”

“To put it simply, I was bored,” Stefan said simply. “I sought a greater challenge. I sought meaning.”

“In
Pemkowet
?” I was skeptical.

“Your country is young and brash, unsophisticated. Nowhere more so than in its rural areas.” He shrugged. “Such ghouls as are made here are born of extreme faith rooted in considerable ignorance. Believing themselves betrayed by their faith, they embrace the role of the Outcast to the fullest extent, leading lives of lawlessness and pointless mayhem. The motorcycle club’s name is no coincidence. It may be that I can help change this and teach them that there are better ways to live. Perhaps I may even find a purpose to my existence in it. That is the challenge I embraced.”

“Yeah, but why Pemkowet?” I asked. “I mean . . . seriously?”

Stefan smiled again, this time with dimples. “I thought it best to start small. Does that answer your question?”

It did if I believed him. I found it a bit hard to believe that he was the ghoul—or Outcast—equivalent of a crusading do-gooder.

On the other hand, he was taking steps to crack down on the ghoulish drug trade, so that was something. And he did appear to be doing his best to assist us. And there was that whole moment-of-emotional-intimacy thing.

On the
other
other hand, the entire reason the chief had wanted me at Thad Vanderhei’s funeral was to spy out any eldritch presence there. As he’d said, attending a funeral was the sort of thing a ghoul would do, especially if he was the perp. And surprise, surprise, who did I find in attendance? I had only Stefan’s word to explain his presence there, not to mention his assertion that he’d learned nothing. And for all I knew that sense of intimacy I’d experienced was just another predator’s weapon, like a vampire’s hypnosis.

“You speak pretty flawless English for a Polish ghoul,” I said. “And you ride a mean Harley.”

He looked amused. “There are motorcycles in Poland, Daisy, and I spent time paying my dues among the Outcasts’ club before I earned my colors. And over the course of centuries, it is not uncommon to master many tongues.” One eyebrow arched. “As, no doubt, your protective friend Miss Hollister could attest.”

Out of the blue, that gave me an idea. “That glamour-casting pendant of yours. How does it work?”

Stefan looked surprised. “You must hold the image you wish to project in your mind to invoke it.” He touched the crystal lightly. “It cannot fully conceal the truth, merely blur it. I cannot change my likeness entirely, but it allows me to pass as mortal beneath mundane scrutiny at need. Why?”

I eyed the smoky quartz. “Would it work outside of Hel’s domain?”

“For a time,” he said. “No longer than a day or so. Then its magic would begin to fade, as with anything. As below, so above. May I ask again, why?”

“I’d like to borrow it,” I said.

Stefan’s face turned unreadable. “You ask more than you know. I told you it was a gift from a dear friend. It is not the sort of thing to be loaned on a whim.”

“I’m not asking on a whim.” Okay, that was kind of a lie, but I thought it was a pretty good whim. “If you want me to trust you, trust me.”

He hesitated, then nodded at my straw satchel on the booth beside me. “Then give me a token of your trust in trade. Tell me what item hidden in your bag sends a shiver of ice the length of my spine.”

I hesitated, too, but Hel hadn’t said anything about keeping it a secret. “A dagger.”

“What manner of dagger?”

I looked squarely at Stefan. “One capable of killing the undead.”

Even beneath the glamour, he paled. “I see. That explains why I sense its presence.” He inclined his head. “Hel places considerable trust in her young liaison.”

“Desperate times,” I said for the second time. “Desperate measures. Do we have a deal?”

“We do.”