Dark Currents (23 page)

Thirty-three

I
had everything I needed, and I had an idea.

No, two ideas.

First I called Jen. I got her voice mail. “Hey, girl!” I said. “Looks like I’m on a mission for the PVB, and I’ve got to pay a visit to Twilight Manor tonight. If you want to ride shotgun, let me know.”

She might or she might not. I wasn’t sure. We’d gone out there a few times over the years to check on her sister, Bethany, and try in vain to convince her to leave. But let’s face it: It’s a scary and deeply creepy place. After this morning’s adventure, Jen would either be more inclined than usual to give Bethany a piece of her mind for abandoning her family, or more inclined than usual to let her waste away out there. Either way, I couldn’t really blame her.

Next, I called Sinclair Palmer. “Hi,” I said when he answered. “It’s Daisy Johanssen. We met earlier today?”

He laughed. “You think that’s something I’m likely to forget, sistah?”

I smiled. “Look, the chief of police wants me to get on this PR business. I’m going to try doing a little outreach with some pretty, sparkly fairies for you. Want to come?”

There was a brief silence on the other end. “Are you kidding? I’d give my left hand for the chance.”

“Not worth it.” I shook my head. “Trust me. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”

He gave me the address of a rental house out in the countryside just north of town. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the driveway and parked next to an old double-decker tour bus. It was bright yellow, red, and green, with
PEMKOWET SUPERNATURAL TOURS
painted on either side.

“Wow,” I said as Sinclair emerged from the house. “You must have been pretty confident.”

He shrugged. “I took a chance. My father works at a custom auto shop.” He patted the bus. “The paint job was a birthday present.”

“Nice. Are you and your dad close?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” There was a faint note of reservation in his tone. He laughed self-consciously. “And I guess I have to say I hope you aren’t, eh?”

“Oh, believe me, I’m not. But my mom’s great. What happened with my father wasn’t her fault.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get going. Ready?”

“Ready.” In the Honda, Sinclair pulled out a folded map of Pemkowet produced by the PVB. “I’ve mapped out a route that covers a lot of historical highlights.” He traced it with one finger. “That ancient librarian’s been a big help with the research. You know the one I mean? Looks like she’s a hundred and fifty years old? I think she actually remembers a lot of this stuff.”

“The Sphinx?”

He looked startled. “Is
that
what she is?”

“That’s what I’ve always heard.” I was curious. “What does her aura look like?”

Sinclair frowned. “It’s very . . . muted. I assumed it was because she’s so old. Sometimes that happens when people are near the end of their lives. But maybe it’s because she’s powerful enough to suppress it.”

“Is that how it works?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m learning as I go. If I’d stayed with my mother—” He fell silent.

Ohh-kay.
I had a feeling it wasn’t a time to pry. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m making it up as I go along, too. I can’t guarantee this summoning will work, and even if it does, it could backfire. Asking fairies to conform to anything that resembles order is a lot like herding cats.”

He tapped the map on his thigh. At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say it was exactly the right kind of muscular. Must be all the bicycling. “Was it incredibly stupid of me to bring a
map
to show them?”

“Honestly?” I said. “I have absolutely no idea.”

The destination I’d chosen was an overgrown meadow behind a site just off the highway where a small motel had once stood. It had been condemned and torn down ages ago, and no one had developed the property since. The nature preserve might have seemed like a better bet, but at this time of day, there was a good chance of running into tourists, and I needed privacy.

We hiked past a stand of pine trees and into the center of the meadow, which was filled with indigenous plants and wildflowers—Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, butterfly weed, hawkweed, joe-pye weed . . . come to think of it, a lot of perfectly lovely flowers with rather unfortunate names. We even passed one of Mr. Leary’s writing spiders, almost as big as the palm of my hand, with vivid yellow and black markings, sitting in the center of its web. Sure enough, a zigzagging ladder bisected the spiral orb of its web. I checked discreetly to make sure nothing was written there.

With Sinclair’s help, I trampled down a circle and spread the white linen tablecloth on the ground. Emptying my pockets of acorn caps, I placed them around the rim of the cloth, making sure they were spaced evenly and nestled securely in place.

Sinclair watched with a bemused look as I pulled the stopper on the flagon, breaking the seal, and began carefully filling each acorn cap to the brim. “What is that?”

“Nine hundred dollars’ worth of cowslip dew,” I said, concentrating on not spilling it. “So let’s hope this works.” When I was finished, I still had half a bottle of dew left. Not sure what to do with it, I left it open and placed it in the center of the tablecloth.

“Okay,” he said. “What happens now?”

I sat cross-legged in front of one of the acorn-cap place settings, and pointed at the setting opposite me. “We wait.”

Still looking bemused, Sinclair took a seat on the other side of the tablecloth.

Although it was late afternoon by now, in mid-July the sun was still high. It beat down on us. I could hear birdsong and the faint drone of cars on the highway. Even through my jeans, the meadow grass was prickly. Minutes passed, feeling like hours. Hell, maybe it was hours. I fought the urge to shift and scratch. My pent-up tail wriggled in futile protest.

Maybe this was a stupid idea—

No, wait.

“There,”
Sinclair breathed, his brown eyes widening. “Behind you!”

I swallowed. “Behind
you
.”

His gaze shifted. “And there—”

“And over there,” I added.

Okay, I’d dealt with fairies before, but never so many at the same time. And I’ll admit it was surprisingly intimidating. Emerging from the meadow and shedding their glamours, a dozen or more descended on the feast I’d laid out for them. Tilted catlike eyes glittered feverishly. Long, attenuated fingers with too many joints snatched up the acorn caps, tossing back the contents into mouths lined with unnervingly keen little teeth. Translucent wings fluttered, making the air around them sparkle. Golden sunlight fell on green skin, lavender skin, pale blue skin. And yes, they were very, very pretty—but scary, too.

Sinclair Palmer gazed around him in wonder, and then yelped. “Ow!” he said in protest. “Hey! You pulled my hair!”

“Ooh, look,” one of the lavender-skinned fairies said to another, stroking Sinclair’s short woolly dreads. “It’s already in elf-locks.”

“Ooh!”

I cleared my throat and raised my rune-marked left hand. “Hello? Hel’s liaison. Can we talk?”

The fairy nearest me sported greenish skin, an aureole of lacy white hair, and deep-purple eyes. She eyed
dauda-dagr
’s
hilt and hissed, baring her pointed teeth. “It’s cold and it
hurts
, half-breed!”

“Too bad,” I said ruthlessly. “We need your help.”

Her narrow nostrils flared. “Take thy weapon away!”

I shook my head. “Not a chance.”

“Daisy?” Sinclair’s voice was faint and uncertain. “Um . . . help?”

Be careful what you wish for, right? Fairies swarmed him, laughing and shrieking and buzzing like a flock of locusts, crawling over him, stroking his hair and skin, tugging fondly at his dreadlocks. One with a fiery shock of red-orange hair the color of hawkweed helpfully refilled an acorn cap with dew and shoved it between his lips, forcing him to drink, spluttering.

I drew
dauda-dagr
. “Enough!”

There was a pause. I experienced a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

“Uh-oh,” murmured a fairy with pale purple hair piled atop her head in clumps, looking for all the world like a stalk of joe-pye weed. “Uh-oh!”

All of them gazed in the same direction.

I did, too.

Oh, crap.
It wasn’t my drawing
dauda-dagr
that had given the fairies pause after all. It was something a lot more imposing. I hadn’t reckoned on eldritch royalty, but apparently that was what I’d gotten. He stood motionless on the far outskirts of the meadow beneath the dappled camouflage of trees.

Time slowed down.

“Daisy?”

I climbed to my feet, beckoning for Sinclair to follow suit. All the fairies kept silent as the Oak King approached, not so much as a single wing fluttering.

I’d heard rumors of the Oak King’s existence, but I didn’t know anyone who claimed to have seen him—and believe me, you’d remember. His skin was acorn-brown, his hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, antlers rising from the thick, springing curls over his temples. A long cloak hung from his shoulders. One minute it appeared to be deerskin; the next, it looked to be woven of leaves and moss. He moved soundlessly across the meadow, and it seemed almost as though the meadow shrank at the same time, the trees pressing in closer around us. When he reached us, or we reached him, leaf shadows still stippled his tall figure.

I went to one knee without thinking, according him the same respect I would to Hel herself. Sinclair did the same without being prompted.

“Hel’s liaison, I believe.” The Oak King’s voice was deep and resonant, but there was a hushed quality to it, too, like the stillness at noon in the depths of a forest. “What is it you come seeking?”

I rose, sheathing
dauda-dagr
. “Aid, Your Majesty.” As I stood in front of him, the specifics of the request sounded too ridiculous to put into words. “I don’t know if you’re aware—”

“A boy has died, yes.” He inclined his antlered head. “You seek justice for him.” He gestured at the fairies, quiet and clustered together, looking for all the world like misbehaving children sobering in their father’s presence. “But you will find none here. My people are innocent in this matter.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, yeah. I know. Actually, we’re here to ask for their help with public relations.”

“Oh?” There was a world of patience in his deep brown eyes. It gave me courage to voice the absurd.

“Tourists come to Pemkowet looking for wonder,” I said. “And your people are among the most wondrous. We’re asking that some of them reveal themselves. At, um, regularly scheduled times and places. This is Sinclair Palmer,” I said, indicating him. “He’s proposing a . . . a tour bus route.”

Sinclair got to his feet and offered a stiff bow. “I have a map,” he added faintly.

The Oak King stood motionless for a long time. At last he lifted his gaze to the sky, then glanced around the meadow, settling it on the clustered fairies. They huddled closer together, wings vibrating ever so slightly. “There is too little wonder left in the world,” the Oak King said in a thoughtful tone. “It should be cherished and protected. I realize that this requires the cooperation of mortals, who are so often quick to destroy what they fear. These smallest of people are not always mindful of this.”

My tail twitched hopefully. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

He looked at Sinclair. “Let me see this . . . map.”

Sinclair pulled it from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out in one trembling hand. “I’ve, um, marked the spots I thought might be suitable, Your Majesty. And, uh, tours would leave every hour on the hour between ten a.m. and four p.m.”

The Oak King took the map from him, and I swear to God, it turned into a parchment scroll in his hand. He studied it.

I held my breath.

“Yes,” he said at length. “In these times, I find this to be a reasonable request.” He returned the scroll to Sinclair, whereupon it promptly turned back into a map. “I will see to it. It will be done.”

I let out my breath.

“Thank you!” Sinclair’s voice was joyous. “Thank you, thank you!”

The Oak King held up one hand. “I make no promise in perpetuity. It stands for as long as I deem it reasonable.” His gaze shifted to me, deep and grave. “Are you near unto finding justice, Hel’s liaison?”

I nodded. “Very close, Your Majesty.”

His gaze fell on
dauda-dagr
. “You bear a dire weapon, one that chills even my immortal soul. Hel places great faith in you.”

“I’m trying to be worthy of it,” I said humbly.

“That is well.” Unexpectedly, the Oak King reached out and laid one brown, sinewy hand on my brow. I felt a rush of warmth, rich and golden, filled with all the green, growing scents of summer. “As below, so above.” He withdrew his hand, turning it palm upward. A silver whistle in the shape of an acorn lay nestled within it. “Accordingly, I give you my own token. You have but to blow it to beseech an audience.”

I took it gingerly.

He smiled. “Well done, Hel’s liaison.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. And, um . . . it’s Daisy,” I said. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. Daisy Johanssen.”

The Oak King’s smile deepened. “Yes, I know. Well done, Daisy Johanssen.”

“Thank—”

He was gone.

It happened . . .
Oh, gah!
I don’t even know how to describe how it happened, other than fast. Between the space of one breath and the next, the Oak King was gone and the meadow got bigger again. Sinclair Palmer and I stood staring at each other beside a white tablecloth scattered with acorn caps and a huddle of fairies.

A soft breeze blew over the meadow, bending the grasses and wildflowers.

The fairies stirred.

One of them, the Queen Anne’s lace fairy with the white hair and purple eyes, snatched the half-empty flagon of cowslip dew from the center of the tablecloth. “Thou hast what thou came for,” she spat at me in disdain, clutching the flagon to her narrow chest. “I claim the spoils of thine endeavor!”

“Go right ahead.” I pocketed the silver acorn whistle the Oak King had given me, and began folding the tablecloth. “Oh, and by the way? A little boy named Jake says hello. He helped me put this feast together, so if you ever meet him, be nice.”