Dark Currents: Agent of Hel Read online

  “Mm-hmm.” Cody didn’t sound as pleased as I’d expected.

  “What?”

  “If Loretta’s telling the truth, Thad and Mike came into the bar looking for Ray D. They claim no one’s seen him for months; no one knew how to get in touch with him.” Cody reached over and tapped the matchbook I was holding. “But Thad and Mike appear to have left with a phone number.”

  “So someone’s lying,” I said.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “Or maybe they got the number from someone who wasn’t there today, and Loretta didn’t see it.”

  I flipped open my notepad and glanced at the list I’d made of all the patrons Loretta remembered being in the bar that afternoon. “Are we going to question all of these people?”

  “If we have to.”

  It had already been a long day of questioning witnesses, and we had all the other bars to revisit. It made my head ache. “I didn’t realize regular police work would be quite so tedious,” I admitted.

  Cody smiled. “You watch too many movies.”

  “You don’t watch enough,” I retorted. “I can’t believe you haven’t seen Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure! It’s a classic.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Yes, Mr. Laconic. I do.” I studied his profile. “So what did you think of Stefan Ludovic?”

  He stopped smiling. “Didn’t like him; don’t trust him.” He glanced at me. “For someone who claims not to like ghouls, you gave a pretty convincing performance to the contrary.”

  Ooh, alpha-male jealousy! A tingle ran down my spine, culminating in a burst of pleasure at the base of my tail. “What are you talking about?” I scoffed disingenuously. “I barely spoke to him.”

  “Uh-huh.” Cody’s expression turned wry. “Thing is, I can’t figure out if he was being helpful to pull rank in the Outcasts or just to impress you.” He drove across the bridge and crossed into the left lane, signaling for the turn to downtown Pemkowet. “Or maybe it’s something else altogether. Maybe he’s trying to throw us off the scent.”

  I shook my head. “I get the impression he’s clever enough for it. Loretta, not so much.”

  “Good point.”

  It felt good to earn Cody’s nod of approval—not in a needy, daddy-issues kind of way, just in a general-validation way. “So far, we don’t make too bad a team, do we?”

  His lips twitched. “I have to admit, I liked the way you stood up to Al.”

  That had felt good, too, but I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened if Stefan hadn’t intervened.

  We parked at the station and made another round of the bars on foot. By now, word had spread, and the bartenders and waitstaff were expecting us. Tim Bradley at the Merryman was fairly sure he hadn’t served any of the three, but a waitress named Lucy Briggs working the outside deck thought she might remember them. No one at Bob’s Bar and Grill could make a positive ID. Rosalind Meeks, the first bartender we asked at Bazooka Joe’s, where the threesome had allegedly been for last call, just laughed at us.

  “End of the night? Are you kidding me?” She gestured around. It was a vast, cavernous space smelling of stale beer and mildewed carpets. “If they came in now, sure, I might remember them. But last call?” She shook her head. “This place is wall-to-wall with college kids, and let me tell you, they all look alike after a while.”

  Cody leaned forward. “You know we’re not looking to get anyone in trouble, right? We’re just trying to verify these kids’ story.”

  Rosalind gave him a world-weary smile. “Honey, you don’t need to whisper sweet nothings to me. I understand there’s a boy dead.” She took another look at Thad Vanderhei’s photo. “Twenty-one years old, probably still excited he could get into a bar legally. But I’m sorry; I honestly can’t say.”

  “Thanks for trying.” Cody gathered the photos.

  “Anytime.” This time, her smile had more wattage. “You’re Caleb Fairfax’s younger brother, right? I went to school with him. How’s he doing?”

  “Good.”

  “Married?”

  Cody nodded. “Married, two kids.”

  “Ah, well.” Her wattage dimmed. “You tell him Rosalind says hi. We dated for a month or two, you know.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

  We got the same story when we questioned the rest of the bartenders, waitstaff, and bouncers on duty, and I didn’t have the sense any of them were lying. Truth was, there was nothing especially distinctive about the trio. Three average-looking white boys in college T-shirts, board shorts, and flip-flops. You couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one of those in Pemkowet in the summer.

  The lack of resolution was frustrating, and by the time we finished, I felt like throwing a rock at someone.

  “Why couldn’t one of them have flaming red hair?” I muttered. “Or a birthmark, or a distinctive tattoo, or . . . or six fingers on one hand or something.”

  “Is that from a movie?” Cody sounded tired.

  “Don’t tell me you never saw The Princess Bride.” I stifled a yawn. “I swear, when this is over, I’m going to make you come over to watch a movie marathon with Mom and me.”

  “I can think of worse fates.” He glanced at his watch. “Look, it’s been a long day, and we’re both operating on a few hours’ sleep. You’ve got your . . .” He gestured at the strand of freshwater pearls still looped around my neck for the sake of convenience. “Your naiad summoning at dawn?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You want to meet me in the parking lot of the nature preserve? We can hike from there.”

  Cody hesitated. “No, I trust you to handle it on your own. That’s the kind of thing the chief brought you on board for. Go home. You can type up your notes later in the morning. I’ll meet with the chief and give him a verbal rundown.”

  “Okay.”

  I had a feeling Cody was reluctant to venture any deeper into the eldritch community than he already had; although he’d been quick enough to suggest going to the Wheelhouse, a known ghoul hangout. But then, that was only following the evidence.

  Oh, hell, who knew? I didn’t pretend to understand men.

  Maybe I should ask my father, I thought, and the thought almost made me giggle. The ironic thing was, I did have the means. Belphegor, lesser demon and occasional incubus, had made a pact with my mother. If I summoned him, he would answer.

  I knew; I’d done it once, when I turned eighteen. I won’t do it again, not ever. I just had to know whether or not it was true. And it doesn’t summon him to the mortal plane, in case you were wondering. I’m not that stupid. It’s more like . . . Skyping with the infernal realm.

  The problem was that Belphegor’s idea of fatherly advice consisted of attempting to convince me to invoke my demonic birthright, at which time great powers of temptation, seduction, and destruction would become mine to wield, and men would fall at my feet in supplication and adoration.

  He kind of glossed over the whole part about it causing a full-blown breach in the Inviolate Wall, leading to Armageddon.

  I still hear his voice sometimes. When the wall that divides us is especially thin, my not-so-dear old dad likes to show me what I call temptation scenarios.

  “Daisy?” Cody snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Lost you there for a minute. See you at the station?”

  “Huh?” I shook myself out of my reverie. “Yeah, right. Sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can tomorrow.”

  I walked the few blocks to my apartment, where I was surprised and pleased to find Mogwai waiting for me. I spent a few minutes scratching under his chin while he purred and regarded me with a cryptic look; then I filled his bowl. Too tired to bother with cooking, I microwaved a bowl of ramen noodles for myself—hey, when you’re in your twenties, that’s a perfectly acceptable dinner—then sat down with Mogwai on my futon to watch some mindless TV.

  At a little after nine, my phone buzzed. I glanced at it and picked up. “Hey, Jen.”

  “Hey, Daise.” My best friend’s voice was
listless. “I just wanted to call and see if you were okay.”

  “I’m fine. Just tired.” Tucking the phone under my chin, I picked up the remote and muted the TV. “What’s up? You don’t sound good.”

  There was a silence on the other end. “I don’t want to bother you. You’ve got a lot going on.”

  “You heard?”

  She gave a faint snort. “Are you kidding? Who didn’t?”

  “Well, then you know I can’t talk about it, so you might as well tell me. What gives, girl?”

  “Nothing.”

  I stroked Mogwai. “Jen.”

  She sighed. “Cody Fairfax called to apologize for leading me on last night. He actually gave me the whole ‘it’s not you; it’s me’ shtick. Can you believe it?”

  “Maybe it’s true,” I said.

  Another silence, longer than the first one. When she spoke, there was an edge of suspicion in her voice. “Did you say something to him?”

  “Jen—”

  “Don’t fucking ‘Jen’ me! I know you’re working with him now.”

  “It’s just . . .” I made a face. This would have been a lot easier if I could have told her the whole truth. “Yeah, okay, I told him you needed someone stable, someone you could depend on. And that if he wasn’t going to be that guy, if he wasn’t interested in a real relationship, he shouldn’t mislead you.”

  “You don’t know what might have happened! You had no right!” Her voice dropped. “But you’re not exactly a neutral third party, are you? You’ve got your own reasons for warning him off me.”

  “Don’t—”

  “Oh, fuck you!” She hung up the phone.

  I tried calling back, but she wouldn’t pick up. Guilt pricked my conscience. I cared a lot about Jen. She’d been my best friend for a long time, my only real friend in the ordinary mundane community. Ever since I’d helped her out with her sister, Jen had had my back, defending me through thick and thin. She’d put herself on the line for me more than once. In the cutthroat world of teenagers, that was a big deal. There were times in high school when I might have gone full-blown Carrie-at-the-prom if it hadn’t been for Jennifer Cassopolis; and yes, that’s another movie Mom and I watched together. Call it a cautionary tale if you will.

  Crap.

  Jen was right: I wasn’t neutral. She knew me too well, and I hadn’t kept my secret as well as I’d kept Cody’s. And it was stupid, because based on what he’d said today, even if he were interested in me, it could never go anywhere. I thought he was a serial dater because if he got too close to anyone, they’d start to realize he vanished once a month during the full moon.

  Hell, if I was honest with myself, I didn’t know how much of my attraction to him was because he wasn’t a full-blooded human. I’d dated a few guys over the years . . . Well, no. Even that wasn’t really true. I’d never had an actual boyfriend. I’d hooked up with a few guys over the years, but there had usually been a fair amount of drinking involved, at least on their end. Ultimately there was always a spark missing, a level of passion I hungered for that went beyond the mere mortal. And yes, there was usually a point where they freaked out on me, and yes, it had a lot to do with the tail. Well, that and what it represented, I guess.

  At least a guy who turned into a wolf once a month wasn’t likely to freak out over one small posterior appendage. But that was no reason to throw my BFF under the bus. For all I knew, Cody and Jen might have dated for a month and parted amicably. Or maybe they would have fallen in love, and he would have bucked clan tradition.

  I doubted it.

  More likely Jen would have ended up like the bartender Rosalind who dated Cody’s brother, still wistful and pining fifteen years later.

  I sighed and turned off the TV.

  I could tell myself that all day long, but even if it was true, I hadn’t done the right thing. My loyalty should have been to Jen, not to Cody and an unspoken eldritch code. I shouldn’t have interfered. I should have told her the truth and let her make her own choices.

  Too late now.

  I poured myself a couple inches of scotch and put Nina Simone on the stereo. She sang in a lower octave than most women, deep and soulful. Throughout her life, she’d struggled with the mortal demons of mental illness. Tonight, the sound of her voice soothed an ache in me. “It’s nobody’s fault but mine,” Nina sang, commiserating with my guilty conscience.

  Wandering onto the porch, I watched the afterglow fade in the west, and listened to the sounds of Pemkowet on a summer evening.

  It sounded just like last night.

  A young man was dead, and most of the world went on, oblivious. I went back to the living room, flipped open my own case file. Thad Vanderhei stared up at me from his DMV photo, a bland smirk on his face and a faint impression of a circle flattening his hair, suggesting he’d taken off a baseball cap to have the photo taken.

  On the stereo, accompanied by a spare, haunting piano arrangement, Nina confirmed in a mournful tone that if she died and her soul was lost, it was nobody’s fault but hers.

  I brushed Thad’s face with one fingertip. “What did you do?” I murmured. “What were you up to, and whose fault was it?”

  No one but Nina Simone answered.

  Nine

  Once again, I was awakened from sleep in the wee hours of the night, this time by Mogwai turning from a warm, dense ball of fur curled against my side into a hissing, spitting, feral creature uttering a low, unearthly wail. Leaping from the bed, Mogwai dashed toward the screened porch.

  I sat bolt upright. “What the—”

  Outside the screened porch, there was a clatter and a clash, followed by the sound of a door banging open, a rising guttural roar, an alarmed human-sounding shout, and the sound of running feet pounding down the alley.

  Yanking on a pair of jeans below the tank top I slept in, I grabbed my phone, unlocked the door to my apartment, and ran downstairs.

  Mrs. Browne was in the alley, a broom clutched in her gnarled hands and raised like a club. There was no trace now of the sweet little old lady she usually appeared to be. The lines on her wizened face had hardened into something ancient and fierce and dangerous, filled with all the righteous fury of a brownie protecting its household.

  That was another reason I usually felt safe in my apartment at night. Left to their own devices and provided the appropriate offerings—in Mrs. Browne’s case, a fully stocked and prepped bakery kitchen—brownies are benevolent, domestic souls. When threatened, they can and will defend their chosen household with the strength of ten.

  “Daisy, lass.” She lowered her broom, her expression easing. “Are ye well?”

  “I’m fine, Mrs. Browne. Did you see what it was?”

  She shook her head. “I heard the ruckus and came a-running.” Her broad nostrils flared. “Mortal by the smell o’ him, with a skinful o’ beer.” She pointed toward the west end of the alley, where it curved past the Christian Science church. “He went thataway. Do ye reckon it were just a burglar or a creepin’ Tom?”

  There was a soft thud from that direction, then a movement in the shadows that made me jump. Mogwai stalked out, his fur bristling.

  I relaxed. “I don’t know. I’d like to think so, but . . .”

  “But there’s ill doin’s afoot.” Mrs. Browne peered at me beneath her furrowed brow, her deep-set eyes as dark as bog water. “Have ye spoken to the nixies yet?”

  “Not yet.” Nixies fell into the same category as naiads and undines. “I’ll go at dawn.”

  She patted my hand. “I’ve a nice tray of buns fresh from the oven. Come inside and have one, child. It will help settle your nerves.”

  It wasn’t an offer anyone in their right mind would refuse, no matter what the circumstances. Pocketing my phone, I followed her in through the back door of the kitchen, Mogwai winding around my ankles.

  I perched on a stool, nibbling on the warm cinnamon bun Mrs. Browne gave me. Trust me: If you think you know what heaven in the form of a fresh cinnamon bun
tastes like, you’re mistaken. This was cloud-light and soft as a pillow, laced with subtle layers of butter and cinnamon, just the right amount of icing melting atop it, miles away from the immense, glutinous blobs of dough drenched in cloyingly sweet icing you get at those Cinnabon franchises that permeate malls and airports. Aside from inducing a passing concern that I might be succumbing to gluttony, it did indeed help settle my nerves.

  “Do ye reckon this was about the boy who was killed?” Mrs. Browne asked, pouring some cream into a bowl for Mogwai. He lapped it eagerly.

  I took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. “Do you know for a fact he was killed?”

  “Nay.” Her look turned shrewd. “But I know for a fact you’d not be looking into it if there weren’t somewhat off about the boy’s death. The regular police, aye. Not you, Daisy, lass.”

  I took another bite. “It may be nothing. But if you hear anything about it in the community, you’ll let me know?”

  Mrs. Browne huffed. “Don’t go offendin’ me, now! Of course I will. But no one I’ve spoken to knows aught.” She upended a large bowl of bread dough onto the counter, dusted her strong, nut-brown hands with flour, and began pummeling the yeasty mass. “You do know your dear mother’s worried about you?”

  “I know.” Smiling, I finished my cinnamon bun. “That’s why she’s got you looking out for me, isn’t it?”

  She didn’t return my smile. “You be careful, child. I do what I can to protect my own here.” She waved one floury hand in the direction of the door. “There’s naught I can do out there.”

  Hopping down from the stool, I kissed her wizened cheek. “I know, Mrs. B. Thank you. If you hear something out back in a few minutes, it’s just me.”

  She huffed again, flapping her hand at me. “Go on with ye, then.”

  With Mogwai trotting at my heels, I went upstairs to fetch my flashlight, then back downstairs to have a look around.

  There was a dent in the plastic lid of the bakery’s Dumpster. Scanning the ground beneath it with the beam of my flashlight, I made out the faint impression of a footprint in the dusty patch between the alley and the Dumpster. It was facing away from, not toward, the disposal unit.