Five
T
wo hours later, my clock radio blared to life, shouting out tunes from a classic rock station. Not my usual choice of music, but it does the trick. I jolted into wakefulness and slapped it off, then dragged myself into the shower. The hot water invigorated me. I stood naked beneath the spray, twitching my tail back and forth in a luxuriant manner, letting the water wash me clean.
Okay.
Fresh jeans and a scoop-necked T-shirt, check. Cereal for breakfast, check. Call in vain for Mogwai and fill his bowl, check.
I was meeting Cody at the station at eleven o’clock a.m. That gave me twenty minutes to run an errand.
Plenty of time. Or, at least, it would have been if Casimir had what I needed.
The Fabulous Casimir—I think he’d trademarked the name—was our resident head witch and the proprietor of Sisters of Selene, Pemkowet’s local occult store. He was as shrewd as he was flamboyant, and his affinity for cross-dressing had roots in a number of shamanic traditions; although, truth be told, I think he probably would have done it anyway. I’d done business with him a number of times. In fact, the watch I’d bought the chief came from his shop. He greeted me effusively when I entered, the chimes on the door ringing. “Daisy,
dahling
! It’s too horrible for words! Tell me, is it true?”
I blinked, still a bit sleep-deprived. “Is what?”
Blinking back at me with long artificial lashes, he lowered his voice. “The Vanderheis’ oldest son?” He drew one manicured forefinger across his throat. “Last night? He went glug-glug?”
Anger rose in me, setting the door chimes to shivering faintly. “For God’s sake, Cas! It’s not a joke!”
He looked contrite. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it was. So it is true?”
I sighed. “Yes. And I need a strand of freshwater pearls.”
Casimir shook his turbaned head. “Don’t keep them in stock,
dahling
. Sorry. Try the bead shop down the street. They’re damn near putting me out of business. Stupid mundanes, don’t know quality from crapola.”
“Will they work?” I asked him. “For a summoning?”
He struck a pose, tilting his chin and weighing invisible scales on his hands. “
Comme ci, comme ça
. Maybe. It depends on their mood, Miss Daisy.
You
know.”
I glanced at my watch and decided I could hit the bead shop later. “So what do you know about the Vanderhei kid, Cas?”
He shrugged. “Nothing, really. I know more about the family in general. Very conservative and
very
wealthy. The rumor I heard is that Jim Vanderhei was one of the major backers behind the Prop Thirteen resolution two years ago. Remember?”
“Um . . .” I didn’t follow politics closely. “A little help?”
“Oh, girl!” Casimir sighed dramatically. “You can’t afford not to pay attention to these things. Prop Thirteen? The one that would have required registered voters to get DNA testing to prove they are a hundred percent human?”
“Oh, right. But it didn’t pass.”
“Not that time, no. It doesn’t mean they won’t try again.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “What do you want with freshwater pearls, Miss Daisy? I heard the boy drowned by accident.” He paled beneath his artfully applied foundation. “Oh, sweet goddess, tell me a member of the community wasn’t involved! Because that is
all
the Vanderheis need to turn personal tragedy into a political crusade.”
Oh, crap.
Glancing around, I made sure no one else had entered the store. “I don’t know, Cas. On the record, we’re just covering all the bases. But between you and me, the chief’s watch was spinning like a top.”
Casimir’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed hard. “Best you try to keep that under wraps, girl.”
“I know.” I pointed at him. “You, too. But if you hear anything, let me know.”
He nodded. Casimir might put up a frivolous front, but you don’t get to be the head of Pemkowet Coven without being able to keep a secret. Matter of fact, even I don’t know who all the members of the coven are. “You be careful out there, Miss Daisy. You know there are folks in the community who are none too fond of you and what you do.”
“Yeah, I know. I got hissed at by a milkweed fairy yesterday.” It seemed like ages ago. “But if I hadn’t intervened, we’d be scouring the dunes for a missing child on top of everything else. What can I say, Cas? I believe in the rule of order. A society as mixed as ours can’t function without it.”
He raised his hands. “You’re preaching to the choir, girl. Just remember there are plenty who believe otherwise.” He lowered his voice again. “And
they’re
not going to worry that messing with you could breach the Inviolate Wall, Miss Daisy.”
I shrugged. “This might turn out to be nothing. I hope it does.”
“I hope so, too.” Casimir looked worried. “Just watch your back.”
“I will,” I promised. “And don’t worry; I’m not working alone. Cody Fairfax is the lead officer on this case.”
“Officer Down-low?” He fanned himself. “Girl, he’s all kinds of fine, but you watch him, too. Those furry clans protect their own. If it gets hot, and he has to choose between having your back and outing himself, I wouldn’t trust him to do the right thing.”
“I’ll keep it in mind,” I said. “Thanks, Cas.”
The Fabulous Casimir recovered enough of his aplomb to blow me a kiss. “Anytime, Miss Daisy!”
I mulled over his warning on the walk to the station.
Casimir was right about the rumors about the Inviolate Wall not protecting me. In eldritch terminology, the Inviolate Wall is what divides the mortal plane from the divine forces of the apex faiths, the major living faiths: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Buddhism, etc. In theory, it means that the divine forces of the major living faiths can’t act directly on the mortal plane, only indirectly through their millions of adherents. But in places like Pemkowet, the wall is thinner, not so inviolate. There are cracks, and things slip through them. Kind of like my father slipped into my mother.
And . . . technically, my existence represents one of those chinks. And if I were to supplicate my father, Belphegor, for my demonic birthright, it could cause a full-blown breach and unleash . . . well, hell on earth.
Which in turn could free up the forces of heaven to combat them, unleashing . . . well, Armageddon, basically.
Knowing that, one might wonder why the eldritch community suffers my existence. That’s where it gets tricky. According to Hel—again, that’s the Norse goddess, not the infernal plane—if an immortal deliberately caused my death, it could
also
bring on Armageddon, because in accordance with ancient laws, my father would have the right to seek vengeance on earth, thus creating a significant breach in the Inviolate Wall.
Like I said, tricky.
In a sensible and orderly world, that would mean no one would ever think it was a good idea to kill me, and it would be in everyone’s interest to keep me happy and complacent, so that I was never tempted to give in to the dark side and invoke my birthright. Alas, we do not live in a sensible and orderly world. Ordinary humans have their sociopaths, terrorists, and anarchists capable of destroying everything around them, and laughing while their worlds fall to pieces.
So do we, and the stakes are considerably higher.
It was good to be reminded of it.
I realized my tail was untucked and lashing in my jeans—I buy them a little loose out of necessity—and wrestled my emotions under control before the tourists on the sidewalk behind me began to wonder why the blond girl’s butt was trying to escape its denim confines.
Officer Down-low was waiting for me at the station. He did indeed look all kinds of fine after a few hours of sleep, a shower, and a shave.
Even though we worked in the same department, I didn’t often see him, since Cody usually worked night shifts. Affinity for the nocturnal and all. It was the first time since grade school that we’d be spending any length of time together. I wondered how long it took his stubble to grow, and whether men of the howl-at-the-moon persuasion had to shave more often than most people.
Or whether, indeed, most bothered. The older members of the Fairfax clan did keep to themselves, but I seemed to remember a couple of them being sort of hairy—not in a Joaquin Phoenix–losing-his-marbles-and-growing-a-long-scraggly-beard way, but more in a sexy Hugh Jackman–as-Wolverine-unexpectedly-rocking-the-muttonchops way.
“Daisy Jo?” Cody waved a file folder at me. “Ready?”
“Huh?”
He thrust the folder into my hands. “Let’s canvass.”
We hit the town on foot. Downtown Pemkowet is small enough that it’s easier to walk than drive. Unfortunately, we struck out left and right. None of the bartenders on duty this early in the day had been working last night. Whether out of genuine disinterest or an instinctive desire to protect their own, everyone we spoke to claimed not to know who had been working.
I staged a detour at the Fabulous Casimir’s retail nemesis, Baubles & Beads, where I bought a long strand of freshwater pearls. Mission pearl, check. The salesclerk eyed Cody and me with mild curiosity as I looped them around my neck. I guess women didn’t usually shop for cheap pearls with uniformed cops in tow.
“I can get reimbursed for this, right?” I asked him.
“Hell if I know,” Cody admitted. “Keep your receipts.”
“I will.”
His stomach rumbled, and he grimaced. “Daise? We’re not getting anywhere at this hour. What do you say we get a bite to eat?”
I smiled. “I say yes.”
Every town has its local cop shop, and Pemkowet was no exception. Callahan’s Café was only a block and a half away from the station. It was one of those places that for inexplicable reasons, or maybe proximity to the police station, proved tourist-averse and attracted a local clientele instead. Their coffee sucked, but they offered a bottomless cup of it in the age of Starbucks, and they did good things with red meat. Plus, I had a soft spot in my heart for the place. My mom waitressed there for years, and I have fond memories of spending long hours sitting quietly at a corner table with a coloring book. That was when the chief first took a semipaternal interest in me.
I ordered the meat loaf special, because who doesn’t love meat loaf? Cody got ribs. And yes, I enjoyed watching him gnaw on them with his strong, white teeth. Most people leave shreds of meat clinging to the bone. Not Officer Down-low.
It gave me a shivery feeling deep in my belly, and made my tail twitch. Those teeth . . .
gah!
Focus, Daisy.
I cleared my throat. “So . . .”
“Hmm?” Cody looked up from his plate of ribs.
I willed the most titillating of the Seven Deadlies to subside, casting around for a topic that didn’t involve discussing the case in public. “You never did say whether you like Jen enough to . . . you know.”
“I don’t know her well enough to say.” He gave me a level gaze. “And since I keep my word, I suppose that means I never will.”
I flushed. “I didn’t mean—”
Cody interrupted me. “Look, I respect your wanting to protect a friend. But why are you so sure I’d be bad for her?”
Anger flickered. “Oh, you mean other than the obvious? Because you’ve never dated the same woman for longer than a month or two! I know Jen; she’s got a self-destructive streak. She needs someone stable in her life, someone she can depend on.”
He looked away. “That’s not true.”
“I think I know her better—”
“Not that.” He looked back at me. “I dated the same woman for over a year.”
“Who?” The milk in my coffee curdled as I began ticking his girlfriends off on my fingers. “Sarah Holcombe, Beth Wilcox, Julia Morales—”
“It’s no one you know. She lived in Canada.” Cody nodded at my coffee mug. “Better simmer down there.”
I took a deep breath, imagined myself pouring out a glass of curdled anger. “I don’t like being bullshitted, okay? She lives in Canada? Please. That’s the oldest gimmick in the book.”
Something hard surfaced behind his eyes. “I said
lived
.”
Oh.
Suddenly I felt about six inches tall. I opened my mouth, then closed it. I cleared my throat a few times, scrambling to find a shred of grace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Was she . . . What happened? I mean, if you want to talk about it.”
Cody shook his head. “Not here.” Polishing off his ribs, he wiped his fingers on his napkin. “Sam at the Shoals said Brent Timmons was on duty last night. If that’s the first place they hit, there’s a good chance he’d remember them. It doesn’t get that busy until later.”
I reached for my phone, glad to have something constructive to do. “I’ll look up his address.”
“Don’t bother.” Cody took out his wallet. “I know where he lives.”
Six
W
e drove a way out of town into the countryside, a few miles southeast, but still well within the circle of Hel’s influence. It’s strongest in Pemkowet, where it’s centered, but it actually extends in a ten-mile radius.
Halfway there, Cody spoke without preamble. “She was killed. Shot by a hunter.” The muscle in his jaw jumped. “He claimed it was self-defense. The game warden didn’t find him at fault.”
“Game warden . . .” I inhaled sharply.
Wow.
Okay, I guess it was out in the open now. “She was a werewolf?”
“Why does that surprise you?” His voice was dry. “Ultimately, we have a duty to our clan to mate with our own kind. It’s the only way our species can survive.”
“What was her name?” I asked.
“Caroline. Caroline Lambert.” Although Cody’s voice remained calm, his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel when he said her name. “We met at a gathering of the clans in Montreal the summer I was twenty-one.”
“Montreal?”
“It has an underground city and a functioning underworld.” That muscle in his jaw twitched again. “And a narrow but deep streak of conservative Catholicism that would like to see, like Mr. Huizenga, that very underworld razed and destroyed. The hunter happened to be of that persuasion.”
“You think he did it on purpose.”
“I’m sure of it,” he said grimly. “The Montreal clan weren’t discreet, and they had human enemies.”
“Did the police investigate?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Caroline was killed during the full moon. Nothing to investigate about a wolf carcass.”
“Yeah, but . . .” A sense of indignation swamped me. “Cody, she was a
person
, too! Couldn’t her clan have done something?”
“They tried,” he said briefly. “The police weren’t interested.”
I put two and two together. “That’s why you became a cop.” Mistress of the obvious, me.
Cody gave a curt nod. “We’ve always existed on the fringes, Daisy, walking the line between human and animal, between civilization and wilderness. It makes us vulnerable in ways that don’t affect others in the community. Hunters have always killed wolves. And contrary to popular belief, it doesn’t take a silver bullet, just a bullet. As a police officer, I’m in a position to help protect my clan.”
I had a feeling there were some serious flaws in his logic, and it occurred to me that if he was serious about the whole mating-within-his-species thing, there was no way he was interested in a real relationship with Jen, but I also had a feeling this would be a good time to keep my mouth shut, so I went ahead and did that.
We drove along the bluff above the river, passing the road down to the mobile home community where my mom still lived. I saw Cody glance briefly in that direction before making a left turn, and I was glad he remembered.
Brent Timmons lived in a ramshackle old farmhouse in the country. He came shambling up to the door when we rang the doorbell, scratching his bulging belly beneath an impressive overhang of bushy black beard.
“Cody, man!” His eyes lit up, and he stuck out one big, hairy mitt of a hand. “Whassup? How’s life on the straight and narrow?”
Belatedly, I recognized his name and remembered that Cody and Brent had been in the same graduating class at Pemkowet High.
“Could be better, could be worse.” Cody clasped the proffered hand. “Hey, Big B. You mind looking at a few photos for us?”
“Sure, man.” Brent nodded amiably. “C’mon in. You want to smoke a bowl?” He glanced at Cody’s uniform. “Um . . . just kidding. Maybe crack open a cold one?” He noticed me. “Oh, hey! Hi, there, Pixy Stix.” He gave his belly another scratch, peering down at me. “You want to party?”
Oh, blech.
My tail lashed.
For the first time since I’d inadvertently evoked the memory of his murdered girlfriend, Cody’s lips curved with amusement. “Sorry, Big B. Maybe another time. Pixy Stix and I are on duty. You were working happy hour at the Shoals last night?”
“Yeah.” Big B looked bewildered. “So?”
Cody slid the three photos out of the folder. “These guys come in?”
He studied them. “Nah.”
“Are you sure?”
“This is about the drowned kid, isn’t it?” Brent’s gaze sharpened. “No, man. I heard about it this morning.” He stabbed the uppermost photo with one thick forefinger. “I always keep an eye on those frat-boy types. More often than not, they’re mouthy shits who end up starting trouble they can’t even begin to finish. None of them in the bar last night, not at happy hour.”
“You’re
sure
?” Cody pressed him.
The beard wagged up and down. “Uh-huh. Abso-fucking-lutely, bro.”
Another handclasp ensued. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to doubt you.”
Brent Timmons enfolded Cody in a major bear hug. “No worries, amigo. Don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.”
We got back into the patrol car. Cody reported in to the dispatcher on duty, then checked his watch. “We’ve got time to kill before hitting the bars on the list again.”
“You don’t believe Brent?” I asked.
“I do, but I’d like to get as much confirmation as possible.” He rubbed his chin. “And I’d like to show those photos around at the Wheelhouse. There’s got to be a reason the kid had that matchbook in his pocket.”
I shivered a little. “You know it’s a major ghoul hangout?”
Cody shot me an amused look. “Some big, bad hell-spawn you are. Got anything else on your agenda?”
“Maybe,” I said. “My mom offered to read the cards for me. We’re going right past her place.”
His fingers drummed on the steering wheel. “Tarot cards?”
“Ah . . . not exactly,” I admitted. “But she’s got this knack. Mrs. Browne says it’s not uncommon for humans with an affinity for the arcane to come from a long line of psychics and seers.”
In most places, this would not be a logical course of investigation, but this was Pemkowet. Cody shrugged. “It can’t hurt.”
Retracing our path, we drove down to Sedgewick Estate. Yeah, it’s kind of a fancy name for a mobile home community, but the truth is, the place has its own charm. The tidy row of units faces a marshy expanse of river dense with tall, waving grass and dotted with willow trees. Most have decks or screened porches added onto them where one can sit and watch the gleaming currents wind their way through the grass.
Mom greeted me at the door with an effusive hug. “Daisy, baby! I’m so glad to see you.” Catching sight of Cody, she widened her eyes. “Officer Fairfax! Is everything all right . . . ? No, of course it’s not. I mean . . .”
I smiled. “It’s okay. We’re working together.”
“Hmm.” Mom’s face took on a crafty look, or at least as crafty as it ever got, which wasn’t very. Unlike Jen, she knew all about my long-standing crush. As far as I was concerned, moms were exempted from the eldritch code of honor, especially when they were pretty much honorary members of the community. “I see.”
“We were passing by, Ms. Johanssen,” Cody said politely. “Your daughter said you offered to read the cards for her.”
She waved one hand. “Marja, please. Call me Marja. Come in, come in.”
As always, Mom’s place was something of an organized mess. Jars of canned fruit were stacked on the tiny kitchen counter. Novelty Christmas lights in the shape of starfish were wrapped around the top of the walls. She was in the middle of a project, and there was a half-draped dress form in one corner, lengths and swatches of fabric strewn over every available surface.
“I’m doing the dresses for Terri Sweddon’s wedding,” she said in response to my inquiring glance. “That’s what her mother was originally calling about this morning. You know she’s marrying the youngest Dalton boy?”
“I heard.”
Mom busied herself clearing a mass of tulle and pins from the old Formica dinette. “I began teaching myself to sew when Daisy was born,” she said brightly to Cody. “I had such a hard time finding onesies with enough room for her tail. Over the years, I’ve managed to turn it into a full-time job. Would you like a cup of coffee?”
He choked out a cough. “Ah, no. No, thank you.”
She dusted off a chair and went to fetch her cards from a drawer in the hutch. “Have a seat.”
I winced a little at Cody’s expression when he saw the well-worn deck of cards, brightly colored and smaller than regulation size. “Aren’t those—”
“
Lotería
cards,” I confirmed. “She’s had them since taking Spanish class in high school.”
Cody blinked.
Mom gave him a stern look, although her stern looks weren’t very stern, either. We look a lot alike, fair-skinned Scandinavian blondes, but unlike mine, Mom’s eyes are as blue as a cloudless sky, and they reflect her innately sunny disposition. “Symbolism is symbolism, and these cards have a rich historic tradition.”
“Also, she couldn’t afford a tarot deck back in the day,” I added. “So she made up her own system with these.”
“Which works very well,” Mom said.
“Okay,” Cody said in a mild tone. “No offense intended.”
All of us sat at the dinette, Mom and I facing each other. I picked up the familiar deck and fanned it to find my significator,
El Diablito
, the little devil, placing it faceup on the table. Then I shuffled the deck carefully, holding the image of Thad Vanderhei’s drowned face in my mind. When it felt right, I cut the deck three times and passed it back to my mom.
She turned over the first card, laying it in what would be the center of the spread:
La Calavera
, the skull.
“This is your victim.” Her gaze met mine. “I have a feeling this reading’s going to be pretty literal, sweetheart.”
I nodded. “Anything you can tell us might help.”
“The underlying influence.” Mom turned over the second card:
La Botella
, the bottle.
In his chair, Cody stirred. “Did you talk to her about the case?” he asked me.
“No!”
“Is there a bottle involved?” Mom asked.
Cody sighed. “I can’t comment on it.”
“
La Botella
could refer to any kind of substance abuse,” she said pragmatically. “Under the circumstances, I’d interpret it as referring to the victim, not the questioner. But if there’s an actual bottle, it means this reading
is
uncommonly literal, and you should pay close attention to the symbols themselves.”
He nodded. “Duly noted.”
She turned over a third card:
La Araña
, the spider. “The deeper cause. Your victim was drawn into someone’s web.”
I tried to recall whether there were any literal web spinners in the eldritch community. The myth of Ariadne came to mind, but wherever she lived, if she yet lived, it wasn’t anywhere near Pemkowet. I thought there might be some Native American myths about spiders, and made a mental note to visit the library or ask Mr. Leary about it. My old myth and lit teacher had retired a couple of years ago to dedicate himself to serious drinking, but he was still one of the best sources of arcane information I knew.
“The destination.” Mom turned over the fourth card:
Las Jaras
, the arrows. She frowned at it for a moment, then shook her head. “The arrows generally represent a goal, a target or ambition. It doesn’t tell us much in this context.”
“Unless the perp was a vampire,” Cody suggested, leaning over the table to study the cards, caught up despite himself. “You said to think literally, and an arrow’s pretty close to a wooden stake.” He flushed. “Ah . . . assuming, of course, that there
is
a perp. We’re a long way from making that conclusion.”
Mom smiled at him. “Don’t worry. All readings are strictly confidential.” She turned over the final card. “The culmination.”
It was
La Sirena
, the mermaid, but the card was upside down, or reversed, as actual tarot readers say.
“An alluring woman,” Mom murmured. “But she’s in distress.”
I touched the strand of freshwater pearls looped around my neck. “Could it be a naiad or an undine?”
“It’s possible.” She looked worried. “There’s something bad going on; that’s for sure, Daisy, baby.” She gathered up the cards, shuffled, and squared them, setting them back on the table. “I’m willing to try, if you’d like me to do a reading for you, Officer Fairfax, but the cards usually only get vaguer when they’re questioned twice on the same issue.”
He shook his head. “I’ll defer to the expert, but call me Cody.”
“Cody.” A hint of a smile returned to her blue eyes. “I’d be happy to do a reading on a more personal matter.”
He cut the deck and glanced at the uppermost card:
La Luna
, the moon. Of course, that would so totally be his significator. “Another time, maybe.”
Her smile deepened. “Anytime.”