Yeah, it definitely could have gone worse.
Over the course of the following day, I jotted down notes on promises or threats I’d made since I’d conceived the notion of a ledger—notes like “Tuggle the hobgoblin + 3 unnamed associates, one warning for cheating tourists w/ a shell game,” and “Jojo (nickname) the joe-pye weed fairy, one big favor owed for identifying a hex-charm created by Emmeline Palmer,” as well as important save-the-date notices like “Labor Day Weekend 2024: Satyr Nicodemus goes into rut. MUST BE CONTAINED.”
Feeling inspired, I talked to Chief Bryant about letting me borrow the hard copies of the Pemkowet X-Files. Those files had a lot of good data in them.
The chief agreed readily, shrugging his heavy shoulders. “Why not? Those reports don’t exist as part of the official record. It’s always been your brainchild, Daisy. Not that I don’t see the merit in it,” he added. “But no reason you shouldn’t utilize them.”
“Thanks, sir,” I said.
He nodded. “Anything else?”
“Actually, yes.” I hadn’t forgotten about Hel’s charge. “Have you heard anything about this lawyer who’s been talking to people in town about selling off big tracts of undeveloped land?”
Chief Bryant frowned. “Ducheyne? Dufreyne?”
I nodded. “Something like that.”
He leaned back, folding his arms behind his head, his desk chair creaking. “I’ve heard a few things. I heard this lawyer fellow talked Bob Ballister into selling a plot along the channel he bought back in the seventies and clung to like a limpet ever since. Bob was planning to build and retire there if a road ever went through.” His shrewd, sleepy gaze slewed in my direction. “Though that doesn’t seem likely at this point.”
“A road, you mean?” I asked.
“Mm-hmm.” He nodded. “Unless a big developer was involved.”
“How big?”
“Big.”
I thought about it. A plague of McMansions along the lakeshore notwithstanding, Pemkowet wasn’t about big development. We had zoning laws in place to preserve the character of the place. Hell, we were the only small town in the Midwest that had managed to keep McDonald’s at bay. “Any idea who’s behind this Dufreyne?”
The chief shook his head. “Nope. Why?”
“Hel’s expressed concern.”
“Huh.” His gaze sharpened. “I wonder what would concern a goddess, exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’ll tell you one thing—that lawyer’s not human. He’s, um, a hell-spawn.”
“Like you?”
“No.” I couldn’t blame him for saying it when I’d said the same thing myself. “I think he might have some kind of power of persuasion. I think he’s claimed his, um, demonic birthright.”
Chief Bryant glanced upward involuntarily, as though the Inviolate Wall were a visible sphere around us. “Isn’t that supposed to be capable of unleashing you-know-what?”
“Yeah,” I said. “At least that’s what I was always told. I don’t know. There’s something weird about the whole thing.”
“You’re right.” He unfolded his arms. “I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it myself. I’ll poke around and let you know what I find out.”
“Thanks,” I said. “And if you hear Dufreyne’s been talking to anyone else, tell me. I know he was talking to Amanda Brooks about the Cavannaugh property.”
“Are you kidding?” The chief snorted. “That property’s been in her family forever. She wouldn’t sell in a million years. The Cavannaughs are one of the founding families, don’t you know? They’ve been here since before the sand swallowed Singapore. Hell, if the legends are true, it was a Cavannaugh that took down Talman Brannigan in the middle of his rampage. I’m surprised Amanda didn’t refuse to take her husband’s name when she got married.”
“She was thinking about it. Selling, I mean,” I clarified. I had no idea what Amanda Brooks thought about taking her husband’s name.
He blinked. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I came in just as he was leaving. She looked . . . unfocused. When I asked about it, she said she couldn’t imagine why she even entertained the idea. I told her not to trust the guy, that I had a bad feeling about him.”
“And she listened to you?”
“She seemed to.” I shrugged. “It seemed to clear away the cobwebs, anyway.”
“But you don’t have powers of persuasion, right?” Chief Bryant asked. “No offense, Daisy. I just mean . . .” His voice trailed off, sounding embarrassed.
“It’s okay.” I smiled wryly. “No, no powers of persuasion, sir. Don’t worry, I haven’t claimed my birthright. To be honest, I don’t know why it worked. Maybe Dufreyne’s ability is more like a power of suggestion. Maybe it takes time to work, and I just happened to be there at the right moment to nip it in the bud. Maybe two hell-spawns cancel each other out no matter what. I don’t know.”
The chief’s face softened into an expression of paternal worry. “That can’t be easy, being an enigma to yourself half the time.”
Damn. Again with the unexpected surge of gratitude. My eyes stung a little. “Thank you,” I murmured. “It’s not.”
“All right.” He planted his hands on the desk with a meaty thud. “I’ll put the word out. Anyone talking to Dufreyne should talk to you. Anything else? Where are we with this obeah woman situation?”
I cleared my throat. “On it, sir. The local coven is meeting with Sinclair this Saturday evening to discuss strategy.”
“Good.” He paused. “I have to admit, I don’t actually know who’s in this coven. Do you?”
“Other than the Fabulous Casimir? No,” I said. “Not for sure. But I look forward to finding out.”
Twenty-four
Late on Saturday afternoon, I got a call from Cody.
“Hey there, Pixy Stix.” Even over the phone, his voice had a hint of a low rumble that would have made me feel tingly if I weren’t so annoyed by the nickname. “Are you busy tonight?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I have an appointment at seven. Why?”
“I have to pay a visit to Twilight Manor,” he said. “I thought it might be a good idea to have Hel’s liaison riding shotgun.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a sixteen-year-old girl who went to a poetry slam at the coffee shop and never came home last night.” All traces of humor vanished from his voice. “Witnesses say she left with someone who sounds a lot like Bethany Cassopolis.”
“Shit.” That was Jen’s blood-slut sister. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. I checked with the Cassopolises and they haven’t heard from her since she went back to her vamp boyfriend,” Cody said. “I stopped out at the manor, but it’s locked up tight during daylight hours. Their minions won’t even answer the door and they’ve got a state-of-the-art security system. Can you reschedule?”
“Not really. But sunset’s not until a little after eight. Can I call you when my meeting’s over?”
He hesitated. “I’ll give you until eight thirty. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll go it alone.”
I didn’t like that idea. “I’ll make sure I’m out by then.”
“Good. Call me.” He hung up.
Of course, I immediately called Jen to see if she knew anything. She didn’t have any idea why Bethany would be picking up stray teens at the coffee shop, but she had the lowdown on the missing girl already—Heather Simkus, moody, isolated loner, alleged to be a serious cutter.
In other words, perfect vampire fodder.
I hadn’t planned on attending the coven’s meeting in agent-of-Hel working attire, but this put a different spin on the evening. When the time came, I opted for jeans instead of a nice skirt, and buckled dauda-dagr around my waist. For good measure, I hauled out a motorcycle jacket I bought at Goodwill, one of my all-time best thrift store finds. And yeah, okay, it’s black leather, but it’s not a duster. I don’t care how cool it looked in Blade or The Matrix, no one in their right mind would choose to fight in a duster. There’s just too much damn material. My jacket, on the other hand, is fitted and has a high collar that makes it perfect for calling on vampires. After my last visit to the House of Shadows, I’d take any extra ounce of protection I could get.
A bit before seven, I drove out to Sinclair’s place to pick him up.
It was the first time we’d seen each other since the breakup, and there was a moment of awkwardness on the doorstep while we both tried to figure out if we were supposed to hug or play it cool.
Then Sinclair broke into a broad grin. “Damn, sistah! You look like you’re ready to kick ass and take numbers. You expecting trouble?”
I smiled back at him. “No, something else has come up. I have to leave by quarter after eight or so.”
He slung a friendly arm over my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “Then let’s roll.”
The Fabulous Casimir lived in a charming Arts-and-Crafts-style bungalow in East Pemkowet, nestled under pine trees on a bluff with a distant view of the river. Casimir met us at the door in a brocade dressing gown and matching gold satin head scarf tied in an elaborate bow at the nape of his neck.
“You must be Sinclair Palmer,” he said, extending one manicured hand. “Enchanté, my dear. A pleasure to finally meet you. We all appreciate the business your little tour brings into town.”
“Thank you.” Sinclair shook his hand. “I appreciate your meeting with me.”
“Of course.” Casimir glanced in my direction. “Thanks for bringing Sinclair, Daisy. I’m sure one of our members can give him a ride home.”
