Autumn Bones (Agent of Hel #2)

Autumn Bones (Agent of Hel #2) Page 3

Officer Mallick slumped against his patrol car looking dazed. “Oh, Jesus, fuck me. Fuck me sideways!”

“Bart!” Cody took him by the shoulders and gave him a shake. “Whatever happened in there? Not your fault. Right, Daisy?”

“Right,” I agreed. Total lie. There are rules governing the eldritch world, and one of them is that desire, genuine desire, can’t be compelled. Pleasure and infatuation, yes. But genuine desire? No. It’s like true love. “Everyone okay? I have to make a call.”

Cody eyed me suspiciously. “You’re not calling—”

My finger hovered above my phone’s screen. “Look, I told you that you wouldn’t like it.” I jerked my chin toward the door. “It would take all night to use dauda-dagr to escort everyone in there out here by ones and twos, and we still wouldn’t have any way to contain patient zero in there, or the first notion of why this is happening. Do you have a better idea, Officer Down-low?”

He shook his head, and I hit the CALL button.

Although I hadn’t talked to Stefan Ludovic in more than a month, he picked up immediately. “Daisy. What is it? Are you . . . all right?”

A wave of self-consciousness washed over me. Of course, Stefan would suspect. He was a ghoul, or as they call themselves, one of the Outcast, condemned for eternity to exist on the emotions of others. And because I’d given him permission to taste mine, he was attuned to them. He couldn’t have missed that giant preternatural spike of pure lust.

“Um . . . yeah, I’m fine, but we’ve got a situation. Do you have enough people you trust to defuse an orgy without losing control?”

Stefan didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be right there. You’re a mile or so to the north?”

“Rainbow’s End,” I confirmed. “Parking lot.”

“I’m on my way.”

Not that long ago, ghouls and biker gangs were two things I’d go out of my way to avoid. That was before Stefan Ludovic came to town. He’s done a lot to improve the image of the Outcasts, which, by the way, is the name of the biker gang—or motorcycle club, to use the polite terminology—to which most of the local ghouls belong, and related to but not entirely synonymous with being one of the Outcast. Okay, it’s confusing.

Anyway, after taking over Pemkowet as his turf, one of the first things Stefan did was issue a ban on selling drugs, particularly crystal meth. Since that had been a big component in establishing a cycle of human dependency and misery that sustained a lot of ghouls, what he did was actually pretty huge. Of course, it touched off a rebellion that led to a great deal of unpleasantness, but again, long story short, Stefan came through.

So why had I been avoiding him since? One, he held out an offer so tempting it scared me, a promise that he could show me ways to experience the full intensity of my super-size emotions without risk.

Two, I’d seen him die. And not just die—die and come back. That’s what happened with the Outcast. They’re condemned to the mortal plane because neither heaven nor hell would have them.

It’s complicated, and I don’t pretend to understand it. Even Hel—that’s Hel the goddess—admits it isn’t her purview. Different cosmologies and all. But the fact is, I watched a gunshot, crippled Stefan Ludovic impale himself on his own sword so he could die and come back whole and intact, and I’m still a little freaked out by it.

Nonetheless, when Stefan and five other bikers roared into the parking lot, I was glad to see them.

“Daisy Johanssen.” Stefan greeted me formally, removing his helmet. His ice-blue eyes caught the neon light. Did I mention that he was ridiculously good-looking? Consider it mentioned. He glanced toward the door of the nightclub, his pupils waxing large before shrinking to controlled pinpoints. “I think this no ordinary bacchanal. What passes within the nightclub?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But it seems to center on a naked eldritch dude with a huge schlong.”

Stefan frowned. “Could you identify him?” I shook my head. The eldritch always recognize one another, but we can’t necessarily put a name with that recognition. “I’ll have to see him for myself.”

“No ravening, right?” Cody interrupted him. “We don’t want to make the situation worse.”

Stefan’s gaze shifted to him. Without a word, he took in Cody’s disheveled hair and ripped-open uniform shirt. “No. No ravening, Officer.”

Ravening was what happened when a ghoul lost control. As far as I could tell, that never happened to Stefan.

“You vouch for your men?” Cody pressed.

Stefan hesitated. “Under ordinary circumstances, yes. But if you succumbed to the creature’s spell, we are also vulnerable.” His pupils waxed. “We do have ordinary mortal desires, too. How were you able to break free?”

“Dauda-dagr’s touch,” I said, showing him the blade. “But don’t ask me why.”

“Ah.” He nodded. “Death’s touch offsets the drive toward life. Perhaps you and I should investigate alone, Daisy. If we can contain the source, my men can assist with the others.”

His men stood silent behind him in the parking lot, pupils glittering. I recognized one of them, his loyal lieutenant Rafe. The others were either vaguely familiar or new to me, including a blond-haired boy who didn’t look older than seventeen. But among the eldritch, looks could be deceiving. For all I knew, he was centuries older than me.

“Hel’s liaison?” Stefan inquired courteously in his faint, unplaceable accent, inclining his head in my direction.

I took a deep breath, suddenly acutely aware that beneath the thin cotton of my tank top my nipples were still jutting and hard, and I could feel the thumping techno beat pulsing between my thighs. Nonetheless, I had a job to do.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do this.”

Three

Inside the bar, Stefan’s hand squeezed mine atop the dagger’s hilt as the funk hit us. Glancing at him, I saw his pupils zoom large, practically eclipsing his irises before dwindling to normal size.

No doubt. Dauda-dagr’s touch might mitigate the effect of the pheromones, but the waves of lust rolling off a hundred people making major sexy-time had to be pretty damn potent.

“You okay?” I asked him.

He nodded, his lips set in a hard line. “Where is he?”

I pointed with my free hand. “Dance floor.”

We picked our way across the crowded, teeming bar, doing our best not to step on anyone. The vortex of activity still swirled around the dance floor, and yep, there was the naked, grinning man, hands on his pumping hips as he received tribute from another eager admirer. At the risk of being totally rude, a part of me really hoped we were just talking blow jobs here, because if we weren’t, there could be some serious damage done.

“It’s a satyr,” Stefan murmured in my ear, his slightly too long black hair brushing my cheek. I shivered involuntarily at the sensation. Okay, I know the music was loud, but hot men whispering in my ear was not helping fight the funk. “I thought it might be, but I haven’t seen one in centuries.”

“Great,” I said. “What’s he doing here?”

“I don’t know,” Stefan said. “But he’s in rut.”

As a Michigan girl, I knew what that meant. Did you know male deer in rut can be dangerous to human women? Well, they can.

“Okay,” I said. “How do we get him out of rut?”

“I’m not sure.” He sounded apologetic. “But I fear it’s like ravening for us. There’s nothing to do but let it run its course.”

“Yeah, that’s not an option.” I gestured at the orgiastic sea. “This is not safe sex, Stefan. Can we use dauda-dagr to de-rut him?”

“No. But it may neutralize the effect long enough for us to establish control of this particular situation.” Stefan shifted. I wondered if his control was wearing thin. “If I may make a suggestion, I recommend that you call your patroness for advice before we make any attempt on the satyr.”

“Hel?” I asked. “She, uh, doesn’t exactly communicate using modern technology.”

He shook his head. “The lamia.”

Oh, right. Patroness was the sort of old-world terminology Stefan favored. As far as I was concerned, Lurine Hollister was my friend. Well, and my former babysitter. But she’d made it clear to Stefan that she considered me under her protection, which was okay by me. And it made sense. With an origin reaching back to ancient Greece, Lurine probably had experience with satyrs.

There was no point in trying to make a call in the nightclub. Stefan and I beat a hasty retreat back to the parking lot.

“Well?” Cody gave me an inquiring look.

“He’s a satyr,” I informed him. “And he’s in rut.”

“How do we get him out of rut?”

“Good question.” I sheathed my dagger and took out my phone. “Hopefully, I’m consulting an expert.”

Just when I was starting to fear my call was going to voice mail, Lurine picked up. “Hey, cupcake. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Lurine, we’ve got a problem. We’ve got a satyr in rut here.”

“Really?” Her voice took on a note of surprised delight. “How fun!”

“No, not fun! This isn’t some woodland romp with horny nymphs, Lurine. He’s set off an orgy over at Rainbow’s End. A human orgy! We’re talking public health hazard, massive PR nightmare, possible lawsuits!”

“Okay, okay,” Lurine said mildly. “Keep your shirt on, baby girl. What do you want me to do? Take him off your hands?”

I tugged self-consciously at my tank top, which I had in fact not kept entirely on so far tonight. “What I want is to find a way to contain . . . wait, you can do that?”

“Do what?”

“Take him off our hands?”