Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1)

Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1) Page 24

“I guess.”

“Have you looked into other possible interpretations?” he asked.

“I meant to,” I admitted. “No time.”

“I know.” Cody lowered his voice. “As long as we’re being honest, you didn’t mean me, did you? In the parking lot?” he added when I looked at him with confusion. “When you said you weren’t entirely without defenses?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so.” From his mild tone, he took no offense. “What, then?”

Opening my satchel, I showed him the gleaming, rune-etched length of dauda-dagr, its keen edges already fraying the satin lining. “Hel gave me a weapon last night,” I said. “Its name means ‘death day.’ It can kill the undead. She thought I should have it.”

Cody sucked in his breath, phosphorescent green flashing behind his eyes. “Because you’ll need it?”

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

He stared at it. “Daisy, do you have the first idea how to handle an edged weapon?”

My tail twitched with indignation. “I have a general idea. After all, it’s pointy, right?”

He exhaled hard. “Okay. Later this evening, we’re going to have a little lesson.” His tone turned firm. “No arguments, all right?”

“All right,” I agreed.

Nineteen

I spent the afternoon catching up on a backlog of filing, skimming the reports for any telltale signs of eldritch involvement. As far as I could tell, all was quiet on that front. The community was lying low.

A little after three o’clock, there was a commotion on the block outside the station, a flurry of excited shrieks and gasps.

“What the hell’s going on out there?” the chief called from his office.

Patty and I exchanged a glance. “I’ll go take a look,” I volunteered, jumping at the chance to take a break from filing.

The source of the commotion turned out to be none other than the head ghoul himself. Stefan and two other members of the Outcasts had parked their motorcycles halfway down the block, and were approaching the station on foot.

That was why the tourists were shrieking. I couldn’t blame them. There was no mistaking the trio for human. It was a bona fide eldritch sighting. In broad daylight, the underlying ghoul pallor was more pronounced, and an otherworldly aura that even an untrained mundane could recognize surrounded them.

Especially Stefan. And I realized, watching him walk down the sidewalk like a victorious warrior returning from battle, that I didn’t respond differently to him just because he was gorgeous.

He was different. Lurine had said he was old. Maybe it was age that had slowly altered him, turning the dull and creepy carbon of a ghoul like Al the Walrus into something hard-edged and glittering, like a scary diamond.

Okay, a bit of a mixed metaphor, but you get the idea.

At any rate, the tourists continued to point and exclaim and take photos. Courtesy of the misapprehensions of popular culture, I heard the word vampire thrown around with delight. Vampires in daylight? Trust me, it does not happen.

Ignoring the tourists, Stefan halted in front of the station to greet me, inclining his head. “Miss Johanssen.”

I couldn’t help but notice that his chest rose and fell as he took a slow, patient breath. Unlike vampires, for example, Stefan lived and breathed. For a being whose entire existence was predicated on some kind of complicated spiritual loophole, he seemed very physically present. Very much there, very much alive. There was actual blood beating in his veins. And I could not help but be very, very aware of it. So aware it made my skin tingle.

I tried not to think of the Seven Deadlies, especially lust. Which was hard to do, what with the tingling and all.

“Um . . . hi. You can call me Daisy,” I said. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes, of course.” He nodded toward the station’s front door. “I have come to report. May we go inside?”

“You came in person?” I asked.

Stefan raised his brows. “You are Hel’s liaison. Proper protocol requires more than a phone call.”

The crowd was beginning to get bigger, so I ushered Stefan and his . . . his lieutenants, I guess, into the precinct. At the front desk, Patty stared, openmouthed. The chief poked his head out of his office, but he withdrew with a shrug when I waved him off.

I closed the front door. “So what’s up?”

“I wish to notify you that Al has been secured and is under guard,” Stefan said in a formal tone. “When the ravening has passed, you will be informed. As I said, it is best you avoid contact with him.”

“As I said, not a problem.”

One corner of his mouth lifted, a dimple forming in the crease. Oh, crap. “These are my lieutenants.” He indicated the two ghouls with him. Got the terminology right—yay for me. “Rafe and Johnny. If ever you do encounter a problem and I am unavailable, they can be trusted.”

“Hi,” I said to them.

They nodded in reply. Rafe looked like he might be part Native American, with black hair, a pale coppery hue to his skin, and dark eyes that should have partially hidden the wax-and-wane ghoul effect, but somehow didn’t. Johnny had long, sandy-blond hair caught back in a ponytail and an expression that might have been congenial if it weren’t for the dilated pupils glittering in his eyes.

Avid, but in control. Still, it made my skin stop tingling, giving way to the creepy-crawlies.

“I spoke to Jerry.” Stefan withdrew a folded piece of paper from a pocket inside his leather vest. “After some questioning, he admitted to having given the boys Ray D’s phone number.”

My pulse quickened. “Did he say why?”

All three ghouls’ pupils dilated further. Uh-oh. Best not to get too excited around these guys. Stefan’s contracted pretty quickly. “He claimed the boys were looking to score.”

The word score sounded oddly anachronistic coming from him. “Meth?”

His jaw hardened. “Yes. He claimed he merely gave them the number to get rid of them, knowing that I disapproved of such matters being discussed on the premises and that Ray D hadn’t been seen for months.”

“Did you believe him?” I asked.

“No. But I cannot disprove it.” The words were clipped; I think the admission cost him. “Not without resorting to means outside the law, which I am loath to do under the current level of scrutiny. And as a human, he is under the jurisdiction of your mundane authorities, not mine.”

“Ray D’s one of yours,” I observed.

“Theoretically, yes.” Stefan inclined his head in acknowledgment. “And I will continue to search for him. But I cannot even confirm that he remains in Pemkowet.” He handed me the folded paper. “The telephone number Jerry provided me goes unanswered. Assuming it is valid, I trust your people can trace it.”

Not my area of expertise, but I certainly hoped so. Unfolding the paper, I saw a phone number written in a precise, blocky hand with the sort of penmanship you just didn’t see in this century. Beneath it, the bartender Jerry Dunham’s name and home address were written in the same hand.

I glanced up inquiringly.

“I dismissed him from his position,” Stefan said in answer to my unspoken question. A look of distaste flitted across his face. “But I thought you might wish to know where to find him.”

“Thanks.”

His expression eased, and he smiled. “You’re welcome . . . Daisy.” His smile widened a little. Gah! Ghouls weren’t supposed to have dimples. “If I learn anything further, I will contact you.”

“Thanks,” I said again. “I appreciate it.”

“Have you given thought to my offer?” he asked me.

“Your offer?” Belatedly, I remembered Stefan telling me at the Wheelhouse that I could benefit from the assistance of a skilled and compassionate ghoul, that I could experience my emotions safely. It was appallingly tempting. A hot flush ran over me. “Jesus!” I lowered my voice. “Do you know what I am?”

Stefan’s face was grave. “Yes. At first I was not sure. But I made inquiries. Your story is known.”

I waved one impatient hand at the ceiling, at the invisible presence of the Inviolate Wall far, far above it. “Then you know what’s at stake?”

He arched that eyebrow. “You are what you are, Daisy. In and of itself, passion is no sin. It is deeds that matter in the end.”

“What deed did you commit?” I asked him. “For heaven and hell alike to reject you?”

He was silent.

Behind him, his lieutenants shifted from foot to foot, glancing uneasily at each other with waxing-and-waning eyes.

I winced. “Sorry. We don’t know each other well enough to ask that, do we?”

“No.” Stefan Ludovic accorded me a courtly little bow. “But it was I who overstepped the bounds of propriety first. It’s just . . .” His nostrils flared and his pupils dilated, then shrank to highly controlled pinpoints. “Forgive me?”

I nodded.

He bowed again. “My thanks.”

With that, the trio of ghouls took their leave, lieutenants Rafe and Johnny falling in behind their commander. I waited, listening for the inevitable shrieks of the tourists followed by the coughing roar of three Harley-Davidson motorcycles being kicked to life, throttles open, chugging out of town.

“Damn!” Behind the front desk, Patty Rogan fanned herself. “What have you gotten yourself into, Daisy Jo?”

“Trouble,” I said briefly. “Okay if I clock out for the day, Patty? I’ve got some research to do.”

She made a face. “Go ahead.”

I called Detective Wilkes and left a voice-mail message for him with Ray D’s purported phone number.

I studied the autopsy report, and confirmed that the tox screen of Thad Vanderhei’s blood didn’t turn up anything but alcohol. No methamphetamines, no drugs of any kind.

Okay, so maybe they didn’t score. Or maybe if Jerry the bartender was lying, he was lying about the meth, too. The Tritons had a reputation as a hard-partying fraternity, but crystal meth wasn’t exactly a common collegiate drug, especially at a conservative place like Van Buren College.