Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1)

Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1) Page 31

Since the service was beginning, I heeded.

It was long and painful. No matter what Thad Vanderhei may have done, he was a young man cut down in the prime of his youth, and those who had known and loved him were grieving deeply. I sat and listened while his family and members of the community offered tributes, painting a portrait of a daring, adventurous, high-spirited boy who had lived life a little too recklessly and paid the ultimate price for it.

As I listened, I scanned the crowd for any twinge or tingle of eldritch presence, but the only two beings present who weren’t fully human were me and the ghoul beside me, who sat motionless with half-closed eyes and sifted through the mourners’ grief, breathing slowly and deeply, his lips slightly parted.

When it was over, the family exited the chapel for the reception room, the crowd following slowly, the chief among them.

As the last mourner passed us, Stefan opened his eyes. “Do you wish to pay your respects to the family?”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” Beyond the door came the sound of raised voices. Curiosity and prudence warred in me, curiosity scoring a swift victory. “Hang on; let’s just see what’s going on.”

Stefan followed me past the threshold of the reception room, where we found an ugly confrontation between Chief Bryant and Jim Vanderhei in progress, the latter stabbing at the chief’s broad chest with one indignant finger.

“You’ve got a hell of a lot of nerve showing up here!” the victim’s father was saying, his patrician face flushed with fury.

The chief raised his hands. “Mr. Vanderhei, I assure you, I’m here out of the utmost respect to convey—”

“To convey what? More lies and evasion?”

“Our investigation—”

“I don’t give a damn about your investigation!” Spittle flew from Jim Vanderhei’s mouth. “Your town killed my son!”

There were a disturbing number of amens and righteous murmurs of agreement.

A surge of anger rose in me, fierce and irrational, with no regard for the grief that fueled the ugliness. I fought to suppress it, but my nerves were strung too tight. Even the effort made my fury slip further out of my grasp, spiraling out of control. My hair lifted with static electricity, and the scent of ozone crept into the room as the air pressure tightened. I could see the chief glance around uneasily. A framed portrait of Thad Vanderhei rattled on its easel, and a montage of photos tacked to a display panel began fluttering around the edges.

Sue Vanderhei let out a piercing wail.

Oh, crap!

If I was outed as a hell-spawn with anger-management issues at Thad Vanderhei’s funeral, Pemkowet’s reputation might never recover from it. For sure it would be the end of Chief Bryant’s career.

“Daisy.” Stefan laid one hand on my shoulder, turning me toward him. His pupils dilated like dark moons. “I can help if you will allow me. Do you permit it?”

“Yes!” I gave him a frantic nod. “Hurry!”

It was nothing like it had been with Al. Stefan took another slow, deep breath, and I felt my violent emotions spill out of me, to be swallowed in the boundless depths of his ancient yearning, a transaction tempered with discipline honed by centuries of practice. It was incredibly intimate without being in the least invasive. I consented and he accepted, and yet, it went both ways, too. The pressure surrounding me eased softly, gently, the tightly wound coil of anger unspooling into the cool, still place that was Stefan Ludovic.

It felt . . . good.

I can’t explain it. It was like my anger was a raging fever, and Stefan’s essence was a cold, deep well that quenched it. Or maybe a nuclear reactor, and . . . whatever cools down nuclear reactors. I could sense an echo of his pleasure, of the sustenance he took from the exchange, vibrating between us. I had the feeling that if it went on long enough, I could get lost in the reflected sensations, like staring into one of those infinity mirrors. At the same time, I felt safe. Protected, at peace.

His pupils shrank to pinpoints, and he gave the faintest of shudders. I think it was good for him, too. “Better?”

I nodded again. “Much. Thank you.”

Stefan’s hand tightened on my shoulder. “I think it would be for the best if we left. Do you agree?”

The portrait on its easel was quiet, the photo montage still once more. But people were beginning to talk in hushed tones about witchcraft, supernatural doings, and Thad Vanderhei’s restless ghost.

“Definitely.”

Twenty-four

Outside Cuypers and Sons funeral home, Stefan offered to buy me a cup of coffee.

“You’re serious?” I asked him. “Coffee?”

“Is that not the convention of the day?” He raised his eyebrows. “We should talk, Hel’s liaison.”

I ran my hands over my face. Now that the moment had passed, I felt acutely aware of the unique intimacy Stefan and I had just shared. “Okay. Yeah, sure. Meet me down at Callahan’s Café.”

Approximately twenty minutes later, he did, roaring into town on his Harley-Davidson.

At this hour of the afternoon, Callahan’s was quiet. Stefan slid into the farthest corner booth opposite me.

Even with the glamour lending him human semblance, dimming his aura and his ridiculous good looks, he was eye-catching. Tina, the waitress on duty, hastened to bring him a brimming mug of coffee.

Stefan sipped it. “Dear God. This is dreadful.”

“I know.” I poured creamer into mine. “But the refills are free. Did you learn anything today?”

“No.” He took another tentative sip. “No, I’m afraid not. Did you?”

“No.” I wrapped both hands around my mug, determined to keep this on a professional level. “Not there. But we spoke to Jerry Dunham. He wasn’t very cooperative, but he’s got a whole lot of fancy motorcycles he shouldn’t be able to afford. And it looks like the two of you turned up in Pemkowet around the same time, which is also the same time Ray D disappeared. Quite a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Stefan blew on the surface of his coffee. “You don’t trust me?”

“I don’t know you,” I said. “I don’t know anything about you.”

“Untrue,” he said. “You trusted me today. Did I give you cause to regret it, Daisy?”

I shrugged. “Desperate times, desperate measures.”

His ice-blue eyes gazed at me with disconcerting directness. “Very well, Hel’s liaison. What do you desire to know?”

“Ever been to Seattle?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “I haven’t had the pleasure.”

“So you’d never met Jerry before?”

“No. He was already employed at the Wheelhouse when I arrived.” He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug. “I had no previous cause to dismiss him.”

“Did you have anything to do with Ray D’s disappearance?” I asked.

“No.” Stefan’s tone took on an edge of asperity. “In fact, I’m quite perishingly weary of being questioned about someone I’ve never met.”

“Your territory, your responsibility,” I reminded him. “How about Mary Sudbury?”

He blinked. “Who?”

I stirred my coffee. “Remember the undines said there were two ghouls in the boat that dumped the body? One male and one female? Apparently, she’s Ray D’s lady love. Something none of your fellows have seen fit to divulge thus far.”

Something subtle altered in his expression. “He’s in love with another ghoul?”

“So it seems,” I said. “Does it matter?”

“It changes things.” Following my lead, Stefan stirred creamer into his coffee, frowning. “Two ghouls, as you call us, two of our kind cannot sustain each other. For both to attempt to feed on each other, it creates . . .” He gestured absently with his plastic stir stick. “I believe the term your modern science accords it is a closed feedback loop. Call it emotional cannibalism if you like. Ultimately, it is an unsustainable system.”

Okay, now we were getting somewhere. “So what’s the fix?” I asked him. “An outside source, right?”

“Yes.”

“Like killing a mortal boy?”

Stefan shook his head. “I told you before, Daisy. There is no sustenance to be gained from the dead. A pair of ghouls in love would require a sustainable source of emotion.”

“Like what? Some kind of hostage?”

“Possibly,” he admitted. “Have there been reports of missing persons in recent months?”

“No.” I blew out my breath. “Okay, how about Dr. Midnight’s Traveling Sideshow. Ever heard of it?”

His face was blank and innocent. “No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

I studied him. “Okay, here’s an easy one for you. I get the impression ghoul isn’t exactly a polite term. So what should I call you?”

It startled a faint smile from him. “Over the ages, there have been many names for our kind. Ghoul is among the less flattering, but it is the term that has endured. In truth, there are far too many of those among us deserving of the name. You may as well continue to use it.”

“What do you call yourself?” I pressed him.

Avoiding my gaze, Stefan pondered the depths of his coffee mug. His black hair was no longer bound in a clasp, and it swung forward to obscure his features with a perfection an anime illustrator would have envied. “Outcast,” he murmured. “I number myself among the Outcast.”

I was pretty sure he wasn’t talking about the biker gang. There were a lot of emotions behind the words, all of them intense, all of them held fast with steely discipline in that cool, still place inside him. I knew because I’d caught a glimpse of it, and my emotions were still resonating like a tuning fork. Which, frankly, unnerved me a little. I fought the urge to stroke a lock of hair back from his temple and focused on the issues at hand. “Stefan, who are you and where did you come from? Why are you here? I don’t mean to overstep my boundaries, but I’m trying to figure out what the hell brought you to Pemkowet.”