My tail twitched with alarm . . . and a sort of kindred recognition.
At a glance, he looked normal. Average height, early thirties, a decent build. Good-looking in a GQ sort of way, with a summer-weight suit that looked expensive and short, stylish light brown hair in a hundred-dollar haircut.
But his eyes were black, as black as mine. Ordinary mortals don’t have truly black eyes. A brown so dark it looks black, yes. Not the kind of black where the only way you can differentiate between the iris and the pupil is that the iris doesn’t admit light.
And there was a smell, like a whiff of sulfur . . . only not really a smell. More like a bad taste lingering in my mouth, like I’d eaten something rancid. Only that wasn’t right either. It wasn’t a sense I could put a name to.
Anyway, he was definitely a hell-spawn. And I suspected that, unlike me, he had claimed his birthright.
Now that was a scary thought.
I held my breath, half expecting to feel the Inviolate Wall tremble and threaten the architecture of existence.
But it didn’t. The man inhaled briefly, his nostrils flaring, his black eyes curious. Even without seeing, I could tell his own tail was swishing back and forth beneath his well-tailored linen-blend trousers.
And then he left, striding out the door.
I let out my breath and eased my hand out of my messenger bag. I’d been reaching for dauda-dagr without realizing it.
Oblivious to it all, Stacey gazed after him in a reverie. “See, that’s the kind of guy I’m looking for,” she murmured. “We need more like him in Pemkowet.”
Yeah, right.
Ignoring her, I admitted myself into Amanda Brooks’s office. She was seated at her desk, but her chair was swiveled to allow her to gaze at the river, and she didn’t turn around when I took a seat opposite her.
“Ms. Brooks?” I cleared my throat. “Daisy Johanssen. You wanted to see me?”
“Oh . . . right. Yes, of course.” Her reply sounded absentminded. She spun her chair around slowly. There was a vagueness to her usually keen features. “I’m sorry, Daisy. What was it again?”
My skin still felt prickly. “Ms. Brooks, who was that guy? What did he want?”
She blinked behind the lenses of chic glasses that probably cost more than I made in a month. “Who?”
I concentrated my gaze on her. “That guy! The one who just left.”
“Mr. Dufreyne? Oh, he’s a lawyer. He was just inquiring on behalf of a client about purchasing some lands that have been in the Cavannaugh family for generations.” Her expression began to swim into focus. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Cavannaughs are one of the original founding families. It’s my maiden name, of course.”
“Of course.” I echoed her. “Whatever he was asking, you didn’t agree to it, did you?”
“No.” Amanda Brooks frowned. “You know, the Cavannaughs were here before there was a Pemkowet. We trace our ancestry back to the lumber days of Singapore.” She glanced toward the river, her expression veering back toward uncertainty. “I can’t imagine why I’d even entertain the idea.”
“Don’t,” I said bluntly. “I’ve got a bad feeling about that guy. Whatever he wants, don’t give it to him.”
Under ordinary circumstances, Amanda Brooks would have reacted with indignation if I’d dared to speak to her that way. Today, she simply cleared her throat. “Yes, well. As I said, I can’t imagine why I would.” Her gaze sharpened to its usual level of piercingness. “Now, about this orgy—”
Back on track, the infernal cobwebs cleared away, she delivered a scathing fifteen-minute diatribe on public health hazards, risks, liabilities, negative publicity, and my general irresponsibility in allowing such a thing to occur. I was relieved enough to see her back in form that I just sat and nodded in agreement, waiting for the tongue-lashing to end before explaining what had happened at Rainbow’s End and promising to do my utmost to ensure that nothing like it ever happened again.
As soon as she was finished, I beat a quick retreat. In the lobby, Stacey gave me the traditional Pemkowet High mean girls farewell, flashing devil horns at me with her right hand. Since she wasn’t on the phone, she stuck out her tongue, too.
Nice.
On the off chance that he ever asked her out, I debated telling her that the GQ-looking lawyer was a hell-spawn.
I decided against it.
Seven
Having faced down the dragon in her den, I went to the station to write up a report on the orgy. Since I was there, the desk clerk, Patty Rogan, gave me a stack of yesterday’s reports to file.
I browsed through them first, looking for signs of eldritch involvement. That’s how I had come by my unique role in the department in the first place, which led to Hel’s invitation to serve as her liaison to mundane authorities. Nothing jumped out at me in the first few reports—a minor fender bender, an altercation outside a bar, a citation for public urination—but the fourth one intrigued me. Some irate tourists had come in to file a complaint about being pickpocketed after playing a shell game that a pair of kids was running on the dock.
“Did you take this one?” I asked Patty. “The shell game?”
“Yeah.” She smiled. “I thought that one might interest you. There are a couple of others like it.”
I flipped through the paperwork and found them. In all three instances, the complainant had won money at the shell game, only to find nothing but dry, brittle leaves in his or her wallet afterward. “Anyone check it out?”
Patty nodded. “Oh, sure, but the kids running the game were long gone.” She raised her eyebrows. “If they were kids in the first place.”
“Right.” Since I’d been going through the files, other members of the department had gotten more savvy about spotting eldritch signs. The dead leaves were a dead giveaway. “Give me a call if you get another complaint.”
“Will do.”
I took a stroll down the dock anyway. No sign of the kids this morning, but I stopped by a few of the restaurants and bars along the river and asked the managers to call me if the kids returned. My phone buzzed with a reply from Jen, offering to meet me for lunch at Callahan’s Café at twelve thirty. After sending a confirmation, I swung by the Sisters of Selene, Pemkowet’s local occult store, to pick the Fabulous Casimir’s brain.
Technically, I guess Casimir is a drag queen, although his cross-dressing has to do with the shamanic tradition, too. Either way, he cuts an imposing figure. He’s over six feet tall without the wig, and the towering Marie Antoinette number he was sporting today put him closer to seven.
He caught my eye as I entered. I waited patiently while he finished ringing up a purchase and the store emptied for a moment.
“Hey, Miss Daisy.” Casimir fussed with a display of charmed crystals that the last batch of tourists had disturbed. “Whatever went down at Rainbow’s End last night, I hope you know none of my people were involved.” He gave a little shiver. “From what I heard, that was no love spell.”
“No, I know,” I said. “It was a satyr.”
“A satyr?”
“A satyr in rut,” I clarified. “Any thoughts?”
Casimir’s lips pursed. “I deal in magic, not mythological beasties.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about obeah? That’s a kind of magic, right? Do you know anything about it?”
His long-fingered hands went still. “Not really, dahling, no. It’s a little outside my geographic purview.” Beneath heavy makeup and false eyelashes, his eyes were shrewd. “Mind if I ask why? Because I don’t think that had anything to do with the shenanigans at the club last night.”