Holding dauda-dagr in a reverse grip, I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead. “Police business. I need you to step back and clear this space, sir.”
“Huh?” He blinked at me, the glaze only semi-clearing. Either the effect of the funk was stronger this close to the satyr or gym boy was under the influence of something else. Or both.
I touched dauda-dagr’s tip to his bare chest. “Step back.”
With a pained hiss, he did. If that’s what it took, fine. I stole a quick look at the satyr, who appeared oblivious to my intervention, happily grinning and thrusting away. Prying the lid off the plastic tub of lime-flavored salt, I made a circle around him and his current tribute-giver, tilting the tub to pour out a stream of salt with one hand and using dauda-dagr to clear space with the other.
Luckily, once the salt was poured it seemed to keep the orgiasts at bay, and it clung firmly to the dance floor, which was slick with viscous fluid. Yeah, that’s pretty much a straight-up “Ew!” I left a gap in front of the satyr and his partner and retraced my steps, using the point of the dagger to draw a line through the salt.
Sometimes it’s better to act than think, and doing what it would take to close the circle was definitely one of those times. Holding dauda-dagr and the salt tub awkwardly in one hand, I wrapped my free arm around the waist of the guy kneeling before the satyr and executed a sort of half-assed hip throw on him.
It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. I didn’t spend four years in Mr. Rodriguez’s Li’l Dragonz Tae Kwon Do classes for nothing.
The satyr looked down at me, his grin faltering briefly. It returned as he took a step in my direction, his erection glistening obscenely as it bobbed above me. As strange as it may sound, it was also weirdly hypnotic.
Tearing my gaze away, I used the last of the salt to close the circle, dragging the point of the dagger through the ridge of lurid green crystals to seal it.
Done.
The effect of the funk didn’t vanish, but it began to dissipate. I could feel the level of sexual tension start to ratchet down. I scrambled to my feet and faced the satyr. Looking perplexed, he reached out one bare foot to test the salt line with his toe, then withdrew it to consider his next move.
I had a suspicion the circle wasn’t going to hold him for long. I held up my left hand palm outward to show him the rune written there: Ansuz, the rune of the messenger, indicating that I was Hel’s liaison between the worlds. Mortals couldn’t see it, but the satyr could.
If it meant anything to him, I couldn’t tell. So I showed him the dagger instead. He tilted his head from side to side, the sinews of his neck tightening visibly.
“Look,” I said to him, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need you to stay put for a few minutes. Okay?”
The satyr reached out one toe.
“No!” I shifted into a defensive posture. “I need you to stay! Do you speak English? Do you understand?”
The satyr met my gaze. His eyes were dark and deep and wild. Moving with slow deliberation, he reached for his super-size erection, wrapped his fist around it, and began to pump.
Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure that meant “Yes.”
Four
As soon as the satyr consented to his containment, I called Stefan.
The head ghoul and his posse entered the nightclub with si- lent efficiency, spreading out to circle the perimeter just as the orgiasts were emerging from their collective stupor.
From a ghoulish perspective, it must have been a freaking smorgasbord of emotions: lust, chagrin, confusion, shock, outrage . . . I couldn’t even begin to imagine. Okay, that’s another lie. Actually, I could. It was just better if I didn’t.
The ghouls’ glittering eyes were half-closed in the dim light as they siphoned off a measure of every emotion, rendering the balance bearable.
As for the satyr, his eyes were half-lidded, too, and there was a faint smile on his lips as he stood in the ring of lime-green salt and continued to stroke himself with lazy pleasure. I’d always thought satyrs were sort of half goat, half man, but this guy was more or less human in form, the less being the tufted ears that poked out of his hair and the long, luxuriant horsehair tail that jutted out above his buttocks.
Beneath my skirt, my far more modest tail gave a sympathetic twitch. You had to give the guy credit for just putting it out there. Like, literally out there. In a way, I envied him. His urge to rut was tied to the natural world. Oh sure, giving in to it might touch off an inadvertent orgy, but at least it didn’t threaten to blow a hole in the Inviolate Wall.
I guess there might be something ironic in the idea of a prime mover in the drive toward life ending up in a gay nightclub, but I suspect that the satyr was simply drawn toward the biggest locus of desire in town. I’d felt the effect of the funk, and although fertility and procreation might be by-products, that wasn’t what it was about. Even in containment, the satyr radiated a joyful vitality, a vibrant celebration of sex for the sake of sex, for the sheer, unmitigated, nasty, down-and-dirty pleasure of it.
Which I had been very close to experiencing with Cody Fairfax.
Now that I was no longer in crisis mode, that particular fact struck home forcefully, along with a very vivid physical memory of the encounter. Damn. I could feel the bow I’d tied around my mental box of lust loosening.
“Daisy.” Stefan appeared before me, his expression neutral. “If you wish, I can assist you.”
“No.” Wrapping my arms around myself, I shook my head. “I mean, thanks, I appreciate it. But I don’t want you rummaging around in my mind right now.”
Stefan inclined his head. “As you will.” He hesitated. “Do you expect the lamia to arrive soon? I fear that neither the control of my men nor the patience of the satyr is limitless.”
“She should be here any minute. And maybe you shouldn’t hire teenaged boys,” I added pointedly, glancing at the blond kid I’d spotted earlier. “Or induct them into your posse or whatever you call it.”
“Ah.” He followed my gaze. “You took notice of my new lieutenant. Cooper is more than two hundred years old,” he continued conversationally. “He was hanged in the Irish Rebellion of 1798.”
I swallowed hard. “Oh.”
“Yes. On the scaffold, he dared God to send him to hell so that he might continue fighting.”
“I take it God declined?” I said.
“No.” Stefan arched one eyebrow. “The Lord accepted his offer. Hell declined to honor it. Since then, Cooper has been Outcast.”
Okay, see what I mean about ghouls? It’s just hard to get your head around the circumstances of their existence. And no, for the record, I had no idea why Stefan was numbered among the Outcast. Whatever he’d done to get himself cast out by heaven and hell alike, I hadn’t the faintest idea.
Thankfully, I was spared the need for further speculation, not to mention the threat of ravening ghouls and a released satyr, by Lurine’s arrival.
I’d assumed that for the sake of discretion, she would wait outside in her Town Car while we brought the satyr to her—although exactly how that was to be accomplished, I hadn’t thought through.
Anyway, I was wrong. Lurine sauntered into the nightclub, pausing to survey the aftermath of the orgy and its shell-shocked participants. She’d pulled out all the stops, wearing a shiny black latex dress that clung to her curves, stretching and undulating with every movement. Tacky, yes, but so magnificently tacky that it wasn’t. And it was offset by a classic chignon, oversize sunglasses, and crimson lipstick.