Dark Currents

Page 3

With another hiss, the milkweed fairy vanished.
The little mortal girl in the gingham dress burst into tears.
“It’s okay, sweetheart.” Reaching down, I took her hand and let my anger drain away. “What’s your name?”
She sniffled. “Shawna.”
“That’s very pretty.” I smiled at her. “Okay, Shawna. Let’s go find your mom and dad, shall we?”
Within a minute, I had her restored to her parents. Mom and Dad were a nice young couple visiting from Ohio. Caught up in the idyllic mood, listening to the band and watching the antics of the many children, they hadn’t even noticed their daughter’s fleeting absence. It had been so brief, I couldn’t blame them. It was easy to let your guard down on a beautiful evening in Pemkowet.
“Listen.” Lowering my voice, I nodded toward the public restroom, a squat cinder-block building rendered charming by virtue of a colorful Seurat painting replicated on its walls. While tourists emptied their bladders inside, nineteenth-century Parisians strolled and lounged on the island of La Grande Jatte. “This may sound strange, but I strongly recommend you take Shawna to the bathroom and turn her dress inside out.”
Ohio Mom blinked at me. “I beg your pardon?”
I laid one hand on Shawna’s head, stroking the wispy brown hair escaping from her ponytail. “It’s just a precaution. But your daughter caught a fairy’s attention. Better to be safe than sorry.”
Ohio Mom turned pale. Ohio Dad laughed. “Relax, hon. It’s just a publicity stunt.” He winked at me. “Fairies, huh?”
Tourists, gah!
“It’s not a publicity stunt.” I couldn’t keep a hint of irritation from my voice. “Trust me, you don’t want to wake up in the morning and find nothing but a milkweed pod lying on Shawna’s pillow.”
Which could very well have happened if little Shawna had taken the doll. That was all the fairy would have needed to make a changeling. Oh, we would have tracked her down eventually—I would have known what had happened as soon as I saw the missing persons report, which was how I came by my special role in the department in the first place—but it would have resulted in some seriously bad publicity.
Plus, there’s no telling how it might have affected the kid. People who get abducted by fairies come back . . . changed.
It took a bit of convincing, but Ohio Mom decided to humor me. I went back to rejoin Jen.
“Errant fairy,” I explained briefly.
She nodded. “Did you get them to turn the kid’s dress inside out?”
“Eventually.”
Jen made a face. “Tourists.”
“Yep.”
It wasn’t entirely their fault. The Pemkowet Visitors Bureau actively cultivates paranormal tourism. They don’t offer any guarantees—most visitors never catch more than a fleeting glimpse of a member of the eldritch community, or they fail to recognize those of us who pass for human—but the PVB isn’t exactly candid about the potential dangers, either.
What with being a goddess and all, albeit a much diminished one, Hel keeps most of the eldritch folk in line. The rune inscribed on my left palm is a symbol that I’m licensed to enforce her rules and act as her liaison between the underworld and the mundane authorities. It works pretty well most of the time, at least with the eldritch who respect order. Unfortunately, there are plenty who prefer chaos.
Especially fairies, of which we have many.
Los Gatos del Sol wrapped their last set. The crowd began to disperse into the warm night. Jen retrieved her brother, Brandon, and we discussed plans to schedule a good old-fashioned movie night with my mom, or maybe a Gilmore Girls marathon.
I was relieved that she didn’t mention Cody again. Generally speaking, Jen and I didn’t keep secrets from each other. My crush on Cody was a glaring exception. It was tied up with keeping his secret, which I was honor-bound to do.
By the time I made my way back to my place, the young couple in the front apartment were making loud and vigorous love, which I could hear on the landing; but on the plus side, Mogwai had decided to make an appearance. I turned on the stereo and poured myself a couple inches of good scotch, my one grown-up indulgence, then lit a few candles and curled up in the love seat on my screened porch to mull over the evening.
Mogwai settled his considerable tricolored bulk in my lap, kneading and purring his deep, raspy purr.
“Not too bad, Mog.” I stroked him absentmindedly. “One changeling scenario averted. Hel would be pleased.”
He twitched one notched ear in a cat-quick flick.
I sighed. “And yeah, one hopeless crush flirting with my BFF. But it’s not really any of my business, is it?”
He purred louder in agreement.
On the stereo, Billie Holiday sang good morning to heartache, her voice fragile and almost tremulous, and yet there was a fine steel thread of strength running through it, a strength born of suffering and resolve. Of all the music in the world, nothing soothes my own savage beast like women singing the blues. The year I discovered it, I was twelve, and my mom was dating a bassist in a local jazz band, the only serious boyfriend I’d ever known her to have. He introduced us to a lot of music. His name was Trey Summers, and he was killed in a car accident that winter. I still missed him, and I know Mom did, too.
I petted.
Mogwai purred.
Outside, the night was filled with the sounds of a resort town in full revelry: partying tourists frequenting the bars, bass beats thumping. Inside, with profoundly poignant resignation, Billie Holiday invited heartache to sit down.
I blew out the candles and went to bed.
Three
It was almost four in the morning when my phone rang. Living downtown, I’d grown accustomed to tuning out a lot of noise, including the sirens.
But the phone woke me.
I reached for the nightstand across the warm, furry mass of cat pressed against me, grabbing my cell phone. “’Lo?”
“Daisy.” It was the chief’s voice, low and gravelly. “We have a situation. I need you here.”
I sat bolt upright. “Where?”
“Downtown. By the gazebo.” With that, he disconnected.
Displacing a disgruntled Mogwai, I turned on a light and scrambled into street clothes: jeans and a black T-shirt, plain and unobtrusive. Skirts were more comfortable for me, but I’d long since learned I was taken more seriously in pants, and the chief sounded deadly serious. Whipping my hair into a ponytail, I headed out the door and clattered down the stairs.
Below my apartment, the ovens were cranking in the bakery’s kitchen, and Mrs. Browne was working her magic, tantalizing aromas of yeasty bread and sweet confections spilling out into the night. Hearing the side door bang, she came over to tap on the window, an inquiring look on her wizened face. I gave her a quick shake of my head, setting out through the darkened park at a fast jog.
There were two squad cars parked on the street alongside the gazebo, lights flashing, and an EMS vehicle sitting motionless. Not a good sign. On the river beyond, I could see the outline of the fire department’s rescue boat. The searchlight wasn’t sweeping the water, so whatever they were looking for, they’d already found it.
There weren’t any onlookers at this late hour, but Bart Mallick, one of the older officers, was posted on the perimeter.
“Daisy.” He tagged me with the beam of his flashlight, his shadowed face impassive. “You shouldn’t be here.”
My well-tucked tail twitched. “Chief says otherwise,” I said in an even tone. “He called for me.”
With a heavy shrug, he let me pass.
On some level, everyone in the department knew I had an arrangement with the chief. But the kinds of cases I helped out on were usually small: pickpocketing bogles, will-o’-the-wisps leading tourists astray, that sort of thing. This was bigger, and I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my belly.
Over by the EMS vehicle, a couple of first responders were tending to a pair of soaking-wet figures, wrapping them in blankets and speaking in hushed, soothing tones. Behind the gazebo, there was a body on the ground, and Chief Bryant and Cody Fairfax were standing beside it. Cody was drenched, too, his dark blue officer’s uniform plastered to his body and his hair slicked back. His boots and his utility belt lay on the grass at his feet.
The chief beckoned me over. He was a big man, thick and solid, with sleepy, hooded eyes that reminded me of Robert Mitchum on the Turner Classic Movies channel. Right now, they held a look of grave sorrow and regret.
I made myself look at the body.
The drowning victim was a few years younger than me, a college kid, judging from his T-shirt. In the light of the chief’s flashlight, his skin looked grayish and mottled. His mouth was agape, whether due to the slackness of death or the futile attempts to revive him, I couldn’t say. There was white foam crusting his lips and nostrils. His eyes were open, which creeped me out. You might think that being a hell-spawn would make me less squeamish about death, but you would be wrong.
“What—” The word emerged as a squeak. Clearing my throat, I tried again. “What happened?”
“According to his friends, they got drunk, and young Mr. Vanderhei here bet them he could swim across the river and back. They called nine-one-one when they realized he was in distress. It’s happened before, I’m sorry to say.” The chief knelt heavily on one knee. “But the timeline doesn’t make sense. There’s something off about their story. And look at this.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the watch I’d given him and dangled it above the kid’s chest. It rotated in a quivering circle, the hands on its face spinning backward with manic violence.
Magic.
The watch was genuine dwarf workmanship, and it responded to the residue of eldritch presence. Whatever else was true, this was more than an accidental drowning.
The chief glanced up at me. “I don’t know who or what was responsible for this, but I mean to get to the bottom of it.” His voice was grim. “If someone assisted this boy to an early grave, I will find out. No one and nothing gets away with murder in my town. Are you willing to help?”