“She was thinking about it. Selling, I mean,” I clarified. I had no idea what Amanda Brooks thought about taking her husband’s name.
He blinked. “You’re sure?”
I nodded. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure. I came in just as he was leaving. She looked . . . unfocused. When I asked about it, she said she couldn’t imagine why she even entertained the idea. I told her not to trust the guy, that I had a bad feeling about him.”
“And she listened to you?”
“She seemed to.” I shrugged. “It seemed to clear away the cobwebs, anyway.”
“But you don’t have powers of persuasion, right?” Chief Bryant asked. “No offense, Daisy. I just mean . . .” His voice trailed off, sounding embarrassed.
“It’s okay.” I smiled wryly. “No, no powers of persuasion, sir. Don’t worry, I haven’t claimed my birthright. To be honest, I don’t know why it worked. Maybe Dufreyne’s ability is more like a power of suggestion. Maybe it takes time to work, and I just happened to be there at the right moment to nip it in the bud. Maybe two hell-spawns cancel each other out no matter what. I don’t know.”
The chief’s face softened into an expression of paternal worry. “That can’t be easy, being an enigma to yourself half the time.”
Damn. Again with the unexpected surge of gratitude. My eyes stung a little. “Thank you,” I murmured. “It’s not.”
“All right.” He planted his hands on the desk with a meaty thud. “I’ll put the word out. Anyone talking to Dufreyne should talk to you. Anything else? Where are we with this obeah woman situation?”
I cleared my throat. “On it, sir. The local coven is meeting with Sinclair this Saturday evening to discuss strategy.”
“Good.” He paused. “I have to admit, I don’t actually know who’s in this coven. Do you?”
“Other than the Fabulous Casimir? No,” I said. “Not for sure. But I look forward to finding out.”
Twenty-four
Late on Saturday afternoon, I got a call from Cody.
“Hey there, Pixy Stix.” Even over the phone, his voice had a hint of a low rumble that would have made me feel tingly if I weren’t so annoyed by the nickname. “Are you busy tonight?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I have an appointment at seven. Why?”
“I have to pay a visit to Twilight Manor,” he said. “I thought it might be a good idea to have Hel’s liaison riding shotgun.”
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a sixteen-year-old girl who went to a poetry slam at the coffee shop and never came home last night.” All traces of humor vanished from his voice. “Witnesses say she left with someone who sounds a lot like Bethany Cassopolis.”
“Shit.” That was Jen’s blood-slut sister. “Are you serious?”
“Unfortunately, yeah. I checked with the Cassopolises and they haven’t heard from her since she went back to her vamp boyfriend,” Cody said. “I stopped out at the manor, but it’s locked up tight during daylight hours. Their minions won’t even answer the door and they’ve got a state-of-the-art security system. Can you reschedule?”
“Not really. But sunset’s not until a little after eight. Can I call you when my meeting’s over?”
He hesitated. “I’ll give you until eight thirty. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll go it alone.”
I didn’t like that idea. “I’ll make sure I’m out by then.”
“Good. Call me.” He hung up.
Of course, I immediately called Jen to see if she knew anything. She didn’t have any idea why Bethany would be picking up stray teens at the coffee shop, but she had the lowdown on the missing girl already—Heather Simkus, moody, isolated loner, alleged to be a serious cutter.
In other words, perfect vampire fodder.
I hadn’t planned on attending the coven’s meeting in agent-of-Hel working attire, but this put a different spin on the evening. When the time came, I opted for jeans instead of a nice skirt, and buckled dauda-dagr around my waist. For good measure, I hauled out a motorcycle jacket I bought at Goodwill, one of my all-time best thrift store finds. And yeah, okay, it’s black leather, but it’s not a duster. I don’t care how cool it looked in Blade or The Matrix, no one in their right mind would choose to fight in a duster. There’s just too much damn material. My jacket, on the other hand, is fitted and has a high collar that makes it perfect for calling on vampires. After my last visit to the House of Shadows, I’d take any extra ounce of protection I could get.
A bit before seven, I drove out to Sinclair’s place to pick him up.
It was the first time we’d seen each other since the breakup, and there was a moment of awkwardness on the doorstep while we both tried to figure out if we were supposed to hug or play it cool.
Then Sinclair broke into a broad grin. “Damn, sistah! You look like you’re ready to kick ass and take numbers. You expecting trouble?”
I smiled back at him. “No, something else has come up. I have to leave by quarter after eight or so.”
He slung a friendly arm over my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “Then let’s roll.”
The Fabulous Casimir lived in a charming Arts-and-Crafts-style bungalow in East Pemkowet, nestled under pine trees on a bluff with a distant view of the river. Casimir met us at the door in a brocade dressing gown and matching gold satin head scarf tied in an elaborate bow at the nape of his neck.
“You must be Sinclair Palmer,” he said, extending one manicured hand. “Enchanté, my dear. A pleasure to finally meet you. We all appreciate the business your little tour brings into town.”
“Thank you.” Sinclair shook his hand. “I appreciate your meeting with me.”
“Of course.” Casimir glanced in my direction. “Thanks for bringing Sinclair, Daisy. I’m sure one of our members can give him a ride home.”
I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
Casimir pursed his lips. “Oh, this is awkward. I’m sorry, Daisy. But coven business is a private matter.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” My right hand dropped to dauda-dagr’s hilt. Funny how the gesture had become instinctual in such a short time. “Not this time. I don’t mean to pull rank, but I’m Hel’s liaison, Cas. We’re talking about a supernatural threat in Pemkowet. That makes it my business.”
We had a polite staredown. For a moment I thought Casimir was going to call my bluff—and it was a bluff, since I didn’t really have any options if he refused to admit me—but he relented.
“You have a point,” he said. “Do I have your oath that you’ll treat everything you see or hear as confidential?”
“As long as it doesn’t interfere with my duty to Hel, yes,” I said. “Fair enough?”
“It will have to do.” He gestured. “Come in.”
The living room looked more like I imagined the Fabulous Casimir’s place would be than the sparsely appointed altar room at his shop. It was filled with cluttered elegance. Paintings with gilded frames hung in rows three-deep on the walls, knickknacks on every surface, old-fashioned stuffed furniture with scrolling wood trim, an Oriental carpet on the floor. And seated around the perimeter of the room, the other six members of Pemkowet’s coven.
The only two people I’d more or less expected to see here were Mark and Sheila Reston, who owned the tattoo parlor across from the Sisters of Selene, because . . . well. If you’ve got matching tattoos of the Wiccan rede—which, by the way, is “An it harm none, do what ye will”—around your neck, that’s pretty much a dead giveaway.
The others . . . not so much.
There was Kim McKinney, who graduated a year ahead of me and worked at the deli counter at Tafts Grocery. I didn’t know her well, but I definitely didn’t see that coming.