Dark Currents (21 page)

“Unicorns and rainbows?” I suggested.

Amanda Brooks raised her brows at me. “Don’t be glib. I don’t expect you to control the weather. But a unicorn would be nice, yes. Do we have any?”

“No,” I said. “Not that I’m aware of. And a lot of those pretty, sparkly fairies have sharp teeth and bad tempers. I don’t think you understand what you’re asking. The eldritch community
isn’t
benign. They’re not here to serve as tourist attractions. They’re here because Pemkowet has a functioning underworld, which allows them to exist in the mortal world without the risk of fading.”

She tapped her letter opener on the desk. “Don’t you think it’s in their best interest to keep it that way?”

“Of course.”

Setting down her letter opener, she reached for a copy of the latest
Appeldoorn Guardian
and pushed it across the desk at me. “Look at the poll results.”

Reluctantly, I took a look. It seemed that fifty-three percent of respondents thought that it was time to explore the possibility of cutting down Yggdrasil II, razing Pemkowet’s underworld, and banishing the unholy eldritch influence from Michigan for good. My mouth felt dry. “It’s just a poll. It doesn’t mean they can
act
on it.”

“No.” Amanda Brooks adjusted her stylish glasses. “But it means we’re losing the battle of perception. We need to push back against it. Anything you could do to help would be . . . helpful.”

I nodded. “I understand. I can’t guarantee results, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Good.” She rose. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Opening her office door, she called out to the cute guy. “Mr. Palmer? May we have a word?”

He sauntered into the office, hands in his pockets, and gave her another charming smile and a disarming shrug. “Any word you like, mother.”

“Ah . . . yes.” Again, she flushed. “Sinclair Palmer, Daisy Johanssen. Mr. Palmer, Ms. Johanssen has agreed to work with the eldritch community in an effort to . . . enhance . . . the tours you propose.”

Sinclair Palmer regarded me. “Is that so, sistah?”

“Yep.”

His lips twitched in an effort to suppress a smile. He had nice lips, full and juicy. “I an’ I look forward to it.”

“So do I and I,” I said in reply. “But I’m kind of busy right now. And I can’t make any promises.”

“Understood.” He tapped his chest with his fist. “Respect, eh? What will be will be. Jah bless.”

“Um . . . right.”

“Good, very good.” The matter apparently concluded, Amanda Brooks hastened to usher us out of her office. “I’m glad we were able to come to consensus. Look, I’ve got a dozen fires to put out. I’ll leave it to the two of you to coordinate. Mr. Palmer, I promise I’ll see your license is granted. Go ahead and plan accordingly. The sooner you’re in operation, the better. Daisy . . .” She sighed. “Do whatever you can. Think pretty. Think sparkly. If they have to smile with their mouths closed, that’s fine. Just—”

“Unicorns and rainbows,” I said softly. “I get it.”

A fleeting look of gratitude crossed her face. “Good luck. Oh, and Daisy?”

I turned back. “Yeah?”

“I thought you might have a word with the powers that be out at the House of Shadows,” she said. “Ask them to lie low for a while. Make sure there are no vampires prowling the streets at last call.”

I sighed. “Really? Are you serious? You want me to dictate terms to Twilight Manor?”

“Really.” Amanda Brooks’s expression hardened. “You took on this role. While I recognize my limitations, I’m not entirely ignorant of what goes on in Pemkowet. I realize most vampires are looking for a long-term blood-bond relationship. But there are always paranormal tourists looking for a short-term thrill. And sometimes they find it. That doesn’t necessarily work out well for them, does it?”

“No,” I admitted.

She nodded at me. “So let’s take that off the table for now. Unless you think Hel would disapprove?”

“No,” I said honestly. “I don’t.”

Thirty-one

F
inding Stacey Brooks immersed in another phone call, I took the opportunity to make a hasty exit from the PVB office with Sinclair Palmer close behind me. Stacey’s gaze followed us jealously. Deprived of the chance to get in one last verbal dig, she lifted her right hand, hooked her fingers, and flashed a devil-horns sign at me.

Apparently in certain circles, that one never got old. I really, really didn’t miss high school.

Outside in the parking lot, I blew out my breath. “Sorry—that was a little messy. Welcome to Pemkowet.”

Sinclair shrugged. “Eh, it’s not so bad. Just a little cuss-cuss.”

I eyed him. “Are you really Jamaican?”

He returned my gaze evenly. “Why you think I’m not, sistah?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I have to admit, pretty much everything I know about Jamaica comes from watching
Cool
Runnings
, and I’m guessing a Disney movie about Olympic bobsledders isn’t the most accurate reference material.” I nodded at his hair. “But something about your commitment to dreadlocks strikes me as a recent development.”

Sinclair laughed. “I tell you true, you do the same?”

“Sure, I guess.” I figured he’d find out sooner or later. I’d prefer later, but I was curious about him.

“Yes and no.” He dropped the accent. “I was born in Jamaica, but I grew up in Kalamazoo with my dad. He immigrated when I was three. My mom still lives in Kingston.” He tugged on one of his dreads. “And yeah, these are only a few months old. My turn?”

I nodded, braced for the inevitable question, but it wasn’t exactly what I expected.

“I see auras.” Sinclair’s gaze roved around me. “But I’ve never seen one like yours. What is it?”

“Is that a pickup line?”

He grinned. “Do you want it to be? No, I’m serious. Most people just have a little shimmer flickering around their edges. You’ve got a five-alarm fire, and I do mean a fire.” He gestured in the air, tracing invisible lines. “The flames are shot through with these twisty veins of gold. Definitely nothing I’ve seen before. And definitely not entirely human.”

“Is that where you got the idea of doing a paranormal tour?” I asked. “Because you can see auras?”

“Sort of.” Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve always been able to see things other people couldn’t, and I’ve always been drawn to Pemkowet. When I came across a sweet deal for an old tour bus on craigslist, it all came together. Are you avoiding the question?”

In fact, I was. “Hell-spawn,” I said reluctantly. “Daughter of Belphegor, minor demon and occasional incubus.”

“Really?” He looked surprised. “Well, that explains the flames.”

At least he wasn’t freaked. “So why the Jamaican act? Or sort-of act?”

“You jestin’, sistah?” He rolled his eyes. “People eat that shit up, especially white people.” He pointed at the PVB building. “You think that Mrs. Brooks would be fluttering and blushing over plain old Sinclair Palmer from Kalamazoo?”

“Probably not,” I agreed.

“Everyone loves a magical Negro,” Sinclair said in a cynical tone. “Until they meet one in real life.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’ve never heard the term?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s a black character who uses his unique wisdom or special gift to help the white hero achieve his goal. Pretty common in popular culture.
The Green Mile
,
The Legend of Bagger Vance
,
Driving Miss Daisy
—”

“Ooh, ooh! Scatman Crothers in
The Shining
?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

Cute, and a movie buff, too. We stood in the parking lot smiling awkwardly at each other. The thought occurred to me that it might be nice to take an interest in someone entirely human and almost normal for a change.

I wondered if the tail would freak him out.

“Hey, can I buy you lunch, Daisy?” Sinclair asked. “I’d love to talk about my ideas for the tour and get your input. And I’d love to hear more about your . . . um, unusual heritage.” He nodded at
dauda-dagr
. “Not to mention the story behind that mighty cutlass, sistah.”

At that inopportune moment, my phone rang. I glanced at it. “I’ve got to take this; sorry.”

It was Patty Rogan calling from the station. “Cody’s bringing in a witness,” she said. “The chief wants you here in twenty. Okay?”

“I’ll be there.” I ended the call. “Sorry,” I said with genuine regret. “I’d love to; I really would. But I’m sort of on duty and we’re in crisis mode. Rain check?”

“Sure.” Sinclair frowned. “Who do you work for, exactly? I’m sorry; I’m a little confused.”

“I’m Hel’s liaison.” I patted
dauda-dagr
’s
hilt. “That’s Hel the Norse goddess of the dead,” I clarified, seeing a look of alarm begin to dawn on his face. “Not the infernal realm, okay? But in terms of drawing a paycheck, I actually work for the Pemkowet Police Department.”

His expression turned to bemusement. “As what?”

“Mostly a part-time file clerk,” I said. “But lately a full-time investigator. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you.”

“Okay.”

After we exchanged numbers we parted ways, me in my Honda and Sinclair Palmer on a bicycle, pedaling industriously. Nice legs, too.

Gah!
Everything was moving too fast, and there was too much to be done. I wished I could slow down time for a few days, or at least take a day for myself. I could use some quality mother-daughter time. I desperately yearned for an intensive session of good old-fashioned girl talk with Jen. I needed to sort through my feelings about Cody. I actually liked the working partnership and mutual respect that we were developing. Did I still want it to be more, or was it just my long-standing crush at work?

I’d let Stefan
taste
me, for crying out loud, and now he was attuned to me, and I didn’t know how I felt about it. Okay, on a primal girlie level, there was something flattering about having him turn up like some magical fairy-tale protector, but I hadn’t known that was what I was signing up for. Had he tricked me? Had I agreed to it on a subconscious level?

I didn’t know.

Now I’d met a mostly normal human guy with whom I felt a few sparks, and I didn’t know what to do about that, either. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d gone on a date, and I was getting way ahead of myself just thinking about it. I didn’t even know whether he was single, let alone interested.

I drove around town, looking for a parking space. “Focus, Daisy,” I murmured to myself. “It’s not about you.”

It helped.

If I was right, if Mom’s reading held true, there was an eldritch creature being held hostage out there somewhere, not so very far away.
La Sirena.
And I had a good idea that she was suffering pretty badly.

My shoulder blades prickled at the thought, and I felt a surge of anger that left me light-headed, although as I finally found an empty spot and maneuvered the Honda into place, it occurred to me that the latter might have something to do with the fact that I was running on adrenaline and fumes. After a dinner of beer and pretzels, I needed more than one not-so-fresh hard-boiled egg to keep me going.

Luckily, there was a hot-dog stand on the way to the station. I grabbed a chili-cheese dog and ate it on the go, dodging tourists on the sidewalk. Say what you will, but as far as I’m concerned, while fake cheese sauce may be seven kinds of disgusting, it’s also one of the ultimate hangover foods.

By the time I reached the station and squeezed past the protestors, I felt calmer and more grounded. Yep, I definitely needed food.

If this were a movie, I’d have a chance to watch Cody and the chief interview Mollenkamp in the interrogation room through a one-way mirror before staging a timely intervention, but the Pemkowet Police Department doesn’t have a one-way mirror, or even an interrogation room.

“They’re in the conference room,” Patty Rogan greeted me. “Chief says he’ll send Cody for you when he’s ready.”

“Thanks, Patty.”

She dabbed significantly at the corner of her mouth and gave a discreet nod in the direction of the restroom. “You might want to freshen up first.”

Oh, great.
The bathroom mirror revealed a veritable clown smile of chili grease and cheese sauce plastered over my lips. Thank God I’d had a chance to shower earlier, and was no longer sweating out stale beer and twelve-year-old single-malt. I washed my hands and face and rinsed my mouth in the rust-stained porcelain sink.

When I emerged, Cody was waiting for me, his expression somber. “Hey, Daise. This guy’s got some major attitude.”

“Yeah, I know.” I wiped my still-damp palms on my jeans. “He’s not cooperating?”

He shook his head. “He’s denying everything. You and I are trading places. The chief figures it’s time to spring you on him. Ready?”

I touched
dauda-dagr
’s
hilt again. The coolness it radiated was reassuring. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

Inside the conference room, Matthew Mollenkamp was slouched in a chair. Although he looked a little worse for the wear after a hard night of drinking, everything about his body language exuded the same sense of privilege and entitlement. Still, he stiffened perceptibly when I entered the room.

“Hail, true son of Triton,” I said to him. “Nice to see you again.”

His eyelids flickered.

Chief Bryant smiled a slow, sleepy smile. “Well, now, son. I’d like to introduce you to our special associate, Miss Daisy Johanssen. In fact, I believe you may already be acquainted. Are you still inclined to claim you’ve never heard of the Masters of the Universe?”

Mollenkamp gave a short, choked laugh. Stalling for time, he ran his hands over his face and through his hair. “I take it you’re not a potential transfer student, are you?”

I took a seat. “Nope.”

His hazel gaze fixed me. “Where’s the other Trask sister? The
hot
one?”

It was meant to hurt, and to be honest, it did. But that was exactly what he intended. I had a feeling he liked his women off-kilter and insecure. I decided to give it right back to him. “Do you know who
you
remind me of?” I asked him. “Matthew McConaughey.”

He smirked at me. “Yeah, I get that sometimes. The name helps.”

“Did you ever see
Dazed and Confused
?” I asked. “No? It’s been a while, but I watched it with my mom years ago. McConaughey plays a guy who still hangs out with high-school students even though it’s sort of pathetic at his age. Glory days and all that, I guess, you know?” I shrugged. “You remind me of him. Only he pulls it off better. But then, it’s a movie. Real life is different. Don’t expect a happy ending here. Thad Vanderhei found that out the hard way, didn’t he?”

Mollenkamp glanced at the chief, his smirk fading.

The chief ignored him, examining his fingernails and maintaining a heavy, impassive silence.

I think it was at that moment that Matthew Mollenkamp knew he was in trouble. With the weight of silence pressing on him, his gaze flitted around the room, coming back to me. “Okay.” He raised his hands in mock surrender, his tone striving for bitter levity. “Okay, you got me. Busted. I made up some bullshit and a few of the alumni brothers played along. You didn’t actually
believe
it, did you?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”

“It wasn’t true,” he said in frustration. “It’s not my fault if Thad Vanderhei believed me! It was an accident!”

I shook my head. “Not the kind his buddies claim it was.”

Mollenkamp sank deeper into his chair. “So why don’t you talk to them? I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened.”

“You sent them there.”

He shrugged. “I made up some bullshit story about a secret society within the brotherhood. What the hell? It sounded good at the time. They got punked, okay? No one was supposed to die, and believe me, I feel like shit about it. If I could take it back, I would. I’d give anything to take it back, okay? But it was just another kind of hazing.
I
didn’t dare Thad to swim the river. For Christ’s sake, I don’t even know why—” His voice cut off.

I glanced at the chief. He nodded at me, giving me permission to continue. “You don’t even know what Thad and the others were doing at the river, do you?” I asked softly. “Because that’s not where you sent them. That’s not where you expected them to be.”

Mollenkamp looked away. “I wasn’t there,” he muttered. “Why the fuck are you talking to me? Talk to Kyle and Mike.”

“Oh, we are.” The chief shifted his bulk, making his chair creak ominously. He was good at that. “But you could be charged as an accessory, son.”

“To
what
?” His voice rose. “Thad’s death was an
accident
!”

“Maybe,” the chief allowed. “But like Miss Johanssen observed, it wasn’t the kind of accident it seemed. Not the kind those boys claimed it was. Wherever Thad Vanderhei drowned, it sure as hell wasn’t the Kalamazoo River. And covering up the cause of death, even an accidental death, is a crime.”

In the aftermath of Thad’s death, there hadn’t been any opportunity for Kyle Middleton and Mike Huizenga to confer with their Triton brothers face-to-face, but they could have exchanged calls or texts or e-mails. I didn’t know whether they had, or if so, how much they’d revealed about what had transpired. Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure whether Matthew Mollenkamp knew exactly how Thad had drowned.

Now I knew he hadn’t. I saw the realization dawn over his features, a sickening awareness he couldn’t hide. “Thad didn’t drown in the river?”

Chief Bryant gave me an imperceptible shake of his head.

I kept silent.

“Oh, God.” Mollenkamp swallowed, turning pale and sweating visibly. “Oh, fuck! I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Wordlessly, I passed him the wastebasket. I was kind of hoping the whole about-to-puke thing would turn out to be an idle threat, but it wasn’t. My stomach lurched in sympathy as he gagged and retched, bringing up a thin stream of clear liquid and bile.

The chief cleared his throat. “Daisy, would you be so kind as to fetch Mr. Mollenkamp some paper towels?” I rose. “And maybe something cold to drink?” he called after me.