Autumn Bones

Twenty-one

The next morning, I logged on to Facebook to find that Dan Stanton had approved my friend request. I felt awkward sending a message to an alias—what if this Dan Stanton turned out to be another shirtless Australian guy instead of Lee Hastings?—but I went ahead and composed a note saying I was hoping he was Lee and that he might be able to give me some advice on a computer project.

After calling in to the station to confirm there wasn’t any new filing for me, I spent half an hour practicing shield drill.

Okay, twenty minutes. It was harder to maintain focus without an actual opponent.

I checked Facebook again to see if Dan Stanton had replied to my message. He hadn’t, but a few minutes after I’d logged in, a chat bubble with his name on it popped up.

U there Daisy?

This might sound weird, but I’m not a fan of all things instant and chatty. It always feels like there’s too much pressure to reply immediately. But then, I was the one asking the favor, so I didn’t have a lot of choice.

Yes. Lee, is that you?

There was a short lag, then a reply. If you want to talk, meet me at the glug-a-slug in fifteen minutes.

On that cryptic note, Dan Stanton went offline. Well, not that cryptic. Back in high school “glug-a-slug” was what we called the Sit’n Sip, Pemkowet’s only twenty-four-hour diner, located about half a mile from the interstate highway exit. It was where teenagers went to eat hash browns, drink coffee, and sober up after clandestine keg parties. But Lee wasn’t the kind of kid who got invited to a lot of parties. He was the kind of smart, aloof, unpopular kid who wouldn’t deign to use the in-crowd’s pet slang terms, and I couldn’t imagine he would have changed that much, which meant that the fact that he was using one of them now was weird and cryptic.

Then again, I’d contacted him through an alias, so I don’t know why I would have expected anything else.

About ten minutes later, I walked into the Sit’n Sip. Lee Hastings was lounging in a booth in the far corner, long legs stretched out, the rest of him slouched intently over a computer tablet. Although I hadn’t seen him in a good six years, I recognized his tall, bony figure immediately, even wrapped in a full-length black leather duster despite the lingering summer warmth.

“Hey, hon!” a cheerful waitress called to me. “Sit anywhere you like.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m meeting someone.”

Lee lifted his head. He was wearing a khaki-colored Seattle Mariners baseball cap, which I thought was an odd choice with a black leather duster. Heck, maybe he had changed. Or maybe that was hip in Seattle. “Daisy.”

“Hi, Lee.” I slid into the seat opposite him. “It’s good to see you.”

He touched something on the tablet, making the screen go blank. “Is it?”

“Sure.”

Beneath the shadow of his baseball cap’s brim, his face was as gaunt as ever, dark eyes glimmering in bruised-looking hollows. Hence the nickname Skeletor. He’d grown one of those narrow beards that looked like a strip of Velcro glued to his chin and there were steel hoops in his earlobes. Okay, that was new and unexpected. “What do you want?”

“I need to create a database—” I began.

A look of disgust crossed his face. “Oh, for God’s sake! A database? Do you know what I get paid for consulting on a project? This isn’t high school, Daisy. I’m not going to teach you how to use Excel just because you promise to sit next to me in the cafeteria.”

Lowering my voice, I plowed on. “A database documenting the eldritch population in Pemkowet.”

“Are you—” Lee paused. “Say that again?”

I repeated myself.

“Why?”

The waitress came over with the coffeepot. I turned my mug upright for a fill and ordered a Danish. “Because it will help me do my job,” I said in an even tone once she was out of earshot. “Did you hear about the orgy out at Rainbow’s End?” Lee gave a brief nod. “Turns out it was set off by a satyr in rut.”

“Satyrs go into rut?” He sounded bemused.

“Yeah.” I blew on my coffee. “Every twelve years. And if I’d had a database to keep track of this one, I could have prevented the orgy.”

Lee studied me. “So it’s true?”

I took a tentative sip of my coffee, scalding my tongue, and grimaced. “What?”

“I heard a rumor that you were supposed to be some sort of diplomatic liaison to Little Niflheim,” he said. “But I didn’t believe it.”

I looked around for the waitress, hoping to catch her eye and ask for a glass of ice water. “Why not?”

“With your temper?” Lee grinned. “Unless you’ve changed a lot in the last six years, you’re the least diplomatic person I’ve ever known. Didn’t you get suspended for threatening to cut Stacey Brooks’s hair off in her sleep?”

“No,” I said. “That was Jen Cassopolis. I got suspended because the pipes in the girls’ locker room burst when I lost my temper because Stacey Brooks called my mother a Satan-worshipping whore. Anyway, yes and no. I’m an agent of Hel, and it’s my job to serve as the liaison between her rule of order and the mundane authorities. No one ever said I had to be diplomatic about it, just effective.”

“So you’ve actually been there?” Lee asked. “To Little Niflheim? You’ve actually met her?”

“Yes.”

He took a deep breath. “Tell me about this database.”

Between bites of my Danish, I filled him in on what I had in mind. I’m not sure if I was using the correct terminology, but I wanted to be able to sort and search the data by different criteria: proper names, type of eldritch, capabilities, date, location, transgressions, favors. And I wanted it synced with a calendar that would keep track of things like the full moon and satyrs’ twelve-year rutting cycles.

Lee listened impassively. “Okay,” he said when I’d finished. “That’s doable. It might even be mildly interesting. What’s your budget?”

I winced. “Yeah, about that . . .”

“I figured.” He leaned back in the booth, stroking the landing-strip of beard clinging to his chin. I wanted to tell him it looked ridiculous, but I didn’t think he’d thank me for the favor. “All right.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I’ll do it. But I want in.”

“In?” I echoed. “In on what?” I mean, he might be able to sell it in other places with eldritch populations, but that was a niche market, to say the least.

“In,” Lee repeated. “I want in, Daisy. To Little Niflheim.” I stared at him. “Look.” He leaned forward. “I create fantasy worlds, okay? That’s what I do. Whether it’s a first-person shooter set in Afghanistan or a World of Warcraft knockoff doesn’t matter. It’s a fantasy. But meanwhile, there’s an actual mythological underworld with an actual fucking goddess right under my fucking feet!” He bared his teeth in a fierce smile that made him look more skull-like than ever. “I want to see it. I want in.”

I stalled for time. “I see.”

“Can you do that?” Lee slouched back against the booth, his eyes intent in their deep sockets. “Because I’ll give you everything you want for one glimpse of Hel.”

Ironic phrasing, that.

“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking. “We’ll try it.” It occurred to me that I really should get Hel’s permission before moving forward with the project anyway. “But I can’t make any promises. And even if it works out, I don’t guarantee you’ll enjoy the experience.”

“I don’t care if I enjoy it,” Lee said. “I just want to have it.”

I shrugged. “Fair enough. I live in the rear apartment over Mrs. Browne’s bakery. Come by just before sunset tonight.”

He activated his tablet, fingers skittering over the screen. “The sun sets at eight thirteen. I’ll be there at ten after.”

“See you then.” I tossed a five on the table to cover the cost of my coffee and Danish, plus tip. Say what you will of the Sit’n Sip, but the prices are reasonable. “Is there a number where I can call you if something comes up?”

Lee glanced up at me. “You can reach me the same way you did before.”

“Okay,” I said. “Is there, um, any reason you’re acting so squirrelly about your contact info?”

He gave me another Skeletor smile. “Corporate espionage. I don’t want my enemies to know how or where to find me.”

“Ohh-kay.” I was getting the impression Lee was a bit paranoid. “Call me crazy, but isn’t communicating by Facebook pretty much the least private, least secure method you could choose?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “Which is why no one would ever think to look for me there.”

I guess he had a point.

I left the Sit’n Sip and drove back to my apartment. By the time I got home, I had a voice mail from the Fabulous Casimir saying that the coven had agreed to convene at seven o’clock Saturday night. He rattled off his home address and told me to bring Sinclair there for a meet and greet.

I called Sinclair and found myself irrationally disappointed to get his voice mail in turn, but I relayed Casimir’s message and asked him to give me a call to confirm.

Okay, so that was done.

Meanwhile, propped against the futon in my living room, the buckler that Stefan had given me offered a silent, shining reprimand for my lack of diligence. I checked the time and took another shot at it.

Nope, still not as good without an actual opponent. This time I lasted all of five minutes—hey, time passes a lot more slowly than you might think when all you’re doing is holding an image in your mind—before abandoning my effort.

Acting on an impulse I didn’t care to analyze, I tried calling Stefan to see if he might be available to help me train. After all, he seemed to be invested in the process. And, okay, let’s be honest; despite the bad timing, the possibility that Stefan Ludovic might actually have feelings for me was intriguing.

No luck—just more voice mail.

I hoisted the shield again and spent a few more minutes angling it here and there to create bright points of reflected sunlight for Mogwai to chase across the floor. “Here’s the thing, Mog,” I informed him. “I want to get good at this, I really do. And I know I need to practice. I just think I need . . . incentive.”

Finally copping to the fact that he was never, ever going to catch any of the dancing sunbeams, Mogwai shot me a look of betrayal, turned his back, and sat down to indulge in a vigorous bout of indignant grooming.

“It’s no good because it’s not real, right?” I said to him. “There’s no satisfaction. You know what I mean?”

Licking one outstretched haunch, my cat didn’t deign to acknowledge my comment.

For a moment, I entertained the thought of calling Cody to enlist his aid, but I wasn’t sure about the protocol of disturbing a werewolf around the time of a full moon, and truth be told, a werewolf wasn’t the kind of menace I needed.

I thought about calling Lurine, too, but . . . see, here’s the thing. I don’t know exactly what Lurine’s capabilities are, other than the ability to shape-shift into a glorious and terrible monster. I mean, I have a pretty good idea that it involves sucking the essential life force out of the occasional ordinary human being to sustain her immortal existence, which may or may not be what she did to her late and relatively unlamented octogenarian husband, millionaire California real-estate tycoon Sanford Hollister, but I don’t know for sure.

And I don’t want to. After all, it didn’t happen in Pemkowet, so it’s not my concern. Call it a cop-out. I don’t care.

But I was still restless and fidgety and spoiling for some kind of fight, enough so that I found myself grabbing my car keys and heading out the door with dauda-dagr on my hip and Stefan’s buckler in hand.

If I wanted an opponent, I knew where to find one.

Okay, so I felt a little silly walking into the Wheelhouse carrying a shiny round shield in addition to my magic dagger, and it didn’t help when Cooper set down a pool cue and came over to greet me with a broad grin.

“Well, if it isn’t Joan of feckin’ Arc,” he said, giving me the once-over. “If you’re looking for the big man, he’s not here. He’s off meeting with some fellow at that fancy microbrewery down the road.”

“Maybe you could help me,” I said.

Cooper’s pupils dilated, glittering in his angelic blue eyes. “What did you have in mind?”

Yep, that helped. I raised my shield—my mental shield—holding it blazing between us in my thoughts. “I guess you could say I’m looking for a sparring partner.”

There was an abrupt shift in the atmosphere in the bar. Since the rebellion earlier this summer, Stefan had solidified his position as the undisputed leader of the Outcast in Hel’s territory and those under his command had been careful not to treat me and my super-size emotions as a potential all-you-can-eat buffet. Well, that and the fact that I’d dispatched two of their number to a final and lasting death.

This was different. There was a new measure of respect in the eyes that gleamed out at me from the depths of the bar, and a measure of speculation, too. They recognized a challenge when they saw one. Or sensed one, I guess. Anyway, if I wanted a fight, there were half a dozen ghouls ready to give me one.

And . . . that was a bit much for my fledgling skills. My mental shield faltered and vanished.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Cooper angled himself to block me from view of the others. “You’re a piece of work.”

I hoisted the buckler and rekindled my mental shield in the same motion. “Are you going to help me out or not?”

He glanced around. “Yeah, all right. Let’s go out back.”

I followed Cooper outside and around to the rear of the building, where there was an area of hard-packed dirt adorned with cigarette butts.

“So that’s what himself’s been up to with you?” Cooper asked casually, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. He wore a pair of lace-up construction boots that looked too big for his scrawny frame. I still had a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that teenaged-looking Cooper was never going to grow into his feet. “Seems you’re a good student.”

I kept my shield in place. “It’s a lot like the visualization exercises I’ve done since I was a kid. Only harder.”

His expression was unreadable. “So you really want me to unleash the beast? I’ll warn you, I don’t have the kind of control the big man does.”

I was apprehensive, but I was curious, too. “Is that what you call it? The beast?”

Cooper’s pupils waxed. “It’s what I call it. The beast, the black beast that rides my soul.” He gave me a grim smile. “Do you know why we’re cursed with our beasts, pretty Daisy?”

“Honestly?” I said. “No, I don’t. I didn’t think anyone truly understood it.”

“Ah, well, if you’re being technical, no.” Cooper shrugged. “How we exist and why, whether there’s some purpose to it or it’s a mere accident of fate. But the beast . . . I understand the beast.”

I lowered my shield a fraction. “Tell me.”

“Because we were forged in death at the pinnacle of our existence.” Cooper looked past me into the distance. “Half saint, half sinner, facing death in a howling storm of rage or fury, despair or defiance, passion or hatred. We died filled with a blaze of terror and hope, not knowing if we were going to meet God or the Devil himself, and we woke to find ourselves cast back into the mortal world, lying in the stink of our own shit. But you know what? We want that moment back. We crave it. We ache to go back to that one terrible, horrible, glorious moment. And we can’t. We’re trapped. Outcast. And the eternal hunger rides us like a beast, claws gouging us like spurs.” His gaze returned to me, clear-eyed and steady. “So we fill the void with whatever we can.”

“Oh.” The word came out in a whisper. I had a feeling I wouldn’t have a problem with thinking of Cooper as a teenager after this.

“Now you know what you’re asking for,” he said to me. “Do you still want it?”

“I need to learn.” I held his gaze. “Are you still willing to help me?”

“I am.”

I flexed my left hand around the buckler’s grip, holding its image in my thoughts. “Let’s do this.”

Cooper turned his beast loose and came at me hard. A ghoul’s attack is a difficult thing to describe because it’s not like anything else you’ve experienced. That void, that hunger, exerts a profound tidal pull on everything inside you, everything you feel, trying to suck out your innermost emotions and devour them, leaving emptiness in their wake.

And I understood immediately what he meant about not having Stefan’s control. When I’d sparred with Stefan, he’d kept his beast on a short leash. His attack was tight and focused. Cooper’s was all over the place, swarming me.

It was like trying to fight some kind of tentacled, soul-sucking fog. I battered frantically at it with my mental shield, left and right, high and low. Cooper circled me, forcing me to turn with him.

“Draw your dagger, you eejit!” he shouted at me. “If this was a real fight, you’d need it!”

Duh. It hadn’t occurred to me. I wrapped my hand around dauda-dagr’s hilt and pulled it from its sheath.

Cooper took a few wary steps backward. “Right,” he said. “Now put down the shield. You need to be able do this without it.”

Without breaking eye contact, I tossed the buckler aside. It clattered on the packed dirt. My mental shield continued to blaze steadily and with dauda-dagr in my right hand, I felt balanced in a way I hadn’t before.

“All right.” Cooper grinned, his dilated pupils shining. “Let’s dance.”

I don’t know how long we sparred, but it felt like a good long while and by the end of it, I was wrung out, even more exhausted than I had been after my bout with Stefan—in part because I didn’t have that initial I-can-do-this rush of elation to sustain me and in part because Cooper had pushed me harder.

He took a moment to collect himself when I called for a stop, then excused himself and ducked into the bar through the rear entrance. I sheathed dauda-dagr and waited uncertainly until he returned a few minutes later, his pupils normal and a pair of cold Budweisers in his hands.

“Sorry about that.” Cooper handed me a beer. “Needed a little something to take the edge off.”

Somehow, I didn’t think he meant the beer. I was pretty sure he meant one of the mortal barflies and hangers-on inside the Wheelhouse. “That’s . . . okay.”

He eyed me as he took a pull on his beer. “Makes you a mite squeamish, does it?”

“A mite,” I admitted. “My first experience with, um, an Outcast’s appetite wasn’t a good one.”

Cooper looked surprised. “Himself?”

I shook my head. “No, not Stefan. It was a guy named Al. He’s gone—Stefan banished him. But he . . . tasted me against my will, and it sent him ravening.” The memory of it still made me feel dirty.

“Ah, well. It’s different when you’re willing,” he said, taking another swig of beer. “But then, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” I’d given Stefan permission to drain my anger when I was on the verge of losing my considerable temper and causing an ungodly scene at a funeral. The fact that it had felt as good and shockingly intimate as it had was almost as unnerving as being coerced against my will. “I do.”

Cooper changed the subject. “You did well today. You’ve got the knack for this.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate your help.” I took a sip of beer. “Would you be willing to do it again?”

He considered me. “Yeah, I would. You know, I thought my little speech would scare you off. But I reckon you’re tougher than you look.”

“It was quite a speech,” I said.

“I hope so,” Cooper said in a flat, dispassionate voice. “Because I meant every sodding word of it.”