Autumn Bones

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.

There was nice Mrs. Meyers from the historical society, her expression placid, her lap full of yarn, and her knitting needles clicking away industriously.

There was taciturn Warren Rogers, who owned a nursery and a landscaping business and had done some work out at my mom’s place a couple of years ago in exchange for her making his plus-size daughter, Naomi, a kickass prom dress that flattered her curves to hell and gone.

And there—holy crap—was my mom’s friend Sandra Sweddon, recently referred to by my former teacher Mr. Leary as “that infernal do-gooding busybody.”

Okay, maybe I should have known that one. After all, I did know she collected crystals. But frankly, I hadn’t even suspected it.

Casimir bustled around, pouring tea and making introductions. “Wonderful,” he said once acquaintances were made or in my case, renewed in a very different context. “If everyone’s ready, I’ll give a quick invocation and then we’ll begin.”

A murmur of assent ran around the room.

Fetching a long-handled lighter from a drawer, Casimir lit the first of two candles on the coffee table, a silver pillar. “Hail, fair Lady, queen of night, enfold us in your grace,” he said, and then lit the second, a gold pillar. “Hail, great Lord, ruler of day, protect us in this place.” He set the lighter down. “So mote it be.”

“So mote it be,” the others echoed.

Now that I wasn’t suffering from an excruciating hex-induced migraine, I could feel a faint charge in the air after Casimir’s invocation—nothing like the vastness of Hel’s presence, but a change. Interesting.

“We invoke the Lady and Lord in their archetypal forms,” Casimir said to Sinclair. “Of course, everyone is welcome to address whatever particular facet of the deity speaks to them. Are you dedicated?”

I didn’t understand the question, but Sinclair gave a brief nod. “You might say so. I was raised to honor Yemaya.”

Also interesting. I made a mental note of the name.

“Wonderful,” Casimir said again. “All right! Everyone, please help yourselves to the lovely cheese tray Kim was kind enough to bring for the occasion. Mr. Palmer, tell us about yourself and your situation.”

Snacking on cheese and crackers, I sat and listened while Sinclair related his story. At the coven’s prodding, he went into more detail about his own youthful studies in obeah, which involved using his ability to see auras to diagnose ailments in individuals and gradually acquiring the herb lore to prescribe cures.

“And you didn’t think that was worth pursuing?” Warren Rogers asked in a neutral tone. He was a guy who knew a thing or two about herbs. “The healer’s path?”

“Not at the cost.” Sinclair met his gaze squarely. “The further I went down that path, the further my sister went down the other.”

The other members of the coven nodded in understanding. I guess this whole path of balance thing was a cornerstone of most occult practices.

With a few assists from me, Sinclair finished up with a description of Emmeline’s visit and her ultimatum, followed by a short discourse on the nature of duppies, during which the coven attempted to determine whether obeah’s concept of an earthly soul that was somehow distinct from a heavenly soul corresponded to the notion of an etheric body that was distinct from the physical and spiritual bodies.

Okay, I tuned out for a while during that part. But at least the cheese was good.

At around twenty to eight, Casimir deftly turned the conversation to ways of protecting Sinclair from his sister’s threat.

“Obviously, we should start with a ritual cleansing,” Kim McKinney said. “I’d be happy to oversee it.”

I’d just bet she would. I suppressed an irrational surge of jealousy.

“Have you done any work with crystals and visualization?” Sandra Sweddon asked Sinclair. “White light? Chakras?” He shook his head. “That’s okay, honey. We’ll work on it.”

“How do you feel about ink?” Mark Reston stretched out his arms to reveal a pair of large and intricate seals tattooed on his muscular forearms. “Sheila and I have a portfolio of sigils we designed ourselves. Some of them are for protection. You’re welcome to stop by the shop and see if any of them speak to you.”

“I’ll knit you a prayer shawl, dear,” Mrs. Meyers said in her kind voice. “There’s a blessing in every stitch.” She caught sight of Sinclair’s expression and chuckled. “Don’t worry, it’s more of a scarf than an actual shawl.”

Warren Rogers scratched his chin. “Sounds like you’ve got a bit of herb lore, then. You any good with plants?”

“Not bad,” Sinclair said. I wondered if that had anything to do with the elemental nature fairies’ fondness for him.

The landscaper gave him a shrewd look. “I could use a new assistant. Lost a couple of college kids to the fall semester, and I hear your tour’s only running on the weekends during the off season. You interested?”

“Point of clarification.” Casimir raised one finger before Sinclair could answer. “Are you talking about a job or an apprenticeship, Warren?”

He shrugged. “Depends on Mr. Palmer here. I could use a good worker either way. Don’t know that I’ve got a handle on this obeah business, but his studies sound close enough to my journey on the right-hand path. If he’s willing to dedicate himself to our craft, I’m willing to mentor him.”

Casimir turned to Sinclair. “Well? Are you?”

Sinclair frowned in thought. “What happens if I say no?”

“If you’re asking if we’ll withhold our assistance in the matter at hand, the answer’s no.” The Fabulous Casimir steepled his fingers. “We’ll do everything in our power to protect you. But to be perfectly honest, it will be more effective if you’re on your way to becoming an initiate. And if you’re asking if we’d like to have you, the answer is yes.”

Glancing around the room, Sinclair studied the members of the coven one by one—reading their auras, I assumed.

After a moment he nodded. “I’m in.”