Autumn Bones

Thirty-three

On the first day of October, the calendar on Lee’s awesome database sent me a reminder via pop-up, e-mail, and text message that Emmeline Palmer might be returning tomorrow, which would have been four weeks to the day from her ultimatum. Not that I needed the reminder, but it was nice to know it worked.

Anyway, no Emmeline the following day, so I guess we were going by the date. Accordingly, I received a second reminder two days later. I’d entered both dates into the calendar just in case.

It’s funny, but it never occurred to me that dear Emmy was being anything less than literal about her one-month deadline. An ordinary mundane mortal might say, “I’ll be back in a month,” meaning approximately a month’s time depending on flight schedules and availability. But numbers and units of time have significance in the eldritch community. A month meant a month.

And on the fourth of October, the early-warning system I’d bartered for paid off.

It was Mogwai who sensed it first. I was at home in my apartment working my way through the 2009 X-Files. I should have been practicing psychic shield drill, but it was already late afternoon and I was too jittery to concentrate. At a little after three thirty, Mogwai went from a sedate lump of cat dozing in my lap to a hissing, caterwauling wild thing flinging himself at the nearest window, claws splayed.

My heart skipped a beat. “What the hell, Mog?”

I went to the window to look. Across the park, the eldritch equivalent of a rugby scrum was headed our way—fairies, bogles, hobgoblins, and pixies, scrimmaging in a tangle of tattered wings and long, thorny limbs, all of them quarreling and shrieking at a decibel level barely within my range of hearing.

Leaving Mogwai behind, I clattered down the stairs just in time to see a trio of hobgoblins blocking like linebackers—okay, I’m mixing my sports metaphors, sue me—freeing a fourth to race free of the pack.

“Tuggle?” I peered at him as he gained the alley. Behind him, the scrum broke apart in disappointment. One lucky tourist snapped frantic photos before the disentangled fey winked out of visibility and the park abruptly sprouted a number of new shrubs and bushes, not to mention a pretty ring of poisonous mushrooms. “Is that you?”

The hobgoblin’s beady eyes gleamed. “The sister is back!” he announced triumphantly. “That makes us even for the sunglasses, right? I get a clean slate in your ledger?”

“Right,” I said. “So where is she now?”

Tuggle’s hooked nose twitched. “What do you mean now? She drove into town in a car like before. You said the first to tell you when,” he said in an accusatory tone. “You didn’t say to tell you where.”

“I thought it was—” I abandoned the thought in midsentence. “Never mind. Can you find out where she is now? Then I’ll owe you.”

“Ha!” a familiar voice shrilled. Jojo popped into view, hovering, green arms no bigger around than pipe cleaners folded over her slight bosom. “The sorceress has purchased residence in the same inn she frequented prior,” she informed me. “I thought to keep watch there. And now thy debt to me is increased yet again.”

Echoing her stance, I folded my arms. “My offer was to Tuggle, not you.”

Her wings beat at an agitated pace and her luminous lavender eyes narrowed. “I assumed—”

I interrupted her. “You know what they say—”

Jojo hissed at me. In the window upstairs, Mogwai hissed back. Tuggle scowled and fingered his nose.

“Okay, okay!” I sighed. “Jojo, just keep an eye on her and stay out of sight. Let me know if she makes a move to go anywhere. For Sinclair’s sake. Do that and I’ll owe you. Deal?”

The fairy sniffed. “Thou hast a deal, scullion.”

Great.

Upstairs, I petted Mogwai until he calmed down. First, I called the chief to let him know everything was under control, and then I called Sinclair to set the coven’s phone tree in motion.

And then I changed my clothes and went to pay a call on dear Emmy herself.

Strolling over to Idlewild Inn, I felt surprisingly calm. To be honest, a good wardrobe helped. One of the other things I’d done in the intervening weeks was turn my mom loose on mine. She’d designed a simple jersey knit dress for me that had just the right amount of motion, drape, and cling, and actually worked with the broad belt from which dauda-dagr hung. In charcoal-gray with a pair of knee-high black patent leather boots—sophisticated, but practical, with just a one-inch heel—it made for a reasonably elegant working outfit. I felt grown-up and competent wearing it. Plus, it left my tail free.

The boots had been a splurge. Although I had to wait another two months for it, I was kind of counting on collecting that two hundred and forty dollars I’d turned in after I busted Tuggle and Company’s shell game.

I had to show my police ID to the desk clerk at the Idlewild before she agreed to ring Emmeline Palmer’s room and announce me as a visitor. Then I had to wait, idling in the Idlewild’s quasi-Victorian lobby until dear Emmy deigned to emerge.

Maybe it was all the training in psychic self-defense that I’d been doing, or maybe it was just that Emmeline wasn’t bothering to hide her light under the proverbial bushel, but this time I sensed her power as she glided into the lobby.

Her dark gaze swept over me, possibly taking in the upgraded wardrobe—Emmeline herself was wearing a beautifully cut pantsuit of taupe silk with a cream-colored blouse underneath—and then skated past me to look out the window at the street beyond. She seemed mildly surprised to see nothing out of the ordinary there.

“Have you come to escort me out of town?” she inquired. “I would have expected a posse. Isn’t that how you Americans do things?”

“Sinclair wants a chance for the two of you to talk things out reasonably,” I said. “And I’ve agreed to it.”

Her eyelids flickered. “He does? I wouldn’t have—” She stopped.

“Wouldn’t have what?” I asked suspiciously.

“I wouldn’t have thought he’d bother,” Emmeline said flatly. “My brother knows when my mind’s made up.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “Maybe he’s got a few things to say that you haven’t considered.” I wasn’t about to give her any hint that her father was going to be part of the parley.

She eyed me dubiously. “And you would have me believe you simply agreed to this?”

“I don’t care what you believe.” I eyed her in return. “What was your plan if I had come in with a posse?”

Emmeline didn’t answer, her face taking on a shuttered look.

“Right.” I handed her a slip of paper. “In case you don’t have it, here’s Sinclair’s number. Give him a call and work out a time and place to meet on neutral territory.”

“No posse?” she asked.

“I’ll be there to observe,” I said. “And the posse will be close at hand. But you’ll have a chance to talk. It’s more than I would have given you.”

It was a good exit line, so I took it, leaving Emmeline standing in the lobby without a response.

I’m not going to lie—that part felt satisfying. There was a stirring in the hydrangea bushes alongside the inn’s front door as I passed, and Jojo peeked out to give me a grim-faced thumbs-up.

Half an hour later, I was feeling a lot less complacent.

“You agreed to what?” I shouted into my phone at Sinclair. “To meet where? Are you serious? The graveyard? At freakin’ sundown?”

“Emmy called on her right to have the dead bear witness on her behalf,” he said, as though it were the most logical thing in the world. “It was either that or agree to meet her with no witnesses of my own.”

“Uh, no!” I could feel the air around me tightening, and I tamped down my temper. “She doesn’t get to dictate the terms, Sinclair. We do.”

“Look, you agreed to let me set this up, Daisy.” There was a faint note of impatience in his voice. “She invoked a protocol. I accepted a compromise. Would you rather I’d agreed to meet her alone?”

“No,” I said. “I’d rather you hadn’t agreed to meet her at duppy ground zero. I mean, that’s what a cemetery is, right?”

There was a clicking sound on the other end of the phone as Sinclair shook his head, beaded dreads clattering. “Only if you want to catch ’em newly dead,” he said. “I checked the obituaries; no one’s died in Pemkowet in the past week. No wandering souls around. Anyway, I’m not worried about her catching duppies, just unleashing one. And if she decides to unleash a duppy she’s already caught, it won’t matter where we are. Trust me—Emmy’s just grandstanding. She probably thinks it will scare you,” he added.

Beneath my charcoal-gray knit jersey dress, my tail swished back and forth. “Don’t goad me.”

Sinclair gave a brief chuckle. “Sorry.”

“You’re sure?” I pressed him. “What does Casimir say? What about your dad? Is he on his way?”

“Casimir said the coven will only gain strength from making a stand on hallowed ground,” he said. “And my father should be arriving in about ten minutes. Okay?”

I sighed. “Okay.”

After I got off the phone with Sinclair, I called Stefan to inform him that I needed a posse. I mean, we’d talked about it before, so he was expecting my call. He just wasn’t expecting me to call it a posse.

“We will be there,” he assured me. “Cooper, Rafe, myself, and two others. I trust that will suffice?”

“Do you think I’m overdoing it?” I asked him.

“No,” Stefan said after a moment’s pause. “She challenged you on your own turf. I think a show of strength is wise.”

“Good,” I said. “And . . . thank you.”

“I owe you my life,” he said. “I remain in your debt. And it is your right as Hel’s agent to call upon your allies to defend her demesne.”

With that, he hung up.

If you like cemeteries, Pemkowet’s was charming. It dated back to the 1800s, when the town was founded, and featured lots of weathered headstones turning green with moss and lichen under somber pine trees and a few scattered maples. I arrived around seven o’clock, a good twenty minutes before the sun was due to set, steering my Honda along the narrow two-track that wound through the grounds, pulling off near the designated meeting place, which was in front of the elaborate Italianate mausoleum where the remains of axe murderer Talman “Tall Man” Brannigan were said to be interred. If you were to guess that it was a popular place for high school boys to bring girls to ply them with cheap beer and scare them with ghost stories, you would be correct.

But tonight it was Sinclair and his father who stood waiting before the sealed door of the mausoleum. The other members of the coven were arrayed on either side of them in a semicircle some twenty yards away. We nodded at one another.

“Daisy,” Sinclair greeted me. “Dad, this is Daisy Johanssen. Daisy, my father, Thomas Palmer.”

I held out my hand. “A pleasure.”

Mr. Palmer studied me, his eyes wary. He didn’t take my hand. He was a good-looking man, and I remembered Sinclair had said he was also a hardworking, God-fearing man. “So you’re . . .”

My tail flicked. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m the hell-spawn.”

“Huh.”

Apparently, he was also a man of few words. I hoped they would be enough to persuade his daughter.

Stefan’s posse arrived in a rumble of motorcycle engines. He directed Cooper and the others to array themselves around the cemetery in a loose circle, straddling their bikes and guarding the egresses, then parked his own gleaming Vincent Black Shadow behind my Honda and came to acknowledge me with one of his courtly half bows. He had a sword strapped to his back, and his pupils glinted in the fading light. “Hel’s liaison. I ask the honor of serving as your personal guard tonight.”

“Thanks,” I said. “That would be great.”

His mouth twitched ever so slightly, then he inclined his head and took a stance about ten paces away.

On the whole, I was feeling pretty good about our show of strength.

The sun hadn’t set yet, but it had sunk beneath the tree line in the west and dusk was deepening in the cemetery. Things stirred in the shadows—members of the fey, creeping closer to observe the coming showdown.

Sinclair’s father shuddered.

“It’s okay, Dad.” Sinclair laid a hand on his father’s shoulder. “They don’t mean any harm. They just want to see.”

Everyone waited. Cooper and the ghouls waited on their motorcycles. Casimir and the coven waited in their semicircle. I waited with Sinclair and his father, and Stefan not far away. Curious fairies, hobgoblins, bogles, and whatnot whispered and lurked in the shadows, also waiting.

In the distance, headlights.

There was a faint popping sound, and Jojo blinked into existence, her wings buzzing like a tiny helicopter. “They’re coming!” she shrilled, her narrow chest heaving. “They’re on their way!”

Wait a minute.

“Um . . . Jojo?” I said. “What do you mean, they?”

She shot me a disdainful look. “The sister and the other one, lackwit.”

“Other one?” My temper flared. “Other one? What fucking other one, Jojo? Why didn’t you tell me there was an other one?”

Backing away, Jojo bared her sharp, pointed teeth at me. “Because, you lumpish, hedge-born harpy, you didn’t ask!”

I gritted my own teeth. “I would have assumed—”

In midair, she folded her skinny arms and looked smug. “You know what they say.”

I did.

The rented convertible approached slowly along the winding cemetery drive. The top was down. I was guessing the car probably had heated seats. It stopped before us, headlights blazing. Two figures emerged, silhouettes in the glare of the headlights—one tall and slender and elegant, one stalwart and blocky.

“It’s Letitia,” Thomas Palmer said in a low voice. “It’s her.”

Sinclair swallowed audibly and shot me a single stricken glance before returning his gaze to the car. “Mom?”

It seemed the Right Honorable Judge Palmer had arrived.