Dark Currents: Agent of Hel

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Oh?”

  I nodded. “Yeah. Pieces are falling into place. Everything but the arrows. Las Jaras, right? Any thoughts?”

  “No,” she said apologetically. “I wish I did. Has everything else been as literal as the bottle?”

  I thought about La Sirena. “Very much so.”

  “Keep it in mind,” she suggested.

  “Thanks. I will.” I’d arrived at Casimir’s shop. “Okay, I’ve got to go. Love you!”

  “Love you, too, Daisy, baby!” Mom blew a kiss into the phone. “Be careful. Be safe, honey!”

  “I will,” I promised before ending the call.

  Bells chimed as I opened the door to the Sisters of Selene. The Fabulous Casimir, leaning on one elbow behind the counter, glanced up as I entered. Today he was sporting powder-white makeup, a geisha-style wig, and an ornate kimono.

  I found the sight heartening.

  “Hey, there, Miss Daisy,” he greeted me. “I’ve been asking around in certain circles, and I have a piece of news for you.” He shook his finger at me. “I didn’t know whether or not I should call the station with this. And you didn’t give me your personal phone number.”

  “I didn’t?”

  “No.”

  Well, that was an incredibly stupid oversight. Way to go, Daisy. I winced. “Oh, crap. I’m sorry. What do you have for me?”

  Casimir fished a file from under the counter, passing it to me. “I got this from a coven in Seattle and printed it out for you. Dr. Midnight’s Traveling Sideshow’s one true thing.”

  I flipped through the file.

  The images were grainy and low-resolution, scans of screen captures. But all of them showed the same thing: a mermaid in a tank, her face contorted with an expression that was meant to convey pleasure, but was more likely distress. And on every image, there was a different phone number to call.

  Casimir watched me beneath his artificial lashes. “They were pimping her, Daisy. Is that what’s happening here?”

  “Yeah,” I said softly. “We think so. How did this happen, Cas?”

  He shook his bewigged head. “All anyone knows is that she vanished after Dr. Midnight’s carnival was shut down in Seattle. What do you know?”

  I stared at the images. “I think someone stole her. One of the carnies.” I glanced up at him. “Thanks—this helps. And I promise we’re doing everything we can to find her. But that’s not why I’m here.”

  The Fabulous Casimir arched his painted eyebrows. “Oh?”

  “I need cowslip dew,” I informed him.

  He looked dubious. “It’s expensive. And it doesn’t work as well as it does if you harvest it yourself.”

  “I know.” I fully planned on invoicing the PVB for the cost. “But I need it in a hurry. Do cowslips even grow around here?”

  “No, but primroses work. Didn’t you ever try it when you were little?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, and I’ll gather the acorn caps myself, but I don’t have time to harvest that much dew. How much is it, anyway?”

  Casimir withdrew a little key on a long chain from beneath the folds of his kimono and emerged from behind the counter to unlock an apothecary case with glass doors. He plucked a stoppered flagon filled with clear liquid from an upper shelf. “It’s three hundred dollars an ounce, Daisy,” he said with sympathy. “And I can only get it in three-ounce containers.”

  Gah! “Can you sell me a third of a bottle?”

  “No can do, sweetheart,” he said. “Once the seal’s broken, the magic starts to evaporate.”

  “Okay.” Nine hundred bucks for a bottle of dew. I took out my credit card, calculating how much I had left on my limit. I really, really hoped the PVB didn’t quibble at the cost. Also that they paid their invoices promptly, or I was going to have a hell of a time making my rent next month. “There’s no invocation, is there? I never used one as a kid, but it didn’t always work, either.”

  “No, but to do it properly, you need a spotless, round white tablecloth, preferably Irish linen.” The Fabulous Casimir nodded at the door with a sour look. “Try across the street. I used to stock them, but they undercut my prices.”

  An Irish linen tablecloth from the Elegant Table set me back another eighty bucks. I was beginning to realize I’d gotten off cheap summoning naiads. Apparently fairies were a lot pricier when you went the commercial route. No wonder the naiads took offense.

  After depositing my purchases and the file on Dr. Midnight’s star attraction in my apartment, I ducked into the park, where there were a couple of spectacular old oak trees. I hunted around beneath their shade, scrabbling my fingers through the thin grass that grew there, rooting in the hard-packed dirt. In mid-July, it was harder than you might think to find acorn caps.

  “Whatcha doin’?” a small voice asked me.

  I looked up to see a chubby boy some six or seven years old, wearing a striped shirt, khaki shorts, and kid-size Crocs on his feet, watching me gravely. “Looking for acorn caps.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to have a tea party for some fairies.” I sat back on my heels. “Where are your parents?”

  He pointed toward a pair of exhausted-looking women seated on a park bench surrounded by shopping bags. “That’s Mom and Aunt Nancy. They’ve been shopping all day long. Can I come to your tea party?”

  “No,” I said. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Fairies are very shy.”

  “Oh.” With perfect unselfconsciousness, he rooted around in one nostril with his finger, and okay, ew, but I kind of liked the kid’s aplomb. He pulled out his finger and inspected the tip. “Can I help you look?”

  The nearby rhododendron bushes rustled, and Mogwai deigned to make an appearance, winding around the boy’s Croc-strapped ankles and purring.

  Boogers notwithstanding, I felt an inexplicable surge of tenderness. “Sure, why not? What’s your name?”

  He beamed at me. “Jake.”

  “Hi, Jake.” I smiled back at him. “I’m Daisy.”

  It turned out to be a smart move. When it came to finding acorn caps, Jake was like one of those truffle-hunting pigs in France. With his help, I soon had a good twenty-some nubby, hollow caps.

  With the pockets of my jeans filled, I walked him over to the park bench. His mother looked up wearily. “I’m sorry. Was he bothering you?”

  “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

  She did a double take as dauda-dagr registered, nudging Aunt Nancy with one elbow. Both of them gaped at me.

  I ignored them. “Thanks, Jake. You were a big help.”

  He nodded, his eyes wide and earnest, his bangs flopping over his forehead. “Will you say hello to the fairies for me?”

  “Absolutely,” I promised him.

  Thirty-three

  I had everything I needed, and I had an idea.

  No, two ideas.

  First I called Jen. I got her voice mail. “Hey, girl!” I said. “Looks like I’m on a mission for the PVB, and I’ve got to pay a visit to Twilight Manor tonight. If you want to ride shotgun, let me know.”

  She might or she might not. I wasn’t sure. We’d gone out there a few times over the years to check on her sister, Bethany, and try in vain to convince her to leave. But let’s face it: It’s a scary and deeply creepy place. After this morning’s adventure, Jen would either be more inclined than usual to give Bethany a piece of her mind for abandoning her family, or more inclined than usual to let her waste away out there. Either way, I couldn’t really blame her.

  Next, I called Sinclair Palmer. “Hi,” I said when he answered. “It’s Daisy Johanssen. We met earlier today?”

  He laughed. “You think that’s something I’m likely to forget, sistah?”

  I smiled. “Look, the chief of police wants me to get on this PR business. I’m going to try doing a little outreach with some pretty, sparkly fairies for you. Want to come?”

  There was a brief silence on the other end. “Are you kidding? I’d give my left hand for the cha
nce.”

  “Not worth it.” I shook my head. “Trust me. Where are you? I’ll pick you up.”

  He gave me the address of a rental house out in the countryside just north of town. Ten minutes later, I pulled into the driveway and parked next to an old double-decker tour bus. It was bright yellow, red, and green, with PEMKOWET SUPERNATURAL TOURS painted on either side.

  “Wow,” I said as Sinclair emerged from the house. “You must have been pretty confident.”

  He shrugged. “I took a chance. My father works at a custom auto shop.” He patted the bus. “The paint job was a birthday present.”

  “Nice. Are you and your dad close?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” There was a faint note of reservation in his tone. He laughed self-consciously. “And I guess I have to say I hope you aren’t, eh?”

  “Oh, believe me, I’m not. But my mom’s great. What happened with my father wasn’t her fault.” I glanced at my watch. “We should get going. Ready?”

  “Ready.” In the Honda, Sinclair pulled out a folded map of Pemkowet produced by the PVB. “I’ve mapped out a route that covers a lot of historical highlights.” He traced it with one finger. “That ancient librarian’s been a big help with the research. You know the one I mean? Looks like she’s a hundred and fifty years old? I think she actually remembers a lot of this stuff.”

  “The Sphinx?”

  He looked startled. “Is that what she is?”

  “That’s what I’ve always heard.” I was curious. “What does her aura look like?”

  Sinclair frowned. “It’s very . . . muted. I assumed it was because she’s so old. Sometimes that happens when people are near the end of their lives. But maybe it’s because she’s powerful enough to suppress it.”

  “Is that how it works?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’m learning as I go. If I’d stayed with my mother—” He fell silent.

  Ohh-kay. I had a feeling it wasn’t a time to pry. “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m making it up as I go along, too. I can’t guarantee this summoning will work, and even if it does, it could backfire. Asking fairies to conform to anything that resembles order is a lot like herding cats.”

  He tapped the map on his thigh. At the risk of repeating myself, I have to say it was exactly the right kind of muscular. Must be all the bicycling. “Was it incredibly stupid of me to bring a map to show them?”

  “Honestly?” I said. “I have absolutely no idea.”

  The destination I’d chosen was an overgrown meadow behind a site just off the highway where a small motel had once stood. It had been condemned and torn down ages ago, and no one had developed the property since. The nature preserve might have seemed like a better bet, but at this time of day, there was a good chance of running into tourists, and I needed privacy.

  We hiked past a stand of pine trees and into the center of the meadow, which was filled with indigenous plants and wildflowers—Queen Anne’s lace, chicory, butterfly weed, hawkweed, joe-pye weed . . . come to think of it, a lot of perfectly lovely flowers with rather unfortunate names. We even passed one of Mr. Leary’s writing spiders, almost as big as the palm of my hand, with vivid yellow and black markings, sitting in the center of its web. Sure enough, a zigzagging ladder bisected the spiral orb of its web. I checked discreetly to make sure nothing was written there.

  With Sinclair’s help, I trampled down a circle and spread the white linen tablecloth on the ground. Emptying my pockets of acorn caps, I placed them around the rim of the cloth, making sure they were spaced evenly and nestled securely in place.

  Sinclair watched with a bemused look as I pulled the stopper on the flagon, breaking the seal, and began carefully filling each acorn cap to the brim. “What is that?”

  “Nine hundred dollars’ worth of cowslip dew,” I said, concentrating on not spilling it. “So let’s hope this works.” When I was finished, I still had half a bottle of dew left. Not sure what to do with it, I left it open and placed it in the center of the tablecloth.

  “Okay,” he said. “What happens now?”

  I sat cross-legged in front of one of the acorn-cap place settings, and pointed at the setting opposite me. “We wait.”

  Still looking bemused, Sinclair took a seat on the other side of the tablecloth.

  Although it was late afternoon by now, in mid-July the sun was still high. It beat down on us. I could hear birdsong and the faint drone of cars on the highway. Even through my jeans, the meadow grass was prickly. Minutes passed, feeling like hours. Hell, maybe it was hours. I fought the urge to shift and scratch. My pent-up tail wriggled in futile protest.

  Maybe this was a stupid idea—

  No, wait.

  “There,” Sinclair breathed, his brown eyes widening. “Behind you!”

  I swallowed. “Behind you.”

  His gaze shifted. “And there—”

  “And over there,” I added.

  Okay, I’d dealt with fairies before, but never so many at the same time. And I’ll admit it was surprisingly intimidating. Emerging from the meadow and shedding their glamours, a dozen or more descended on the feast I’d laid out for them. Tilted catlike eyes glittered feverishly. Long, attenuated fingers with too many joints snatched up the acorn caps, tossing back the contents into mouths lined with unnervingly keen little teeth. Translucent wings fluttered, making the air around them sparkle. Golden sunlight fell on green skin, lavender skin, pale blue skin. And yes, they were very, very pretty—but scary, too.

  Sinclair Palmer gazed around him in wonder, and then yelped. “Ow!” he said in protest. “Hey! You pulled my hair!”

  “Ooh, look,” one of the lavender-skinned fairies said to another, stroking Sinclair’s short woolly dreads. “It’s already in elf-locks.”

  “Ooh!”

  I cleared my throat and raised my rune-marked left hand. “Hello? Hel’s liaison. Can we talk?”

  The fairy nearest me sported greenish skin, an aureole of lacy white hair, and deep-purple eyes. She eyed dauda-dagr’s hilt and hissed, baring her pointed teeth. “It’s cold and it hurts, half-breed!”

  “Too bad,” I said ruthlessly. “We need your help.”

  Her narrow nostrils flared. “Take thy weapon away!”

  I shook my head. “Not a chance.”

  “Daisy?” Sinclair’s voice was faint and uncertain. “Um . . . help?”

  Be careful what you wish for, right? Fairies swarmed him, laughing and shrieking and buzzing like a flock of locusts, crawling over him, stroking his hair and skin, tugging fondly at his dreadlocks. One with a fiery shock of red-orange hair the color of hawkweed helpfully refilled an acorn cap with dew and shoved it between his lips, forcing him to drink, spluttering.

  I drew dauda-dagr. “Enough!”

  There was a pause. I experienced a fleeting moment of satisfaction.

  “Uh-oh,” murmured a fairy with pale purple hair piled atop her head in clumps, looking for all the world like a stalk of joe-pye weed. “Uh-oh!”

  All of them gazed in the same direction.

  I did, too.

  Oh, crap. It wasn’t my drawing dauda-dagr that had given the fairies pause after all. It was something a lot more imposing. I hadn’t reckoned on eldritch royalty, but apparently that was what I’d gotten. He stood motionless on the far outskirts of the meadow beneath the dappled camouflage of trees.

  Time slowed down.

  “Daisy?”

  I climbed to my feet, beckoning for Sinclair to follow suit. All the fairies kept silent as the Oak King approached, not so much as a single wing fluttering.

  I’d heard rumors of the Oak King’s existence, but I didn’t know anyone who claimed to have seen him—and believe me, you’d remember. His skin was acorn-brown, his hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, antlers rising from the thick, springing curls over his temples. A long cloak hung from his shoulders. One minute it appeared to be deerskin; the next, it looked to be woven of leaves and moss. He moved soundlessly ac
ross the meadow, and it seemed almost as though the meadow shrank at the same time, the trees pressing in closer around us. When he reached us, or we reached him, leaf shadows still stippled his tall figure.

  I went to one knee without thinking, according him the same respect I would to Hel herself. Sinclair did the same without being prompted.

  “Hel’s liaison, I believe.” The Oak King’s voice was deep and resonant, but there was a hushed quality to it, too, like the stillness at noon in the depths of a forest. “What is it you come seeking?”

  I rose, sheathing dauda-dagr. “Aid, Your Majesty.” As I stood in front of him, the specifics of the request sounded too ridiculous to put into words. “I don’t know if you’re aware—”

  “A boy has died, yes.” He inclined his antlered head. “You seek justice for him.” He gestured at the fairies, quiet and clustered together, looking for all the world like misbehaving children sobering in their father’s presence. “But you will find none here. My people are innocent in this matter.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, yeah. I know. Actually, we’re here to ask for their help with public relations.”

  “Oh?” There was a world of patience in his deep brown eyes. It gave me courage to voice the absurd.

  “Tourists come to Pemkowet looking for wonder,” I said. “And your people are among the most wondrous. We’re asking that some of them reveal themselves. At, um, regularly scheduled times and places. This is Sinclair Palmer,” I said, indicating him. “He’s proposing a . . . a tour bus route.”

  Sinclair got to his feet and offered a stiff bow. “I have a map,” he added faintly.

  The Oak King stood motionless for a long time. At last he lifted his gaze to the sky, then glanced around the meadow, settling it on the clustered fairies. They huddled closer together, wings vibrating ever so slightly. “There is too little wonder left in the world,” the Oak King said in a thoughtful tone. “It should be cherished and protected. I realize that this requires the cooperation of mortals, who are so often quick to destroy what they fear. These smallest of people are not always mindful of this.”