Dark Currents: Agent of Hel

by Jacqueline Carey

  And no, I hadn’t seen Stefan or spoken with him since the night it all went down. As he’d said, he could wait.

  Silence weighed heavy on the room. Sheriff Barnard and Chief Bryant exchanged a glance. They were cut from the same cloth: big men in positions of power who knew how to use their imposing presence well.

  “Anything you boys want to tell us about the night Thad Vanderhei died?” the sheriff asked gently.

  Mike Huizenga shook his head violently. Kyle Middleton wrapped his arms around himself and shivered.

  “All right, then.” Sheriff Barnard nodded at Detective Wilkes, who opened a file and slid a handful of photographs of the rusalka in her tank across the table. “Let us tell you. Chief Bryant?”

  The chief cleared his throat. Leaning forward to prop his elbows on the table and fold his meaty hands over each other, he laid out the whole sordid story from beginning to end, periodically consulting with Cody or me to confirm a detail.

  At first, the parents were in utter denial. I couldn’t blame them. It really was unthinkable, and all the more so because the young men involved were raised in devout Christian households and taught to revile the very existence of the eldritch community. But then, I suppose that made the temptation posed by forbidden fruit all the stronger.

  At any rate, it wasn’t long before the boys’ reactions made it impossible to deny the truth. Kyle simply shut down, going into a state of glaze-eyed catatonia and refusing to respond to his parents’ insistent questions. Mike Huizenga broke silently, tears streaming down his broad face, his linebacker’s shoulders shaking.

  The room got very quiet.

  “So it’s true,” Jim Vanderhei said after a long moment. No one answered him. “Whose idea was it to put Thad in the river?”

  Chief Bryant glanced at me. “That’s one detail we don’t know,” I admitted.

  “It was that crazy woman’s.” Mike’s voice was thick with tears, but audible. “The lady ghoul. Then the other one, Ray, he said he’d hot-wire a motorboat once the bars closed and no one would ever have to know. So Kyle and I just grabbed a bottle from the bar and started drinking.” Turning his head, he wiped his nose on the sleeve of his T-shirt. I rose to fetch a box of tissues and handed it to him. “Thanks.”

  “And these . . . ghouls?” Jim Vanderhei pronounced the word with profound distaste. “They’re to be charged with my son’s death?”

  “No,” I said. The chief hadn’t gotten to that part in his narrative. “They were both killed in the course of the raid.”

  Thad’s father eyed me with disbelief. “That’s awfully convenient. You’re protecting them, aren’t you?”

  “For what they did to the rusalka?” My temper stirred. “No, sir. Never. Not in a thousand years. I assure you, they’re dead.”

  “But I thought that was impossible,” Sue Vanderhei said in a faint voice, surprising me. “I thought they were condemned to eternally prey on the sufferings of others.”

  Everyone looked at me. “Nothing is impossible,” I said. “There are weapons that can kill even a ghoul.”

  “I give you my word, ma’am,” Cody added. “I saw it with my own eyes. They’re dead and gone, and they’re never coming back.”

  “So what happens now?” Kyle’s father demanded. “What happens to our boys? Are they being charged?”

  “They could be,” Sheriff Barnard said bluntly. “Concealment of an accidental death is a punishable offense. But given the fact that they were subject to unnatural influences at the time, I’m not inclined to bring charges against them.” He glanced at Jim and Sue Vanderhei. “Unless the victim’s parents insist on it.”

  Jim Vanderhei hesitated.

  “No!” his wife said vehemently. “I won’t have it, Jim! I won’t have Thad’s name dragged through the mud.” She pointed at Mike and Kyle, her hand trembling. “These boys didn’t make Thad climb in that awful tank with that unspeakable thing, and they’ll have to live with the memory of what happened for the rest of their lives. Don’t you think that’s punishment enough?”

  Reluctantly, he nodded.

  “Then I think we’re done here,” the sheriff said. “Thank you for your time, Mr. and Mrs. Vanderhei; again, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Unfortunately, Sue Vanderhei wasn’t finished. She stabbed a manicured finger in the chief’s direction. “None of this would have happened if he didn’t tolerate a demonic element in Pemkowet’s midst! Chief Bryant should be dismissed and that unholy underworld razed to the ground!”

  “Amen,” Mr. and Mrs. Huizenga murmured in unison.

  My tail thrashed, and I could feel the air tightening around me, the scent of ozone rising. I fought to keep a lid on my temper.

  The chief glanced at me with his sleepy-lidded Robert Mitchum eyes. “Go ahead, Daisy.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to the parents. “But none of this would have happened if your sons hadn’t thought it was a great joke to spend their time browsing Schtupernatural-dot-com, if they hadn’t decided that sexually abusing an eldritch being—a sentient, feeling being held captive against her will—would make them Masters of the Universe. The ghouls preyed on the rusalka’s emotions, yes. But they relied on ordinary human men like your sons to make her suffer.”

  There was another silence.

  It was Kyle Middleton who broke it, emerging from his catatonic state. “We didn’t know,” he whispered. “We didn’t know what we were getting into. The ad didn’t say anything about her being held captive. And Matt, Matt Mollenkamp . . . Matt and Ron said . . . Matt and Ron, they said . . .” His voice cracked. “We didn’t know!”

  “I believe you,” I said. “But you went through with it anyway when you found out, didn’t you?”

  “We tried to, yeah.” His haunted gaze met mine. “Or at least, we would have. Thad went first.”

  I couldn’t help it; I felt sorry for him. Sue Vanderhei might be high-strung and intolerant, but she was right about one thing.

  It was a lot to live with for the rest of their lives.

  Forty-two

  Bit by bit, things returned to normal in Pemkowet.

  I went back to being a part-time file clerk at the police department, albeit one with a magic dagger on her hip and the Oak King’s token strung on a chain of dwarf-mined silver around her neck. Cody went back to working patrol on the night shift, and we saw less of each other. I found myself missing him: the real Cody, the Cody I’d come to know, not just the object of my long-standing crush. Even if I’d wanted more, I’d liked having a partner.

  I continued to avoid Stefan.

  Stefan continued to be patient. I had a feeling his patience could wear down mountains. Whether or not it could wear down me, we’d have to wait and see. It was going to take me a while to forget the sight of him impaling himself on his own sword, and I still wasn’t thrilled about the fact that he was attuned to my emotions.

  Lurine returned from Seattle with a satisfyingly stirring tale of seeing the rusalka turned loose in Puget Sound, returning to the wild, and heading unerringly toward her home somewhere in the Bering Sea, free and unfettered.

  I wished I could have been there to see it.

  After spending a week at home, Jen’s sister, Bethany, put on a much-needed ten pounds, copped a healthier attitude toward her bloodsucker beau . . . and promptly caved when Geoffrey the insufferable prat begged her to return to the House of Shadows, vowing for the umpteenth time to make good on his promise to change her.

  Yeah, I know. You can’t win them all. I started looking into ways to break the blood-bond anyway.

  Amanda Brooks at the PVB was outraged at the invoice I submitted for cowslip dew and a linen tablecloth. I stood my ground, reminding her that I’d delivered big-time on her request for pretty, sparkly fairies, and that I could certainly tell them to cancel their appearances if she didn’t want to reimburse me.

  In the end, she relented and paid it, which was good, since it meant I could pay my rent that month.

 
; Mogwai approved and begrudgingly forgave me, so long as it meant his bowl was filled with kibble whenever he deigned to visit.

  Terri Sweddon married the youngest Dalton boy in the Episcopal church, looking like a vision in a sleek Vera Wang–inspired satin gown Mom made for her, flanked by bridesmaids in ivory-hued sheath dresses they might actually wear on another occasion. Even the mother of the bride looked surprisingly stylish.

  I know, I know, you don’t care, but Pemkowet is a small town, okay? And in a small town, these things matter to us.

  Plus, my mom rules.

  And my father’s voice had gone remarkably silent since the showdown at the Locksley residence.

  I was good with that, too. Forbidden fruit and all.

  A month after Thad’s death, I attended Music in the Gazebo for the first time since the night his body had been found there. I was hoping to shake the association, and Jen needed cheering up after Bethany’s defection, so I invited a few other people: Mom, Lurine, Cody, and Sinclair Palmer. Everyone but Sinclair came, and to my surprise, Caleb and Jeanne Fairfax and their two boys joined us, too.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I invited them.” Cody lowered his voice. “I think it’s good for them to get out of the woods every once in a while.”

  “I’m glad they came,” I said, meaning it. The Fairfax clan might be insular, but they’d come through for us that night at the Locksley place.

  We spread our blankets and set up our folding chairs on the grass in front of the gazebo. The band was called Swing Time Revue, one of the last touring holdouts from the big swing music revival that went on ten or fifteen years ago. Despite the August heat, they had the whole look going on: the high-waisted pegged pants, long coats with wide lapels and padded shoulders, natty hats. The lead singer was sweating buckets as he exhorted us to jump, jive, and wail, but the band was good and the music was infectious.

  “Think you still remember how to do it, Daisy?” Mom asked me with a mischievous look.

  Cody chuckled. “You took swing dancing classes?”

  “No.” I pointed at my mother. “She did. She made me practice with her. I was, like, ten years old.”

  “Twelve,” she corrected me, then gave a mock sigh. “But I suppose you’re far too grown-up for it now, huh?”

  Lurine lowered the oversize sunglasses that rendered her semi-incognito and gave me a stern look. “Oh, for God’s sake, cupcake, dance with your mother.”

  I eyed Mom. “Do you want to lead or shall I?”

  She smiled. “I will.”

  So I danced with my mother on the trampled grass, both of us laughing as we held each other’s hands and tried in vain to remember how the basic steps went, eventually giving up and just making it up as we went along while the trumpets wailed and the lead singer mopped his sweating brow.

  We weren’t alone. Adults danced, some badly, some of them rather well. Little kids danced, entranced by the rhythm. Older kids hung around pretending like they didn’t wish they dared to shed their inhibitions and join in the fun.

  Cody and Jen danced together, the young Fairfax boy-cubs tumbling around their feet in some complicated feral game of their own invention while their parents watched with a mixture of benevolence and concern. At least Cody’s nephews weren’t yipping and growling aloud this time.

  On the band’s first break, Sinclair turned up, picking his way through the crowd when I spotted him and waved. After introducing him to everyone, I scooted over on the blanket to make room.

  Sinclair plunked himself down next to me. “Am I imagining things, or is that Lurine Hollister you just introduced me to?” he whispered.

  I sighed. “Yeah.”

  “Cool.” He nodded. “I didn’t know.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “I can’t say for sure, but let’s just say she’s sporting an almighty powerful aura for a B-list actress who starred in some awfully crappy movies, even if she was the best thing about them,” Sinclair said with amusement, his shoulder brushing mine. His voice changed, taking on a different shade of emotion. “Your mom’s pretty. Got a pretty aura, too. Tranquil. Not what I expected, I guess.”

  “Exactly what did you expect?” I asked him.

  “I’m not sure.” He shrugged. “Given what you are, I guess I assumed she’d seem more like someone inclined to traffic with demonic forces. No offense—I know you said it wasn’t her fault. She seems really nice, that’s all.”

  “She is nice,” I said firmly. “She’s the best person I know. And the, um, trafficking was an accident.”

  The band returned to the stage, expending a tremendous amount of energy endeavoring to invoke a zoot-suit riot. The sun sank in the west, gilding the dome of the gazebo. Soft violet twilight hovered, and the white fairy lights lacing the gazebo’s latticework twinkled to life. The steam-wheeler replica Pride of Pemkowet returned from its sunset excursion to Lake Michigan, its paddle wheel churning the river’s murky waters.

  “Hey, sistah! I still owe you.” Sinclair bumped me, nudging my shoulder with his. “Maybe I could buy you dinner sometime?”

  Cody glanced over at us, a hint of phosphorescent green flashing behind his eyes. Jealousy, maybe? Interesting. But it wasn’t like I hadn’t laid my cards on the table and given him every opportunity. Maybe a little jealousy wouldn’t be such a bad thing. And although I didn’t know him well, from what I did know, I genuinely liked Sinclair. Maybe that was worth exploring on its own merits.

  “You sure about that?” I asked Sinclair. “I mean, given what I am and all?”

  He nodded. “I’m sure.”

  I looked into his clear brown eyes with their steady pupils. “I’d like that,” I said honestly. “It would be nice.”

  “Nice,” he echoed. “All right, then. I’ll call you.”

  Nice.

  It shouldn’t be a laden word, but in a way it was. Nice could be a consolation prize, like Cody’s hug in the driveway of the Locksley place. Nice could be taking the easy way out, like accepting an ordinary date with Sinclair while avoiding Stefan, who offered something that tempted and scared me.

  But nice didn’t necessarily mean making the safe choice, either.

  My mother’s niceness was clean and pure and good, and she made a hard choice because of it.

  Knowing what I was, having conceived me against her will, she chose to have me anyway.

  When I was thirteen or fourteen, some kids at school, Stacey Brooks and her friends, started calling me Rosemary’s Baby. I’m sure they got it from their parents, since the movie was, like, twenty years old before any of us were born, and that was right around the time a group of parents unsuccessfully petitioned the school board to kick me out on the grounds that I made the other kids uncomfortable.

  Anyway.

  I wanted to know what it meant, so Mom and I watched Rosemary’s Baby together. It left me shaken. If you haven’t seen it, it’s pretty creepy. Especially the ending, where Mia Farrow finally accepts her destiny and begins rocking the cradle that holds her creepy goat-eyed infant hell-spawn.

  It made me cry. I didn’t want to be that baby, and I think it was the first time I truly understood that I was that baby.

  It was Mom who argued that the ending was left open, that no one knew what happened next. That maybe the movie’s ultimate message was that the strength and purity of a mother’s love was enough to redeem even the spawn of Satan, let alone a lesser demon and sometime incubus like Belphegor. And I believed it, because she believed it.

  She still does.

  So do I.

  And yeah, I was willing to give nice a try.

 

 

 
100%); -ms-filter: grayscale(100%); filter: grayscale(100%); " class="sharethis-inline-share-buttons">share