Autumn Bones

Twelve

Jojo the joe-pye weed fairy was lying in wait for me outside my apartment, bursting out of the rhododendrons in a cloud of sparkling pollen, slingshot at the ready.

“Jesus!” Startled, I jumped and threw up my hands in a defensive pose. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“I saw what passed atop the bridge. What new slattern ventures onto the stage?” Her tiny face was set in a fierce expression. “Speak, you ruttish, whey-faced scullion!” A handful of tourists passing through the park exclaimed with delight. I’m pretty sure they’d missed Jojo’s actual commentary.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” I glared back at her. “She’s his sister, you, you . . . dew-swilling nitwit.”

Jojo paused, hovering. “I knew not he had a sister.”

“Yeah, neither did I.” Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Mogwai stalking toward her under the rhodos. Damned if I was going to warn her. “And I don’t know what she’s up to. If you want to find out, I suggest you go spy on her.”

Something in my face must have given the game away a split second before Mogwai pounced, because Jojo glanced sideways, then shot two feet higher in a blur of translucent wings and fairy dust. Showing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth, she hissed at him. Not the slightest bit fazed, Mogwai hissed right back at her.

Now the tourists looked uneasy. “Mouth closed, Jojo,” I reminded her.

The fairy shut her mouth with a tiny but audible snap before winking out of sight. Good riddance.

Upstairs, I showered Mogwai with praise and opened a can of tuna as a special treat, then went to stare disconsolately into my closet. You’d think a seamstress’s daughter would have a stellar wardrobe, but the truth is that I went through a bit of a rebellious stage in my teens—I know, surprise, right?—followed by a conscientious phase where I wouldn’t let my mom waste time and effort on me that could be spent on paying clients. As a result, other than a few simple classics like the dress I’d worn last night, my wardrobe could really use an update.

In light of the arrival of Sinclair’s stylish sister, maybe it was time to take Mom up on her offer. At least I could afford to pay for materials now. Probably.

I was still contemplating the idea when my phone rang.

“Hey, cupcake!” Lurine greeted me, sounding languid and pleased with herself. “Sorry it took me so long to get back to you.”

“No problem.” I shifted the phone under my ear. “You warned me. Is everything okay?”

“Oh, sure. What’s up?”

After the scene at Rainbow’s End, I needed a little more concrete assurance. “So he . . . I mean, the satyr . . . isn’t in rut anymore?”

“Nico? No, he’s fine for now. It’s run its course.”

So the satyr had a name. Who knew? “Good, that’s great. I was hoping you might have some advice on making sure it never happens again.”

“Well, of course it’s going to happen again,” Lurine said mildly. “He’s a satyr. You can’t fight nature, honey.”

“Um . . . yeah. I mean the part where it sets off an orgy,” I said. “A human, public-health-hazard-type orgy.”

“Oh, right.” There was the sound of a champagne cork popping in the background. “Are you okay, Daisy? You sound a little distracted.”

“I’m fine. Do you have any suggestions?”

“Mmm.” Lurine wasn’t buying my dismissal. “You’re not working today, are you?”

“No,” I admitted. “Not unless I get called in on a case.”

“Well, then, here’s a suggestion for you. Why don’t you put on your bikini and get your cute little behind over here? It’s a perfect day to lay out by the pool and discuss orgy prevention. Oh, and stop on your way and pick up some peach nectar, will you?” Lurine added. “Tell Edgerton I feel like Bellinis.”

She hung up before I could answer, which annoyed me for a second or two before I realized that I really couldn’t imagine a better way to spend this particular day.

Lurine lived in a mansion on the lakeshore. The property came with lakefront access, but it was situated inland, nestled in the woods for maximum privacy. It was big and ostentatious and new, and a very far cry from the mobile home in Sedgewick Estate where Lurine Hollister née Clemmons had been my neighbor and babysitter when I was growing up.

Honestly, I can’t say the fabulously wealthy B-movie starlet and infamous widow Lurine Hollister was any happier or more content than simple, small-town bombshell Lurine Clemmons had been, or vice versa. They were just masks to her, and I don’t know that she preferred one to the other.

She probably had more fun being the notorious Lurine Hollister, but it was as Lurine Clemmons that she’d forged a genuine friendship with my mom and me, and over the course of this summer I’d come to realize that it meant a great deal to her, because it didn’t happen often to an immortal monster like her.

All credit goes to my mom on that score. Apparently raising a hell-spawn baby gives you a special knack for caring about monsters. Oh, and to put it up front, Lurine has made generous offers of financial support to both of us. Mom’s always been adamant about refusing, and I don’t want to undermine her decision on this.

At any rate, Lurine’s butler buzzed me through the gated drive and greeted me at the door. “Ms. Hollister is expecting you.”

“Great.” I handed him the jar of peach nectar I’d purchased on my way. “She said she wants Bellinis.”

He inclined his head. “Of course.”

Lurine was lolling in a lounge chair beside the pool in a gold lamé bikini and sunglasses, looking every inch the Hollywood movie starlet. “Hey, sweetie!” Reaching over, she patted the lounge chair nearest her. “Grab a towel and come soak up some sunshine.”

Realizing that she wasn’t alone, I hesitated. Nico the satyr was diligently wielding a long-handled pool skimmer, clad in a pair of loose-fitting board shorts with a sizeable hole cut out to accommodate his flowing horse’s tail.

“What?” Lurine followed my gaze. “Oh, it’s fine. Don’t worry, he’ll behave himself now. Won’t you, Nicodemus?”

The satyr gave her a surprisingly sweet smile. “Yes, kyria.”

I have to admit I still felt a bit self-conscious stripping down to my bathing suit with the memory of Nico’s ginormous schlong bobbing in the air—not to mention my own response, along with everyone else’s, to his funky satyr pheromones—but true to his word, he ignored me, concentrating on his task. I took a neatly folded towel from the cupboard beneath a pergola that looked like something from the set of a Pottery Barn photo shoot and went to join Lurine, who lifted a mostly empty champagne bottle from an ice bucket beside her and regarded it with a critical eye.

“Nico!” she called. “Go see if Mr. Edgerton’s got the Bellinis ready, will you?”

“Yes, kyria.” Setting down the pool skimmer, the satyr trotted toward the French doors, his tail swishing amicably.

“So . . . you’re keeping him?” I asked Lurine. That didn’t sound right, but I wasn’t sure how else to phrase it.

“Oh, for a while. He doesn’t know anyone else in the area.”

“How did he end up here?”

Lurine shrugged. “Most places with a functioning underworld tend to be pretty metropolitan these days. Cities built atop the ruins of cities. He heard that Pemkowet’s a better fit for pastoral types and decided to check it out.”

“Nice timing,” I said sardonically. “Jesus, I didn’t even think he could talk the other night.”

“Oh, he couldn’t,” she said without irony. “Satyrs in rut revert to a preverbal state. But don’t worry, it only happens every twelve years.”

“Really?”

“Immortals live long lives, cupcake. And it’s not like satyrs are impotent between their cycles.” Her lips curved in a smile. “They’re just not hyper-potent.”

The satyr returned, balancing a tray with two champagne glasses filled with sparkling wine and peach nectar. After delivering them, he went back to skimming the pool. I sipped my Bellini thoughtfully, watching him. “So I don’t have to worry about Nico going into rut for another twelve years?”

“Right.”

“But I need to be prepared for it,” I said. “I mean, assuming he stays and Hel doesn’t fire me for not knowing what the, um, hell I’m doing half the time. Which means I need to keep track of his cycle.” I glanced over at Lurine. “Do you think he’s staying? Does he like it here?”

“Well, he’s not thrilled that I made him put on shorts,” she said. “But that was just for your sake.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it. But that’s not what I meant.”

“I know.” Lurine gave me an amused look. “Yes, he likes it here. I don’t know if he’s staying. But if I were you, I’d err on the side of caution and assume so. And I’d assume there may be others that will follow.”

I thought about that, and about the warning I’d given Tuggle the hobgoblin, and the myriad other instances where members of the eldritch community had violated mundane laws. Sure, there were reports in the X-Files, but that wasn’t exactly what I needed. “You know what I should do?” I said, thinking aloud. “I should create a central database with information on the entire eldritch population of Pemkowet, or at least as much as I can gather.” Lurine sipped her Bellini without comment and I began to second-guess myself. “You don’t think it’s a good idea?”

“No.” She took off her sunglasses. “I do, actually. It’s just a measure of how quickly the world is changing, and how much it has changed in the past century.” She smiled again, but it was a wistful smile. “I’ve been the subject of myths, legends, and poems. I’ve never been an entry in a database.”

“I didn’t mean you!” I said quickly.

Lurine cocked her head at me, and I fell silent. Of course it would have to contain an entry on Lurine, and Cody, too, and all the rest of his clan, including his two rambunctious nephews. Stefan and all his ghouls. And Mrs. Browne from the bakery, and Gus the ogre, and any other members of the eldritch community I considered friends. Me, too, for that matter.

“Maybe it’s a bad idea,” I said.

“No,” Lurine said quietly. “It’s not. It’s an idea of its time, that’s all. It would help you do the job Hel appointed you to. And that’s important, Daisy. All of this . . .” She made a gesture that somehow included not only the mansion and the surrounding trees, the satyr skimming the pool, and Lake Michigan in the distance, but all of Pemkowet. “It’s a lot more fragile than it looks.”

“I know,” I murmured. Things had gotten ugly with the Vanderhei case earlier this summer, reminding me just how delicate a balance existed between the eldritch and the mundane, and how the latter far, far outnumbered the former.

“So!” Lurine tilted her champagne glass and drained the remainder of her Bellini. “Problem solved. No more unplanned rutting satyr orgies. Henceforth, they will be anticipated, and appropriate safety precautions will be taken to protect the mundanes.” A mischievous sparkle returned to her blue eyes. “Now I’m going for a swim, and you’re going to tell me what’s really bothering you.”

I made a noncommittal noise. Ignoring me, Lurine rose and stripped off her bikini before diving into the pool.

The shift into her true form was spectacular and instantaneous. It would probably look incredibly cool in slow-motion photography, but in real time it flowed so swiftly that the naked eye couldn’t quite follow it. Lurine’s human figure cleaved the water and before the ripples could begin to spread, the lamia’s undulating coils filled the pool, shimmering blue and green in the sunlit water, crimson spots scintillating. She swam the length of the pool and back underwater, diving below and above the serpentine coils of her own lower half in a complex, intertwining ballet.

If you’re thinking it would be one of the most beautiful, surreal, and terrifying sights ever, you’d pretty much be right.

Lurine surfaced at the far end of the pool, water streaming over her bare shoulders. Her tail snaked out with nonchalant grace to snag an inflatable lounge chair and drag it into the pool. Nico the satyr watched with obvious approval, the front of his board shorts stirring visibly. “Hmm.” She eyed him. “Nicodemus, why don’t you get us fresh Bellinis and go prune some trees.”

“Yes, kyria.” He sounded downcast, but he went.

“Now—” Slinging her arms along the edge of the pool, Lurine flicked her tail toward me, lightning-quick. I barely had time to yelp in surprise before her slick, muscular coils wrapped around my waist, plucking me from my poolside lounge chair and depositing me unceremoniously atop its floating equivalent, where I floundered in an effort to get my balance. At least it gave me the chance to conceal the disconcerting effect Lurine’s stunt had on me—not that she didn’t know anyway. “What’s on your mind, baby girl?”

Two months ago, I’d poured out a tale of woe regarding my crush on Cody and his possible interest in my best friend, Jen. Now, feeling more than a little silly, I updated Lurine on the latest regarding Sinclair.

“A secret twin sister!” she said with relish when I finished. “That’s straight out of a soap opera.”

I smiled reluctantly. “I know. So what do you think?”

Lurine reclined against the wall of the pool, her coils stirring absently, creating eddies. My floating chaise rocked atop them. “You like him?”

I nodded. “I like him. Hell, Mogwai likes him.”

“You could pick a worse judge of character than your cat,” she said in a pragmatic voice. “Cut the young man a little slack, Daisy. You’re only just getting to know each other. People are allowed to have secrets.”

“Secret twins?”

“Well, it does happen all the time in soap operas.” Lurine poked my floatie with the tip of her tail, sending me drifting a bit. “The thing is, cupcake, Sinclair might have told you all about his sister tomorrow. But you’ll never know, because he never got the chance, which is why I think you should cut him some slack.”

“What about the whole obeah thing?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Not my area of expertise.”

“Does it even work? I mean, how can it?” I was thinking aloud again. “There’s no underworld in Jamaica, is there?”

“Oh, that.” A loop of iridescent coil rose to halt my drift. “Islands have their own rules, especially if they’re blood-soaked.”

“Ew.”

Lurine shrugged. “Where there’s blood and death in abundance, there’s necromancy. And islands are circumscribed by salt water. It concentrates the effect.”

“Well, technically all land is circumscribed by salt water, isn’t it?” I said. “I mean, oceans cover something like seventy percent of the earth’s surface, right?”

“Aren’t you the smarty-pants!” A submerged segment of Lurine’s tail gave the underside of my floatie an affectionate bump. “It has to do with scale, Daisy. I’m sure there’s some sort of formula,” she added idly. “Gallons of blood spilled per acre. The gods only know, there was blood and death aplenty throughout the entire West Indies during the centuries when the slave trade was flourishing.”

I shivered in the bright sunlight. “Okay. Enough said.”

“You asked,” Lurine reminded me in a mild tone.

“I did,” I agreed.

Pushing away from the edge, she sank beneath the water to swim the length of the pool and back again. Ensconced in my floating chaise, I rode out the surging waves generated by Lurine’s passage, gazing at the green treetops silhouetted against the bright blue sky and thinking about the terrible fragility of life.