“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 chance.”
“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.