“Thanks,” I said. “I’m meeting someone.”
Lee lifted his head. He was wearing a khaki-colored Seattle Mariners baseball cap, which I thought was an odd choice with a black leather duster. Heck, maybe he had changed. Or maybe that was hip in Seattle. “Daisy.”
“Hi, Lee.” I slid into the seat opposite him. “It’s good to see you.”
He touched something on the tablet, making the screen go blank. “Is it?”
“Sure.”
Beneath the shadow of his baseball cap’s brim, his face was as gaunt as ever, dark eyes glimmering in bruised-looking hollows. Hence the nickname Skeletor. He’d grown one of those narrow beards that looked like a strip of Velcro glued to his chin and there were steel hoops in his earlobes. Okay, that was new and unexpected. “What do you want?”
“I need to create a database—” I began.
A look of disgust crossed his face. “Oh, for God’s sake! A database? Do you know what I get paid for consulting on a project? This isn’t high school, Daisy. I’m not going to teach you how to use Excel just because you promise to sit next to me in the cafeteria.”
Lowering my voice, I plowed on. “A database documenting the eldritch population in Pemkowet.”
“Are you—” Lee paused. “Say that again?”
I repeated myself.
“Why?”
The waitress came over with the coffeepot. I turned my mug upright for a fill and ordered a Danish. “Because it will help me do my job,” I said in an even tone once she was out of earshot. “Did you hear about the orgy out at Rainbow’s End?” Lee gave a brief nod. “Turns out it was set off by a satyr in rut.”
“Satyrs go into rut?” He sounded bemused.
“Yeah.” I blew on my coffee. “Every twelve years. And if I’d had a database to keep track of this one, I could have prevented the orgy.”
Lee studied me. “So it’s true?”
I took a tentative sip of my coffee, scalding my tongue, and grimaced. “What?”
“I heard a rumor that you were supposed to be some sort of diplomatic liaison to Little Niflheim,” he said. “But I didn’t believe it.”
I looked around for the waitress, hoping to catch her eye and ask for a glass of ice water. “Why not?”
“With your temper?” Lee grinned. “Unless you’ve changed a lot in the last six years, you’re the least diplomatic person I’ve ever known. Didn’t you get suspended for threatening to cut Stacey Brooks’s hair off in her sleep?”
“No,” I said. “That was Jen Cassopolis. I got suspended because the pipes in the girls’ locker room burst when I lost my temper because Stacey Brooks called my mother a Satan-worshipping whore. Anyway, yes and no. I’m an agent of Hel, and it’s my job to serve as the liaison between her rule of order and the mundane authorities. No one ever said I had to be diplomatic about it, just effective.”
“So you’ve actually been there?” Lee asked. “To Little Niflheim? You’ve actually met her?”
“Yes.”
He took a deep breath. “Tell me about this database.”
Between bites of my Danish, I filled him in on what I had in mind. I’m not sure if I was using the correct terminology, but I wanted to be able to sort and search the data by different criteria: proper names, type of eldritch, capabilities, date, location, transgressions, favors. And I wanted it synced with a calendar that would keep track of things like the full moon and satyrs’ twelve-year rutting cycles.
Lee listened impassively. “Okay,” he said when I’d finished. “That’s doable. It might even be mildly interesting. What’s your budget?”
I winced. “Yeah, about that . . .”
“I figured.” He leaned back in the booth, stroking the landing-strip of beard clinging to his chin. I wanted to tell him it looked ridiculous, but I didn’t think he’d thank me for the favor. “All right.” He glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “I’ll do it. But I want in.”
“In?” I echoed. “In on what?” I mean, he might be able to sell it in other places with eldritch populations, but that was a niche market, to say the least.
“In,” Lee repeated. “I want in, Daisy. To Little Niflheim.” I stared at him. “Look.” He leaned forward. “I create fantasy worlds, okay? That’s what I do. Whether it’s a first-person shooter set in Afghanistan or a World of Warcraft knockoff doesn’t matter. It’s a fantasy. But meanwhile, there’s an actual mythological underworld with an actual fucking goddess right under my fucking feet!” He bared his teeth in a fierce smile that made him look more skull-like than ever. “I want to see it. I want in.”
I stalled for time. “I see.”
“Can you do that?” Lee slouched back against the booth, his eyes intent in their deep sockets. “Because I’ll give you everything you want for one glimpse of Hel.”
Ironic phrasing, that.
“Okay,” I said slowly, thinking. “We’ll try it.” It occurred to me that I really should get Hel’s permission before moving forward with the project anyway. “But I can’t make any promises. And even if it works out, I don’t guarantee you’ll enjoy the experience.”
“I don’t care if I enjoy it,” Lee said. “I just want to have it.”
I shrugged. “Fair enough. I live in the rear apartment over Mrs. Browne’s bakery. Come by just before sunset tonight.”
He activated his tablet, fingers skittering over the screen. “The sun sets at eight thirteen. I’ll be there at ten after.”
“See you then.” I tossed a five on the table to cover the cost of my coffee and Danish, plus tip. Say what you will of the Sit’n Sip, but the prices are reasonable. “Is there a number where I can call you if something comes up?”
Lee glanced up at me. “You can reach me the same way you did before.”
“Okay,” I said. “Is there, um, any reason you’re acting so squirrelly about your contact info?”
He gave me another Skeletor smile. “Corporate espionage. I don’t want my enemies to know how or where to find me.”
“Ohh-kay.” I was getting the impression Lee was a bit paranoid. “Call me crazy, but isn’t communicating by Facebook pretty much the least private, least secure method you could choose?”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Which is why no one would ever think to look for me there.”
I guess he had a point.
I left the Sit’n Sip and drove back to my apartment. By the time I got home, I had a voice mail from the Fabulous Casimir saying that the coven had agreed to convene at seven o’clock Saturday night. He rattled off his home address and told me to bring Sinclair there for a meet and greet.
I called Sinclair and found myself irrationally disappointed to get his voice mail in turn, but I relayed Casimir’s message and asked him to give me a call to confirm.
Okay, so that was done.
Meanwhile, propped against the futon in my living room, the buckler that Stefan had given me offered a silent, shining reprimand for my lack of diligence. I checked the time and took another shot at it.
Nope, still not as good without an actual opponent. This time I lasted all of five minutes—hey, time passes a lot more slowly than you might think when all you’re doing is holding an image in your mind—before abandoning my effort.
Acting on an impulse I didn’t care to analyze, I tried calling Stefan to see if he might be available to help me train. After all, he seemed to be invested in the process. And, okay, let’s be honest; despite the bad timing, the possibility that Stefan Ludovic might actually have feelings for me was intriguing.
No luck—just more voice mail.
I hoisted the shield again and spent a few more minutes angling it here and there to create bright points of reflected sunlight for Mogwai to chase across the floor. “Here’s the thing, Mog,” I informed him. “I want to get good at this, I really do. And I know I need to practice. I just think I need . . . incentive.”
Finally copping to the fact that he was never, ever going to catch any of the dancing sunbeams, Mogwai shot me a look of betrayal, turned his back, and sat down to indulge in a vigorous bout of indignant grooming.
“It’s no good because it’s not real, right?” I said to him. “There’s no satisfaction. You know what I mean?”
Licking one outstretched haunch, my cat didn’t deign to acknowledge my comment.
For a moment, I entertained the thought of calling Cody to enlist his aid, but I wasn’t sure about the protocol of disturbing a werewolf around the time of a full moon, and truth be told, a werewolf wasn’t the kind of menace I needed.
I thought about calling Lurine, too, but . . . see, here’s the thing. I don’t know exactly what Lurine’s capabilities are, other than the ability to shape-shift into a glorious and terrible monster. I mean, I have a pretty good idea that it involves sucking the essential life force out of the occasional ordinary human being to sustain her immortal existence, which may or may not be what she did to her late and relatively unlamented octogenarian husband, millionaire California real-estate tycoon Sanford Hollister, but I don’t know for sure.
And I don’t want to. After all, it didn’t happen in Pemkowet, so it’s not my concern. Call it a cop-out. I don’t care.
But I was still restless and fidgety and spoiling for some kind of fight, enough so that I found myself grabbing my car keys and heading out the door with dauda-dagr on my hip and Stefan’s buckler in hand.
If I wanted an opponent, I knew where to find one.
Okay, so I felt a little silly walking into the Wheelhouse carrying a shiny round shield in addition to my magic dagger, and it didn’t help when Cooper set down a pool cue and came over to greet me with a broad grin.
“Well, if it isn’t Joan of feckin’ Arc,” he said, giving me the once-over. “If you’re looking for the big man, he’s not here. He’s off meeting with some fellow at that fancy microbrewery down the road.”