Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1)
Page 43She tapped her letter opener on the desk. “Don’t you think it’s in their best interest to keep it that way?”
“Of course.”
Setting down her letter opener, she reached for a copy of the latest Appeldoorn Guardian and pushed it across the desk at me. “Look at the poll results.”
Reluctantly, I took a look. It seemed that fifty-three percent of respondents thought that it was time to explore the possibility of cutting down Yggdrasil II, razing Pemkowet’s underworld, and banishing the unholy eldritch influence from Michigan for good. My mouth felt dry. “It’s just a poll. It doesn’t mean they can act on it.”
“No.” Amanda Brooks adjusted her stylish glasses. “But it means we’re losing the battle of perception. We need to push back against it. Anything you could do to help would be . . . helpful.”
I nodded. “I understand. I can’t guarantee results, but I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good.” She rose. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.” Opening her office door, she called out to the cute guy. “Mr. Palmer? May we have a word?”
He sauntered into the office, hands in his pockets, and gave her another charming smile and a disarming shrug. “Any word you like, mother.”
“Ah . . . yes.” Again, she flushed. “Sinclair Palmer, Daisy Johanssen. Mr. Palmer, Ms. Johanssen has agreed to work with the eldritch community in an effort to . . . enhance . . . the tours you propose.”
Sinclair Palmer regarded me. “Is that so, sistah?”
“Yep.”
His lips twitched in an effort to suppress a smile. He had nice lips, full and juicy. “I an’ I look forward to it.”
“So do I and I,” I said in reply. “But I’m kind of busy right now. And I can’t make any promises.”
“Understood.” He tapped his chest with his fist. “Respect, eh? What will be will be. Jah bless.”
“Um . . . right.”
“Good, very good.” The matter apparently concluded, Amanda Brooks hastened to usher us out of her office. “I’m glad we were able to come to consensus. Look, I’ve got a dozen fires to put out. I’ll leave it to the two of you to coordinate. Mr. Palmer, I promise I’ll see your license is granted. Go ahead and plan accordingly. The sooner you’re in operation, the better. Daisy . . .” She sighed. “Do whatever you can. Think pretty. Think sparkly. If they have to smile with their mouths closed, that’s fine. Just—”
A fleeting look of gratitude crossed her face. “Good luck. Oh, and Daisy?”
I turned back. “Yeah?”
“I thought you might have a word with the powers that be out at the House of Shadows,” she said. “Ask them to lie low for a while. Make sure there are no vampires prowling the streets at last call.”
I sighed. “Really? Are you serious? You want me to dictate terms to Twilight Manor?”
“Really.” Amanda Brooks’s expression hardened. “You took on this role. While I recognize my limitations, I’m not entirely ignorant of what goes on in Pemkowet. I realize most vampires are looking for a long-term blood-bond relationship. But there are always paranormal tourists looking for a short-term thrill. And sometimes they find it. That doesn’t necessarily work out well for them, does it?”
“No,” I admitted.
She nodded at me. “So let’s take that off the table for now. Unless you think Hel would disapprove?”
“No,” I said honestly. “I don’t.”
Thirty-one
Finding Stacey Brooks immersed in another phone call, I took the opportunity to make a hasty exit from the PVB office with Sinclair Palmer close behind me. Stacey’s gaze followed us jealously. Deprived of the chance to get in one last verbal dig, she lifted her right hand, hooked her fingers, and flashed a devil-horns sign at me.
Apparently in certain circles, that one never got old. I really, really didn’t miss high school.
Outside in the parking lot, I blew out my breath. “Sorry—that was a little messy. Welcome to Pemkowet.”
Sinclair shrugged. “Eh, it’s not so bad. Just a little cuss-cuss.”
I eyed him. “Are you really Jamaican?”
He returned my gaze evenly. “Why you think I’m not, sistah?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I have to admit, pretty much everything I know about Jamaica comes from watching Cool Runnings, and I’m guessing a Disney movie about Olympic bobsledders isn’t the most accurate reference material.” I nodded at his hair. “But something about your commitment to dreadlocks strikes me as a recent development.”
“Sure, I guess.” I figured he’d find out sooner or later. I’d prefer later, but I was curious about him.
“Yes and no.” He dropped the accent. “I was born in Jamaica, but I grew up in Kalamazoo with my dad. He immigrated when I was three. My mom still lives in Kingston.” He tugged on one of his dreads. “And yeah, these are only a few months old. My turn?”
I nodded, braced for the inevitable question, but it wasn’t exactly what I expected.
“I see auras.” Sinclair’s gaze roved around me. “But I’ve never seen one like yours. What is it?”
“Is that a pickup line?”
He grinned. “Do you want it to be? No, I’m serious. Most people just have a little shimmer flickering around their edges. You’ve got a five-alarm fire, and I do mean a fire.” He gestured in the air, tracing invisible lines. “The flames are shot through with these twisty veins of gold. Definitely nothing I’ve seen before. And definitely not entirely human.”
“Is that where you got the idea of doing a paranormal tour?” I asked. “Because you can see auras?”
“Sort of.” Sinclair shrugged. “I’ve always been able to see things other people couldn’t, and I’ve always been drawn to Pemkowet. When I came across a sweet deal for an old tour bus on craigslist, it all came together. Are you avoiding the question?”
In fact, I was. “Hell-spawn,” I said reluctantly. “Daughter of Belphegor, minor demon and occasional incubus.”
“Really?” He looked surprised. “Well, that explains the flames.”
At least he wasn’t freaked. “So why the Jamaican act? Or sort-of act?”
“You jestin’, sistah?” He rolled his eyes. “People eat that shit up, especially white people.” He pointed at the PVB building. “You think that Mrs. Brooks would be fluttering and blushing over plain old Sinclair Palmer from Kalamazoo?”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
“Everyone loves a magical Negro,” Sinclair said in a cynical tone. “Until they meet one in real life.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You’ve never heard the term?” he asked. I shook my head. “It’s a black character who uses his unique wisdom or special gift to help the white hero achieve his goal. Pretty common in popular culture. The Green Mile, The Legend of Bagger Vance, Driving Miss Daisy—”
“Yeah, exactly.”
Cute, and a movie buff, too. We stood in the parking lot smiling awkwardly at each other. The thought occurred to me that it might be nice to take an interest in someone entirely human and almost normal for a change.
I wondered if the tail would freak him out.
“Hey, can I buy you lunch, Daisy?” Sinclair asked. “I’d love to talk about my ideas for the tour and get your input. And I’d love to hear more about your . . . um, unusual heritage.” He nodded at dauda-dagr. “Not to mention the story behind that mighty cutlass, sistah.”
At that inopportune moment, my phone rang. I glanced at it. “I’ve got to take this; sorry.”
It was Patty Rogan calling from the station. “Cody’s bringing in a witness,” she said. “The chief wants you here in twenty. Okay?”
“I’ll be there.” I ended the call. “Sorry,” I said with genuine regret. “I’d love to; I really would. But I’m sort of on duty and we’re in crisis mode. Rain check?”
“Sure.” Sinclair frowned. “Who do you work for, exactly? I’m sorry; I’m a little confused.”
“I’m Hel’s liaison.” I patted dauda-dagr’s hilt. “That’s Hel the Norse goddess of the dead,” I clarified, seeing a look of alarm begin to dawn on his face. “Not the infernal realm, okay? But in terms of drawing a paycheck, I actually work for the Pemkowet Police Department.”
His expression turned to bemusement. “As what?”
“Mostly a part-time file clerk,” I said. “But lately a full-time investigator. Let me see what I can do, and I’ll call you.”
“Okay.”
After we exchanged numbers we parted ways, me in my Honda and Sinclair Palmer on a bicycle, pedaling industriously. Nice legs, too.
Gah! Everything was moving too fast, and there was too much to be done. I wished I could slow down time for a few days, or at least take a day for myself. I could use some quality mother-daughter time. I desperately yearned for an intensive session of good old-fashioned girl talk with Jen. I needed to sort through my feelings about Cody. I actually liked the working partnership and mutual respect that we were developing. Did I still want it to be more, or was it just my long-standing crush at work?
I’d let Stefan taste me, for crying out loud, and now he was attuned to me, and I didn’t know how I felt about it. Okay, on a primal girlie level, there was something flattering about having him turn up like some magical fairy-tale protector, but I hadn’t known that was what I was signing up for. Had he tricked me? Had I agreed to it on a subconscious level?