Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1)

Dark Currents (Agent of Hel #1) Page 48

Oh, crap. It wasn’t my drawing dauda-dagr that had given the fairies pause after all. It was something a lot more imposing. I hadn’t reckoned on eldritch royalty, but apparently that was what I’d gotten. He stood motionless on the far outskirts of the meadow beneath the dappled camouflage of trees.

Time slowed down.

“Daisy?”

I climbed to my feet, beckoning for Sinclair to follow suit. All the fairies kept silent as the Oak King approached, not so much as a single wing fluttering.

I’d heard rumors of the Oak King’s existence, but I didn’t know anyone who claimed to have seen him—and believe me, you’d remember. His skin was acorn-brown, his hair the color of oak leaves in autumn, antlers rising from the thick, springing curls over his temples. A long cloak hung from his shoulders. One minute it appeared to be deerskin; the next, it looked to be woven of leaves and moss. He moved soundlessly across the meadow, and it seemed almost as though the meadow shrank at the same time, the trees pressing in closer around us. When he reached us, or we reached him, leaf shadows still stippled his tall figure.

I went to one knee without thinking, according him the same respect I would to Hel herself. Sinclair did the same without being prompted.

“Hel’s liaison, I believe.” The Oak King’s voice was deep and resonant, but there was a hushed quality to it, too, like the stillness at noon in the depths of a forest. “What is it you come seeking?”

I rose, sheathing dauda-dagr. “Aid, Your Majesty.” As I stood in front of him, the specifics of the request sounded too ridiculous to put into words. “I don’t know if you’re aware—”

“A boy has died, yes.” He inclined his antlered head. “You seek justice for him.” He gestured at the fairies, quiet and clustered together, looking for all the world like misbehaving children sobering in their father’s presence. “But you will find none here. My people are innocent in this matter.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, yeah. I know. Actually, we’re here to ask for their help with public relations.”

“Oh?” There was a world of patience in his deep brown eyes. It gave me courage to voice the absurd.

“Tourists come to Pemkowet looking for wonder,” I said. “And your people are among the most wondrous. We’re asking that some of them reveal themselves. At, um, regularly scheduled times and places. This is Sinclair Palmer,” I said, indicating him. “He’s proposing a . . . a tour bus route.”

Sinclair got to his feet and offered a stiff bow. “I have a map,” he added faintly.

The Oak King stood motionless for a long time. At last he lifted his gaze to the sky, then glanced around the meadow, settling it on the clustered fairies. They huddled closer together, wings vibrating ever so slightly. “There is too little wonder left in the world,” the Oak King said in a thoughtful tone. “It should be cherished and protected. I realize that this requires the cooperation of mortals, who are so often quick to destroy what they fear. These smallest of people are not always mindful of this.”

My tail twitched hopefully. “Does that mean you’ll help?”

He looked at Sinclair. “Let me see this . . . map.”

Sinclair pulled it from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out in one trembling hand. “I’ve, um, marked the spots I thought might be suitable, Your Majesty. And, uh, tours would leave every hour on the hour between ten a.m. and four p.m.”

The Oak King took the map from him, and I swear to God, it turned into a parchment scroll in his hand. He studied it.

I held my breath.

“Yes,” he said at length. “In these times, I find this to be a reasonable request.” He returned the scroll to Sinclair, whereupon it promptly turned back into a map. “I will see to it. It will be done.”

I let out my breath.

“Thank you!” Sinclair’s voice was joyous. “Thank you, thank you!”

The Oak King held up one hand. “I make no promise in perpetuity. It stands for as long as I deem it reasonable.” His gaze shifted to me, deep and grave. “Are you near unto finding justice, Hel’s liaison?”

I nodded. “Very close, Your Majesty.”

His gaze fell on dauda-dagr. “You bear a dire weapon, one that chills even my immortal soul. Hel places great faith in you.”

“I’m trying to be worthy of it,” I said humbly.

“That is well.” Unexpectedly, the Oak King reached out and laid one brown, sinewy hand on my brow. I felt a rush of warmth, rich and golden, filled with all the green, growing scents of summer. “As below, so above.” He withdrew his hand, turning it palm upward. A silver whistle in the shape of an acorn lay nestled within it. “Accordingly, I give you my own token. You have but to blow it to beseech an audience.”

I took it gingerly.

He smiled. “Well done, Hel’s liaison.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. And, um . . . it’s Daisy,” I said. “Sorry, I forgot to introduce myself. Daisy Johanssen.”

The Oak King’s smile deepened. “Yes, I know. Well done, Daisy Johanssen.”

“Thank—”

He was gone.

It happened . . . Oh, gah! I don’t even know how to describe how it happened, other than fast. Between the space of one breath and the next, the Oak King was gone and the meadow got bigger again. Sinclair Palmer and I stood staring at each other beside a white tablecloth scattered with acorn caps and a huddle of fairies.

A soft breeze blew over the meadow, bending the grasses and wildflowers.

The fairies stirred.

One of them, the Queen Anne’s lace fairy with the white hair and purple eyes, snatched the half-empty flagon of cowslip dew from the center of the tablecloth. “Thou hast what thou came for,” she spat at me in disdain, clutching the flagon to her narrow chest. “I claim the spoils of thine endeavor!”

“Go right ahead.” I pocketed the silver acorn whistle the Oak King had given me, and began folding the tablecloth. “Oh, and by the way? A little boy named Jake says hello. He helped me put this feast together, so if you ever meet him, be nice.”

She hissed at me, baring eel-sharp teeth.

I eyed her. “Also? If you make an appearance, be sure to smile with your mouth closed.”

Thirty-four

Sinclair and I didn’t speak much as I drove him home, both of us pretty well awed by what we’d just witnessed.

“That was extraordinary, wasn’t it?” he asked when I dropped him off. He still sounded dazed. “Tell me that was extraordinary, because if it wasn’t, I’m really bugging out here, and I don’t bug out easily.”

I nodded. “Yeah. That was extraordinary. I don’t know anyone who’s seen the Oak King. What did his aura look like? Was it muted, too?”

Sinclair shook his head. “No. No, it was . . . huge. Like the sun rising behind a mountain.” He gazed into the distance. “Or maybe setting,” he added softly. “Like maybe it rose a long time ago.”

I thought I knew what he meant. “Let’s hope it doesn’t set anytime soon.”

“Agreed.” Returning from the distance, he gave me a fist bump and a grin. “Respect, sistah! I and I owe you one.”

I fist-bumped him back. “I and I’ll keep it in mind.”

It wasn’t quite five o’clock by the time I returned to my apartment. I checked my phone and found a text from Jen saying she wanted to come with me tonight, and would swing by around ten p.m. I sent her a text to confirm, then called the station in case there was some news no one had thought to pass on to me.

There wasn’t, so I decided to do the sensible thing and take a nap. It had already been an incredibly long day, one in a series of very long days.

I drew the curtains and put Patsy Cline on the stereo. Not traditional blues, I know, but close enough. Something about the effortlessness of her vocals and the soulful ache beneath them works for me. I drifted to sleep to the sound of Patsy singing about walking after midnight and searching, always searching, and had a long, confused dream in which I was walking endlessly down moonlit country roads, beneath the rustling shadow of oak trees, searching for something or someone I never found.

When I woke, it was close to sunset. The awe of my encounter with the Oak King lingered, but I felt melancholy, too. I flipped through the printouts Casimir had given me, studying the mermaid’s distorted face.

Patsy Cline may have been looking for her true love, but I was looking for a captive mermaid. And if we didn’t find her in time, I had a bad feeling about her chances for survival. For all we knew, it was already too late.

With a reluctant sigh, I set the file aside. Maybe Cody had found a lead or two today, and we could run them down tomorrow. Right now, there was nothing I could do for her, and the chief had been very clear that he wanted me working on the PVB’s requests.

I managed to wash my face and slurp down another container of microwaved ramen noodles before I heard the familiar sound of Jen’s old LeBaron convertible pulling into the alley and dashed downstairs to join her. “You okay with driving?”

She shrugged. “Might as well. It beats trying to find a parking space.”

“Okay.”

In some ways it felt like old times, taking the LeBaron out to the House of Shadows on a balmy summer night. Even though I’d done it before, I still had a knot of anxiety in the pit of my belly. Vampires will do that to you. The first time had been the hardest, with fear of the unknown making my entire body fizz with nervous energy. But this time was different, too. It was my second time making the trip as Hel’s liaison, but this time I had dauda-dagr on my hip, a weapon capable of killing the immortal undead, a weapon that chilled even the Oak King’s soul. Not to mention the Oak King’s token in my pocket.

“So why’s the PVB sending you out to Twilight Manor?” Jen asked, pulling onto the highway.

“Damage control,” I said. “I’m supposed to tell Lady Eris to make sure her bloodsuckers stay off the streets for a while.”