His wife, Jeanne, was slight and delicate, with straight, sleek light brown hair that framed her face in an old-fashioned look. The faint tingle of otherness in her aura identified her as eldritch, but if I hadn’t known, I’d never have pegged her for a werewolf. Dryad, maybe, but definitely not a wolf.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Daisy,” she said in a grave little voice with a trace of an accent when we were introduced.

“You, too,” I said, shaking her hand. “You’re not originally from Pemkowet, are you?”

“No.” She flushed slightly, glancing at Cody, and then away. “Montréal.”

“Oh.”

“We met at a gathering of the clans,” Caleb said quietly.

Just like Cody had met the only woman he’d dated in earnest, Caroline Lambert, shot by a hunter. I felt . . . awkward.

“It’s okay,” Cody said. “Hey!” He tousled the hair of a pair of boys who looked to be about five and six. “Meet my favorite nephews. This is Stephen and this big guy’s Elliot. Boys, this is my friend Daisy.”

Both boys stared at me with an intense focus that was unnerving in such little ones, their nostrils flaring and twitching in unison.

“Hi, guys,” I said to them.

Elliot, the older of the two, tugged at his mom’s sleeve. When Jeanne leaned down, he whispered in her ear. “That is not a question we ask in polite company, mon chou,” she said in her Québécois accent.

At an educated guess, I figured he’d asked her what I was. “It’s all right. I don’t mind.”

Jeanne gave me an apologetic look. “Forgive me, but your particular nature . . . I am not sure I’m ready to discuss it with them yet.”

Oh, great. A Canadian werewolf on the down-low was playing the morality card with me. My temper stirred.

She placed a slender hand on my arm. “I mean no offense. You understand that explaining such matters to children is complicated?”

I shrugged. “My mom never had a problem with it. But then, she wasn’t ashamed of me.”

Phosphorescent green flashed behind Jeanne’s mild hazel eyes. Yep, now I could see the wolf.

“Okay, no one said anything about shame,” Cody interjected. “C’mon; let’s go up to the deck. Let the boys play while we fire up the grill.” He gave me a warning look. “Sound good to you, Daisy?”

“Yeah.” Tip the mental glass, pour away the irritation. “Sounds great.”

Elliot tugged at his mom’s sleeve again and whispered another question in her ear. This time, Jeanne’s expression eased. “Yes, of course. It’s perfectly safe.” She made a shooing gesture. “Go, go play.”

The adults retired to the deck, where Cody fetched a round of beers before firing up the grill. I sat with his brother and sister-in-law, who watched indulgently as their young sons played in the glade.

I understood why Elliot had asked whether it was safe. The boys didn’t play like human children, not exactly. They chased each other, tussling and scuffling and rolling on the grass, accompanied by yips and yelps and playful growls.

“They’re cute kids,” I said to Jeanne. “Very . . . energetic.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “They’re too young to shift, of course. In some ways, it will be easier when they are older. When they are able to give true voice to the wildness inside them. But of course, that brings its own dangers.” She glanced in the direction of the grill. “The clan is lucky to have Cody in a position to protect us.”

“No doubt.” I racked my brains for a topic of discussion. “So, how do you like living in Pemkowet? It must seem awfully small after Montreal.”

“I like it,” Jeanne said. “I find it peaceful here. I like the seclusion.”

Beside her, Caleb nodded. “City’s too big. Too busy.” He shuddered. “Too many eyes watching.”

Oh-kay.

“Are the boys in school yet?” I asked.

“Oh, no!” Jeanne gave me a startled look, green glimmering behind her eyes. “No, I do not think that is advisable. We will homeschool them.”

“Pemkowet’s school system isn’t so bad,” I said. “Look at Caleb and Cody. They turned out okay.”

“Boys’ll be safer at home,” Caleb said briefly.

Okay, point taken; that was the end of that discussion. Even though it was none of my business, I was just trying to make polite conversation. I tried and failed to suppress a returning surge of irritation. “Did Cody tell you we ran into an old girlfriend of yours, Caleb?” I asked. “Rosalind says hi.”

“Rosalind?” He looked blank.

“Rosalind Meeks,” Cody supplied. He was in the process of placing six obscenely large T-bone steaks on the grill. “I think you dated her toward the end of your senior year. She’s tending bar at Bazooka Joe’s.”

“Oh.” Caleb shrugged. He and his wife held an unspoken exchange that consisted of a faint glance of inquiry on her part and a slight, dismissive headshake on his.

I sighed inwardly.

No matter what Jen said, the rules and codes of the eldritch community were rigid and ingrained, and it was evident that the Fairfax clan was a closed society, even to other members of the community.

A little later, we dined on the ridiculously oversize steaks, cooked rare and bloody, the Fairfaxes holding them with both hands to gnaw on them. Steaks, and nothing but steaks.

“Would it have killed you to serve a little potato salad?” I asked Cody. “Or maybe a green vegetable?”

He grinned. “Sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

I felt guilty. “It’s okay. I’m being an ungracious guest.”

“I don’t usually have guests,” he admitted. “I guess the lack of practice makes me a thoughtless host.”

It made me feel better. “So we’re even?”

Cody nodded. “Definitely.”

His brother and sister-in-law glanced back and forth between us, silent and watchful. Disapproval might be too strong a word, but I got a distinct feeling of discomfort and uneasiness from them. Whether it was because I was a hell-spawn or merely an outsider, I couldn’t say, but I have to admit it was a relief when they said their good-byes as the sun was sinking low, taking their rambunctious wolf-cub boys with them.

I helped Cody carry the dishes, which basically consisted of six plates swimming in bloodred juice, into the kitchen. “Can I help you wash up?”

He shook his head. “No need. Go home; get some sleep. After yesterday and today, you must be tired.”

Actually, I was. It was hard to believe it was only last night that Hel had summoned me. “Okay.” I hesitated. “Thanks, Cody. This was really nice.”

His mouth quirked. “No, it wasn’t.”

“It was a nice idea.”

“Look.” Cody laid his hands on my shoulders. “Don’t take it personally, Daisy. My family is very . . . insular.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You don’t say?”

“I’m glad you came.” He let go of me. “This investigation’s been tough on all of us. I know I had reservations at the outset, but I wanted you to know that I’m glad we’re working together.”

It wasn’t exactly what I wanted, but I’d take it. “Me, too.”

Cody showed me to the door. “Tim Wilkes has called another conference for tomorrow morning. See you there?”

I made myself smile. “Bright and early.”

I drove home to my empty apartment. My neighbors across the hall were engaging in another bout of noisy lovemaking. Mogwai was nowhere to be found. On the plus side, at least I didn’t have to worry about any ravening ghouls lurking around the Dumpster or in my stairway. I had to say, Stefan had come through on that score.

I thought about Stefan and his oh-so-tempting offer.

Cody, too.

And I thought about calling Jen to talk about both of them, or my mom, just to hear her voice, but I was tired.

Instead, I poured myself a couple inches of scotch and put on some music. Sometimes you have to go old-school and let a genuine queen of the blues give voice to your melancholy. I put on a scratchy old recording of Bessie Smith singing “Salt Water Blues,” her world-weary voice accompanied by the spare, droning wail of a muted trumpet, and opened my case file to study Thad Vanderhei’s photo.

Thad’s bland, ordinary face gazed back at me. His hair still bore the impression of a ubiquitous baseball cap. Tomorrow I would attend his funeral. And I still didn’t have the first idea why he was dead.

“That doggone salty water,” I mused, echoing Bessie. “Why salt water? What the hell were you up to?”

Not drugs.

Something else.

But I didn’t know what.

Twenty-two

When I reported to the station in the morning, there were protestors outside it. Not many, only three or four, but it gave me shivers to see the signs and hear their chants.

“No more lies, no more evasion!” the protestors called in unison, marching in a circle and hoisting homemade placards. “No more sanctuary for Satanism!”

I slipped past them.

The mood in the station was grim. In the conference room, the chief slammed both hands down on the table. “Tell me we know something,” he said. “Tell me we’re making progress.”

Detective Wilkes cleared his throat. “Let me give you a rundown. Thad Vanderhei, Mike Huizenga, and Kyle Middleton are clean, no priors, no red flags. Ditto for Matthew Mollenkamp, the Triton House alum the brother cited. We’ve got no references on the Masters of the Universe. As far as anyone knows, it’s nothing but an old cartoon. We also ran the number Miss Johanssen gave us for Ray D, but it’s a dead end. Prepaid disposable cell phone, no longer in service.”

“Sounds like it’s time to bring the vic’s friends back in for another chat,” Chief Bryant observed. “We’ve got enough leverage to make them sweat.”