That was all she said, but it was enough. I took a sharp breath, my eyes stinging a little. “Thank you, my lady. I’m sorry about the rest.”

Hel inclined her head. A mortal in this situation would have said, “Just see that it doesn’t happen again,” or something like that. Hel didn’t need to. She was a goddess. And she didn’t say I’d be stripped of my authority and dismissed as her liaison if I screwed this up a second time. Again, she didn’t need to.

That, I’d figured out myself.

Thirty-six

Although it felt like it should be the wee hours of the night when Mikill dropped me off at the cemetery to retrieve my car, it was only eleven o’clock. I drove in a slow circuit around the winding two-track, the spirit lantern nestled carefully in the front passenger seat. I was prepared to jump out of my skin if a zombie came shambling into the headlights, but everything was quiet.

I should have called the chief from the cemetery—well, I should have called him before I left it the first time, but a summons from Hel takes precedence—but being alone out there under a full moon, knowing there were ghosts and/or zombies in the offing, creeped me out.

So I drove home to my apartment. I could really have used some feline comfort while I made the call, but apparently Mogwai was out hunting.

Chief Bryant was none too pleased to hear from me—I had a feeling he’d already gone to bed or fallen asleep on the couch watching the evening news—and even less pleased when I reported that Letitia Palmer had succeeded in unleashing a duppy and that Hel had informed me that there was a good likelihood that Pemkowet was going to be haunted in the near future, if it didn’t turn into something out of The Walking Dead.

“Goddammit, Daisy!” he said. “I thought you had this under control.”

I winced. “I’m sorry, sir. So did I.”

“You should have let the department pick them up.” He sounded disgruntled. “They’re under mundane authorities. We could have held them on something, at least long enough to confiscate any dangerous materials.”

I wanted to say, “Like an empty pickle jar?” but I didn’t. “We’re talking about a judge and an Oxford-educated lawyer, sir,” I said humbly. “Two women of color, a mother and daughter. I didn’t think it would be good for Pemkowet’s public image if they were picked up on trumped-up charges.”

Well, that was half true. I hadn’t known Letitia would show up, but it was why I’d decided not to involve the department in confronting Emmeline.

Chief Bryant offered a noncommittal grunt that suggested he agreed, but he wasn’t prepared to give me credit at the moment. “All right. I’ll get the word out. So this spirit lantern . . . you’re ready to tackle the restless undead?”

“Absolutely,” I said. “Well, as soon as I stop at the hardware store for a hammer and nails.”

“Do it first thing in the morning,” the chief said before hanging up.

Feeling hollow, I poured myself a few inches of scotch and put Big Mama Thornton on the stereo to tell me everything was gonna be all right. It didn’t work. Big Mama may have felt it in her bones, but not even the blues made me feel any better tonight. Not even with Muddy Waters on guitar.

I’d screwed up.

God, and it had been so close. If Jojo hadn’t chosen that exact moment to intervene, my plan would have worked. Mrs. Palmer hadn’t expected anyone to just try to snatch her precious pickle jar. Hell, it had worked when I tried it the second time with the cowry shell charm. Take one foulmouthed, love-struck fairy out of the equation, and I’d be getting praise instead of a dressing-down.

Just . . . gah!

Flopping onto my futon, I allowed myself a good long seethe laced with equal parts self-pity and castigation, finishing with a firm resolution to trust my own instincts in the future. Then I set my alarm, so I could get to the hardware store as soon as it opened, and went to bed. I probably ought to own a hammer and nails anyway.

As it happened, I didn’t need the alarm.

My phone rang at six thirty in the morning. It was still pitch-dark out and I had to fumble around on my nightstand to find the phone.

“Daisy.” The chief’s voice was grim. “Get out to the cemetery. Now.”

Shit.

I sat bolt upright. “Is it ghosts? Or zombies?”

“Neither.” He hung up.

I threw on yesterday’s clothes, buckled dauda-dagr around my waist, grabbed the spirit lantern just in case, and hustled out to the cemetery in the predawn darkness through a light rain.

The chief hadn’t told me where to meet him, but it was a small cemetery. Even if it hadn’t been, I could have guessed. As soon as I turned onto the two-track, I saw a pair of cruisers parked under the pines in front of Talman Brannigan’s mausoleum. The door to the mausoleum was ajar, and there were lights moving inside it. I got out of the car, my stomach sinking.

Chief Bryant and Ken Levitt, one of the younger officers with whom I was on good terms, emerged from the mausoleum, flashlights in hand.

“What is it?” I asked apprehensively.

“Grave’s been robbed.” The chief beckoned to me. “Come have a look.”

I fingered dauda-dagr’s hilt. “You’re sure it’s not zombies?”

He pointed at a rusty padlock hanging from the door of the mausoleum. One side of the U-shaped shackle had been sheared clean through. “Not unless they were using bolt-cutters.”

Inside, there were more signs of human vandalism. Someone had used a crowbar or something like it to pry the lid off the huge sarcophagus, leaving clean scratches in the discolored old marble. The dusty floor of the mausoleum had been swept to obliterate footprints, and there were smears of something dark.

“Blood?” I asked.

The chief shook his head. “More like grease.”

“Huh.” I made myself peer into the sarcophagus. It held a wooden coffin, which had also been pried open. A scent of decay rose from it, but other than a bit of debris, which I chose to believe was decomposing clothing, it was empty. There was only the impression of a body having lain there, staining the rotting satin fabric that lined it. A big body. The Tall Man’s nickname was no joke. He must have stood seven feet tall. “What the hell?”

“The chief asked me to make sure I took a turn around the cemetery before my shift ended,” Ken Levitt said. “I spotted the open door and got out to take a look.”

“You didn’t see anything?” I asked him.

He shook his head. “Just this.”

“Did you test the crime scene?” I asked Chief Bryant.

“Mm-hmm.” He pulled out the silver pocket watch I’d given him a couple of years ago and let it dangle over the violated sarcophagus. It had been made with the same exacting dwarfish craftsmanship as the spirit lantern, only it was responsive to the residue of eldritch presence. If this grave robbery had been the work of a member of the eldritch community, living nonhuman or undead human, the watch would have swung like a pendulum, its hands spinning frantically backward. Instead, it hung motionless on its chain, its second hand clicking clockwise with ordinary mortal precision. “Whoever did this was human.”

I stared into the coffin. “Why the hell would anyone steal a hundred-and-thirty-year-old corpse?”

“It was probably kids.” Ken shrugged. “Teenagers. Hell, there are a couple of troublemakers in town crazy enough to do anything on a dare. You went to Pemkowet High, Daisy—you remember how it was. And Halloween’s coming.”

“True.” I glanced at the chief. His eyes were gleaming under their deceptively sleepy lids. “But you don’t think it’s a coincidence, do you?”

“Do you?” he countered.

“No.”

Chief Bryant gave a decisive nod. “Something’s hinky. Levitt, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to turn this one over to Fairfax. He and Daisy worked together well on the Vanderhei case.”

Ken Levitt shrugged again. “It’s your call, sir.”

The chief looked at his pocket watch. “Fairfax is off duty, and he’s not answering his phone. Daisy, you mind stopping out there? Make sure he’s on board?”

I glanced involuntarily at the sky; I couldn’t see through the cloud cover, but I knew the full moon had already set. Cody might be a little edgy for another twenty-four hours, but he should be okay to work, at least during daylight. Probably, anyway. “Sure.”

“Good.”

Before I drove out to Cody’s place, I stopped at Drummond’s Hardware and bought a sturdy hammer and a box of heavyweight framing nails from the yawning salesclerk who was just opening the store for business.

What can I say? I felt better for being prepared.

The sky was only just beginning to turn an ominous gray in the east as I drove north of Pemkowet along the river. The maple trees were yellow and gold, glowing unnaturally bright underneath the lowering clouds, and the narrow, serrated leaves of the staghorn sumac were turning a brilliant crimson, complementing the conical clusters of their unlikely fuzzy-looking scarlet fruits. I passed the entrance to Sedgewick Estate, making a mental note to call my mother later, and drove deeper into the countryside until I reached Cody’s house.

It was quiet, but the front door was standing open. That didn’t seem right, not at seven-something on a rainy autumn morning.

“Cody?” I called softly. There was no answer. Trying the screen door, I found it unlatched and let myself into the house, closing the front door behind me.

Traces of pine needles and dirt led from the tidy little bachelor kitchen into the living room beyond. I followed them and found Cody Fairfax curled in a pile of blankets on the floor of his living room. The blankets were a hunter green plaid wool and Cody was stark naked beneath them, grime under his fingernails and pine twigs caught in his disheveled bronze-colored hair. Well, he wasn’t exactly lying beneath the blankets. It was more like he’d nestled into them the way a dog would. Or, apparently, a wolf.