Autumn Bones (4 page)

I tried a different one, one my mom had invented especially for emotions too strong and stubborn to be dismissed. I put my funk-driven lust in a box and tied a bow around it, a pretty package to open later.

It worked.

Feeling clear and sharp, I headed for the bar, dodging writhing bodies and ducking under the pass-through at the service station.

“Whoops!” I tripped over someone. Well, a pair of female someones. One of them wore what looked to be a bartender’s apron around her waist, and nothing else. “Excuse me,” I said, tapping her on the shoulder. “Do you know where I can find the salt?”

She lifted her head from what she was doing, giving me a glazed look and reaching for me with one languid hand.

“Yeah, thanks, not right now.” I plucked her hand from my leg and transferred it atop the hand I had wrapped around
dauda-dagr
’s
hilt. “Are you a bartender? Is there salt back here?”

Her eyes cleared. “What the fuck?” She looked down at the figure beneath her. “Who is this? Do I even
know
her?”

“I have no idea,” I said apologetically. “Do you have any salt?”

“Salt?”

“Yes!” I was getting impatient. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time to explain! Do you have any salt?”

Looking bewildered, she pointed to a shelf. It took me a few seconds to identify the plastic tub of bright green lime-flavored margarita salt as the item I wanted. “Perfect.” Grabbing it, I scooted away from the entangled pair. “Thanks.”

There was no answer. Well, not a verbal one. The funk was back in effect.

On the far side of the dance floor, the DJ booth was empty. I managed to work my way around the edges of the floor and climb into the booth, where an imposing array of lights and switches confronted me. I’m pretty sure aircraft control panels are less complicated. Since I didn’t have a clue, I hit anything and everything that looked like it might be a power switch until the bass-heavy dance mix went mercifully silent. Now it just sounded like the sound track to the world’s most ambitious gay porn movie.

I went back into the fray. Getting to the satyr was going to be the hard part. There was a constant slow-motion swirl of activity around him, a dense concentration of men swapping places, partners, and positions as they waited their turn to kneel at the altar, as it were. Men of all shapes, sizes, and ages, ranging from burly bears with furry chests to waxed-chested gym rats with six-pack abs to drag queens with heavily smeared makeup. I pushed my way into the throng, squeezing past the vertical bodies and clambering over the horizontal ones until I was close to the epicenter.

“Bitch, please!” One of the buff gym rats disengaged to give me a look of glazed indignation. “No cutting in line.”

Holding
dauda-dagr
in a reverse grip, I pressed the back of my hand against his forehead. “Police business. I need you to step back and clear this space, sir.”

“Huh?” He blinked at me, the glaze only semi-clearing. Either the effect of the funk was stronger this close to the satyr or gym boy was under the influence of something else. Or both.

I touched
dauda-dagr
’s
tip to his bare chest. “Step back.”

With a pained hiss, he did. If that’s what it took, fine. I stole a quick look at the satyr, who appeared oblivious to my intervention, happily grinning and thrusting away. Prying the lid off the plastic tub of lime-flavored salt, I made a circle around him and his current tribute-giver, tilting the tub to pour out a stream of salt with one hand and using
dauda-dagr
to clear space with the other.

Luckily, once the salt was poured it seemed to keep the orgiasts at bay, and it clung firmly to the dance floor, which was slick with viscous fluid. Yeah, that’s pretty much a straight-up “Ew!” I left a gap in front of the satyr and his partner and retraced my steps, using the point of the dagger to draw a line through the salt.

Sometimes it’s better to act than think, and doing what it would take to close the circle was definitely one of those times. Holding
dauda-dagr
and the salt tub awkwardly in one hand, I wrapped my free arm around the waist of the guy kneeling before the satyr and executed a sort of half-assed hip throw on him.

It wasn’t pretty, but it worked. I didn’t spend four years in Mr. Rodriguez’s Li’l Dragonz Tae Kwon Do classes for nothing.

The satyr looked down at me, his grin faltering briefly. It returned as he took a step in my direction, his erection glistening obscenely as it bobbed above me. As strange as it may sound, it was also weirdly hypnotic.

Tearing my gaze away, I used the last of the salt to close the circle, dragging the point of the dagger through the ridge of lurid green crystals to seal it.

Done.

The effect of the funk didn’t vanish, but it began to dissipate. I could feel the level of sexual tension start to ratchet down. I scrambled to my feet and faced the satyr. Looking perplexed, he reached out one bare foot to test the salt line with his toe, then withdrew it to consider his next move.

I had a suspicion the circle wasn’t going to hold him for long. I held up my left hand palm outward to show him the rune written there: Ansuz, the rune of the messenger, indicating that I was Hel’s liaison between the worlds. Mortals couldn’t see it, but the satyr could.

If it meant anything to him, I couldn’t tell. So I showed him the dagger instead. He tilted his head from side to side, the sinews of his neck tightening visibly.

“Look,” I said to him, “I don’t want to hurt you. I just need you to stay put for a few minutes. Okay?”

The satyr reached out one toe.

“No!” I shifted into a defensive posture. “I need you to
stay
! Do you speak English? Do you understand?”

The satyr met my gaze. His eyes were dark and deep and wild. Moving with slow deliberation, he reached for his super-size erection, wrapped his fist around it, and began to pump.

Believe it or not, I’m pretty sure that meant “Yes.”

Four

A
s soon as the satyr consented to his containment, I called Stefan.

The head ghoul and his posse entered the nightclub with si- lent efficiency, spreading out to circle the perimeter just as the orgiasts were emerging from their collective stupor.

From a ghoulish perspective, it must have been a freaking smorgasbord of emotions: lust, chagrin, confusion, shock, outrage . . . I couldn’t even begin to imagine. Okay, that’s another lie. Actually, I could. It was just better if I didn’t.

The ghouls’ glittering eyes were half-closed in the dim light as they siphoned off a measure of every emotion, rendering the balance bearable.

As for the satyr, his eyes were half-lidded, too, and there was a faint smile on his lips as he stood in the ring of lime-green salt and continued to stroke himself with lazy pleasure. I’d always thought satyrs were sort of half goat, half man, but this guy was more or less human in form, the less being the tufted ears that poked out of his hair and the long, luxuriant horsehair tail that jutted out above his buttocks.

Beneath my skirt, my far more modest tail gave a sympathetic twitch. You had to give the guy credit for just putting it out there. Like, literally out there. In a way, I envied him. His urge to rut was tied to the natural world. Oh sure, giving in to it might touch off an inadvertent orgy, but at least it didn’t threaten to blow a hole in the Inviolate Wall.

I guess there might be something ironic in the idea of a prime mover in the drive toward life ending up in a gay nightclub, but I suspect that the satyr was simply drawn toward the biggest locus of desire in town. I’d felt the effect of the funk, and although fertility and procreation might be by-products, that wasn’t what it was about. Even in containment, the satyr radiated a joyful vitality, a vibrant celebration of sex for the sake of sex, for the sheer, unmitigated, nasty, down-and-dirty pleasure of it.

Which I had been very close to experiencing with Cody Fairfax.

Now that I was no longer in crisis mode, that particular fact struck home forcefully, along with a very vivid physical memory of the encounter. Damn. I could feel the bow I’d tied around my mental box of lust loosening.

“Daisy.” Stefan appeared before me, his expression neutral. “If you wish, I can assist you.”

“No.” Wrapping my arms around myself, I shook my head. “I mean, thanks, I appreciate it. But I don’t want you rummaging around in my mind right now.”

Stefan inclined his head. “As you will.” He hesitated. “Do you expect the lamia to arrive soon? I fear that neither the control of my men nor the patience of the satyr is limitless.”

“She should be here any minute. And maybe you shouldn’t hire teenaged boys,” I added pointedly, glancing at the blond kid I’d spotted earlier. “Or induct them into your posse or whatever you call it.”

“Ah.” He followed my gaze. “You took notice of my new lieutenant. Cooper is more than two hundred years old,” he continued conversationally. “He was hanged in the Irish Rebellion of 1798.”

I swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Yes. On the scaffold, he dared God to send him to hell so that he might continue fighting.”

“I take it God declined?” I said.

“No.” Stefan arched one eyebrow. “The Lord accepted his offer. Hell declined to honor it. Since then, Cooper has been Outcast.”

Okay, see what I mean about ghouls? It’s just hard to get your head around the circumstances of their existence. And no, for the record, I had no idea why Stefan was numbered among the Outcast. Whatever he’d done to get himself cast out by heaven and hell alike, I hadn’t the faintest idea.

Thankfully, I was spared the need for further speculation, not to mention the threat of ravening ghouls and a released satyr, by Lurine’s arrival.

I’d assumed that for the sake of discretion, she would wait outside in her Town Car while we brought the satyr to her—although exactly how that was to be accomplished, I hadn’t thought through.

Anyway, I was wrong. Lurine sauntered into the nightclub, pausing to survey the aftermath of the orgy and its shell-shocked participants. She’d pulled out all the stops, wearing a shiny black latex dress that clung to her curves, stretching and undulating with every movement. Tacky, yes, but so magnificently tacky that it wasn’t. And it was offset by a classic chignon, oversize sunglasses, and crimson lipstick.

There was a collective indrawn breath as Lurine sashayed across the floor, followed by a murmur of speculation. As you might guess, Lurine Hollister was a huge icon in the gay community.

“Hey, cupcake,” she greeted me absently, adjusting her sunglasses to peer over them at the satyr. “Ooh, he’s quite the specimen, isn’t he?”

I gestured feebly around the nightclub, indicating the audience. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean, here?”

Lurine gave me an affectionate look. “Oh, don’t worry, they’ll think half of what they saw and did tonight was a hallucination. Including me.” Her eyes widened slightly as she considered me. “You’re all riled up, aren’t you, baby girl?” She smiled. “Want to come home and watch?”

“No!”

She laughed.

Okay, see, here’s the thing. I would trust Lurine with my life, but she
is
a predator, and seduction is her method. Well, one of her methods. For her, flirting is just a way of keeping her hunting instincts honed. Which I wouldn’t mind, except I actually do find Lurine in her true form incredibly hot, which she knows. I like to think of my tastes as pretty conventional, but thanks to my infernal heritage, there’s a perverse streak in there that crops up in unexpected ways.

“My lady Hollister,” Stefan interjected, his voice tense, “it would be best for all involved if you do not dally here.”

They exchanged glances. Fraught, fraught glances. Stefan’s pupils zoomed and glittered. Lurine pursed her crimson lips. “Hmm, you’re close to losing control, aren’t you? That could be interesting.”

He looked involuntarily in my direction; and yep, definitely close. His irises were an icy rim around his pupils and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his ghoul-pale brow. When I’d let Stefan drain my anger in an emergency situation, he’d been in perfect control and I’d felt a deep well of stillness within him. This was the flip side of the coin, a profound, avid, and complex hunger.

And it was directed at me and my beribboned-and-bowed box of desire.

“Or maybe not.” All the teasing went out of Lurine’s voice, giving way to protective pragmatism. “Let’s get down to business.
You’re
coming home with me,” she said to the satyr. “Got it?”

A wide grin spread across the satyr’s face. Placing his hands on his hips, he nodded enthusiastically, giving his pelvis a little thrust for emphasis. Kind of like he was offering up the world’s most startling door prize. And now that I thought about it, he did look like some of the figures I’d seen cavorting on Greek pottery in my favorite teacher Mr. Leary’s Myth & Lit class back in high school.

Another, more alarming thought struck me. “Ah . . . Lurine?” My fingers tightened on
dauda-dagr
’s
hilt as I glanced around the club where the stunned orgiasts were just beginning to retrieve their scattered clothing. “What happens when the circle’s broken? Is it going to start all over again?”

“No, honey,” she said complacently. “Not as long as I keep a firm grip on him. Are you ready?”

The satyr nodded even more vigorously, his shaggy pointed beard bobbing.

With the expertise of an Indy 500 race-car driver maneuvering a gearshift, Lurine reached out to grasp his ginormous shaft with one hand, tugging him out of the salt circle. “All right, then. Let’s get you home, Mr. Happy.”

I held my breath, but Lurine was telling the truth. Nothing happened as she led the satyr out of the nightclub. He trotted happily behind her, his horse-tail switching with anticipation.

I followed them to the door. “Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

“Of course.” Lurine shot me an amused look before settling her sunglasses into place with her free hand. “I can absorb a
lot
of vitality, cupcake. Just get those goddamn ghouls out of here before they start ravening. And stay out of trouble for a few days, will you?” She glanced down at her throbbing door prize. “I’m going to be busy.”