Autumn Bones

it.

And I thought that despite the fact that my life was far from perfect, I was very lucky to have it. Leaning over, I gave my mom a kiss on the cheek.

She smiled at me. “What’s that for?”

I smiled back at her. “Just for being.”

Nine

Although I meant to make an early evening of it, I ended up staying at Mom’s later than I had intended. We were on our second wine cooler when her neighbor Gus lumbered over to offer us a couple of the bratwursts he was grilling, which, by the way, I confirmed he hadn’t made himself. Gus is an ogre, and while he hasn’t eaten anyone in the last century, I have my suspicions regarding a few of the neighborhood cats and dogs over the years.

Anyway, the bratwursts were store-bought, so we invited Gus to join us on the deck, where he sat hunched to approximately the size and shape of a boulder-strewn hillock and gazed adoringly at my mom.

I think it’s sweet that he has a crush on her, and aside from his latent appetite for human flesh, he seems to be a gentle soul.

Once the sun set, the mosquitoes began swarming. But by then it seemed a shame to go home too early, so Mom and I said good night to Gus and went inside to watch an episode of Gilmore Girls. Which, yes, I’ve seen half a dozen times, but if you’re not familiar with it, it’s about a single mom in a quirky little town raising a teenaged daughter she’d had out of wedlock when she was just a teenager herself, and it’s cute and smart and funny, and since it originally aired when I was, like, twelve years old, it’s always been our show. I bought Mom the first season on DVD with my first official paycheck.

Of course, one episode turned into two, then three, before I finally made it home to find an indignant Mogwai demanding that I refill his bowl.

“That’s all there is,” I told him, emptying the dregs of a bag of cat food. He flicked one notched ear in my direction. “Hey, it’s not my fault if you struck out today and were forced to survive on kibble alone, mighty hunter.”

Mogwai lifted his head from his dish long enough to give me a look of disdain.

“I’ll go to the store in the morning,” I promised.

Lying alone in bed, I let myself relive the memory of waking up this morning in Sinclair’s bed with his arm over me, trying to decide how I felt about it. Short answer: I felt good.

So as I drifted off to sleep, I resolved that tomorrow I’d do something nice and distinctly girlfriend-like for him. Cookies. Yeah, cookies. He didn’t know it yet, but I knew my way around the kitchen, too. I’d bake cookies for Sinclair.

It was a good idea, anyway.

The morning started out well enough. Since it was Sunday, I was technically off duty. I woke up in time to make a run to the grocery store, stocking up on cat food and baking supplies before the after-church hordes descended.

By noon, I had my wet and dry ingredients whisked, sifted, and separated and the late, great Katie Webster blasting some Swamp Boogie Queen blues on the stereo. My trusty electric hand mixer was plugged in and ready to go when my phone rang. It was a local number, but not one I’d programmed into the phone.

I lowered the volume on Katie. “Hello, you’ve reached Daisy Johanssen.”

There was a lot of noise in the background on the other end, too. “Hi? This is Mark Brennan at Bazooka Joe’s. You asked me to call?”

My mind was a blank. “I did?”

“If those kids came back?”

Oh, crap. Right. I shifted my phone to a better angle. “The kids running the shell game? They’re back?”

“Yeah, right here down on the dock,” he said. “Got a pretty big crowd, too.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

Okay, so the cookies would have to wait. On a hunch, I exchanged my cute but slippery-soled sandals for a pair of white Keds sneakers. If my suspicions were right, I might need speed and agility. For the sake of mobility, I would have preferred to wear dauda-dagr on my belt, but since I didn’t want to spook the alleged kids, I went with the messenger bag instead, strapping it across my torso. Since I wasn’t sure how well my face was known in the wider eldritch community yet, I added a pair of sunglasses.

Being an agent of Hel sometimes requires compromise. At least I looked enough like a tourist to pass.

Truth be told, I actually enjoy this part of my job. It’s a game in a way; one that involves enough adrenaline to make it fun, but low enough stakes that I won’t castigate myself if I lose a round. Although I do like to win. It’s when things get serious, like they did earlier this summer, that it gets scary.

My apartment was a couple of blocks away from the docks. At a brisk walk, it only took me minutes to get there.

Sure enough, it appeared that a trio of kids was running a shell game. To the mundane eye, it was a charming affair. There was the hawker, who looked like a miniature version of a young Justin Bieber in an oversize baseball cap, sweeping bangs over his eyes, doing the whole “Ladies and gentlemen, step right up!” bit. And there was the operator, a solemn-looking towhead, kneeling on the dock over a piece of cardboard, his hands moving swiftly as he shuttled a dried pea among three empty walnut shells. Last was their bagman, a chubby-cheeked, freckled redhead holding twenty-dollar bills fanned like playing cards in one hand. Norman-freaking-Rockwell would have been proud of these three.

I sidled through the crowd, ignoring a few protests. Blinking my eyes, I concentrated on seeing through the trio’s glamour.

Hobgoblins, all three.

I have to say, it was obvious they were having great fun. Their feral nut-brown faces were contorted with gleeful malice, long, pointed noses drooping toward wide, grinning mouths filled with an erratic straggle of teeth. Sharp, bristly ears twitched with mirth and bright little hedgehog eyes gleamed with delight.

“You, sir, you look like a sharp-eyed gent!” the Bieber-goblin said encouragingly in a clear, piping voice, identifying a new mark. “Try your hand?”

A portly tourist in a polo shirt and Dockers cleared his throat. “I don’t want to take advantage, son.”

“Oh, it’s all right, sir,” the Bieber-goblin assured him. He laid one hand on the towhead’s shoulder. “Nate here just needed to find his rhythm. He’s got it now.” He winked. “Right, Nate?”

The ostensible Nate returned his wink, hands moving more swiftly as he passed the pea from shell to shell. “Right you are, Tommy!”

Oh, gah! It worked, though. I watched the portly tourist pony up a twenty-dollar bill for his bet. The seemingly freckle-faced bagman made a big show of inserting the twenty into the array of bills he held fanned in his hand. The towheaded operator made a number of smooth passes with the pea and the walnut shells, just fast enough to be credible, just slow enough to be detectable. The portly mark was sharp-eyed enough to follow him. With a show of reluctance, the bagman plucked out two twenty-dollar bills and made good on the bet.

“Double or nothing, sir?” the Bieber-goblin asked.

And again, I had to admit, it was a pretty damn clever scam. It was a reverse shell game. The hobgoblins were paying out worthless fairy gold in exchange for cold, hard, mundane cash.

I almost hated to bust them.

Almost.

While the mark debated whether to go double or nothing, I pushed my way to the head of the crowd. Beneath my skirt, my tail swished back and forth in an involuntary stalking reflex. The Bieber-goblin’s long nose twitched as he detected an eldritch presence in the gathered throng. His bright, beady eyes scanned the faces before him, pausing with uncertainty when he reached mine.

I held up my left hand palm outward, revealing Hel’s rune. “Sorry, guys. You’re busted.”