Autumn Bones

you had to be there. “To return the incorporeal dead to rest, you must fix their shadows with a hammer and an iron nail. To cast an incorporeal shadow, a spirit lantern is required.”

The frost giant Mikill chuckled faintly into his icy beard. I resisted the urge to shoot him a dirty look. Maybe that was common knowledge in days of yore, but I was a child of the twenty-first century, and it’s not like this job came with an instruction manual. Maybe that should be my next project after I finished entering the backlog of files into the database. A handbook for agents of the underworld.

Anyway.

“Ah . . . do I need a special hammer and nails?” I asked. “Can I buy them at the local hardware store? Because if the nails have to be pure iron, I’m pretty sure I’d have to order them from, like, Restoration Hardware or something.”

Hel looked at the dwarves, who huddled to confer among themselves.

“An ordinary hammer and nails will be fine, liaison,” one of them assured me. “The iron content suffices.”

“Great.” I tucked the spirit lantern under my left arm. “So all I need to do is find Grandpa Morgan’s duppy and fix his shadow?”

“Perhaps.” The slightest hint of a frown creased Hel’s brow. Well, the fair-skinned and luminous right side, anyway. The blackened-skull side was pretty immobile. “This spirit that has never been laid to rest has no rest to which to return, save the vessel which contained it. Your young sorcerer must be prepared to recapture it.” Her ember eye flared in its socket. “That responsibility lies on his head.”

“Yes, my lady.” I hesitated. “Um . . . just in case, what if there are zombies?”

“You bear a weapon capable of killing the immortal undead, Daisy Johanssen,” Hel said to me in a dry tone. “If the dead rise from their graves, I suggest you use it.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Is there aught else?”

I shook my head. “No, my lady.”

“Have you aught to report on the other matter?” she asked. “The person of interest?”

“The . . . oh. The hell-spawn lawyer. No, I haven’t. There hasn’t been any sign of him, and I’ve had no luck trying to contact him.” It occurred to me that tracking down an elusive lawyer might be a good job for a computer genius like Lee. “Do you, um, want me to make it a priority?”

“No.” It was a definitive “no,” accompanied by a blazing left eye. “The Winter Nights will be upon us soon, Daisy Johanssen,” Hel said grimly. “The unleashing of this spirit has opened a gate between the world of the living and the dead in my demesne. If the dead are not laid to rest by the time your All Hallows Eve has passed, I fear the gate may never be closed.”

“I see.” Okay, so this was a more serious business than I’d realized. I cleared my throat. “I’ll make sure it’s done.”

Hel inclined her head. “That is well.”

With that, I was dismissed. Mikill began escorting me back to the dune buggy. But as we reached the big doors of the sawmill, Hel addressed me once more.

“Daisy Johanssen.”

I turned back. She had her blue eye open, and although her gaze was stern, it wasn’t disappointed. “You did well to gain the sorceress’s oath.”

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.