Once a strict grammarian, always a strict grammarian. I winced. “Sorry. Why isn’t there more information available?”

He crossed his legs. “For one thing, unlike other belief systems emanating from the African diaspora, obeah doesn’t appear to have been syncretized with Christianity.”

“Could you, um, elaborate?”

“Plantation owners in the Caribbean did their best to suppress any expression of faith rooted in the traditions of African slaves and their descendants,” he said. “They feared, not without cause, that those they oppressed would find sufficient inspiration in such worship to entertain notions of rebellion. In some places, such as Haiti and Cuba, practitioners continued to worship in a covert manner. They simply established an association between their own existing deities, their loas and orishas and what have you, and Catholic saints. For example, Papa Legba in Haitian vodou, a probable descendant of the Yoruban Elegua, is the god of the crossroads. He’s commonly associated with Saint Peter, who performs a similar function as a gatekeeper.”

“So someone could appear to be praying to Saint Peter when in actuality they were praying to Papa Legba?” I asked.

“Precisely.” Mr. Leary nodded. “Or Saint Lazarus, I believe . . . something to do with a cane and a dog. I’d be happy to look it up for you if you think it might be helpful— Oh, but you were asking about obeah.”

“Right.” I sipped my tea, which really was insanely refreshing. “Which wasn’t syncretized. So that meant it was driven deeper undercover?”

“It’s conjecture on my part,” he said modestly. “It’s also entirely possible that little is known simply because there’s little to know, that rather than a complex, multifunctional belief system, obeah is merely an umbrella term for a particular accretion of superstition and folklore.”

I give Mr. Leary a lot of credit for the fact that I have a not-totally-embarrassing vocabulary for a small-town hell-spawn with a high school education, but it took me a few seconds to tease the meaning out of that one. “Maybe.” I had the sense that the Right Honorable Mrs. Sinclair’s Mom was involved in something a bit bigger than an accretion. “But I wonder, does it work?”

“Does it work?” he echoed.

“Obeah magic.” I swirled the tea in my glass, making the ice cubes rattle. “How can it? You know the saying: As below, so above. As far as I know, Jamaica doesn’t have an underworld. So I don’t see how it can have functioning magic.”

“Ah.” Mr. Leary laid one finger alongside his nose, à la Saint Nicholas in “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” “Forgive me for being trite, but there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. But that, my dear Daisy, is your bailiwick. I can tell you what history has or has not recorded of obeah. I cannot tell you if it works.”

After finishing my iced tea, I thanked Mr. Leary and headed back to Pemkowet to meet Jen for lunch.

Callahan’s Café is right downtown, but maybe because it’s only a block and a half from the police station, it’s always been more of a cop shop and local hangout than a tourist joint. It’s plain and unpretentious, a diner rather than a bistro; the kind of place where you can always get a decent sloppy joe or tuna salad sandwich. My mom has her own business as a seamstress now, but she waitressed here for a lot of years when I was growing up, so it holds fond memories for me.

“Hey, Daise!” Jen, already seated in a booth, waved me over. I slid into the seat across from her. Her brown eyes were sparkling with curiosity. “What’s the scoop? I’m dying! Were you out at Rainbow’s End last night? What happened out there, anyway? The whole town’s buzzing.”

“Oh, yeah.” I glanced around to make sure no one was in earshot, then leaned forward and lowered my voice. “I was there. And that’s just the beginning.”

I gave her the story. The whole story.

Jennifer Cassopolis and I have been best friends since high school, when her older sister, Bethany, took up with an insufferable vampire prat named Geoffrey Chancellor and I was the only person willing to go out to the House of Shadows with Jen to check on her. Eight years later, that situation’s still unresolved, but at least we check in on Bethany often enough to know she’s okay, or as okay as she can be under blood-thrall to a snotty vampire. Anyway, Jen and I are a good balance for each other. She grew up with a crappy home life: slutty older sister; abusive, alcoholic dad; battered mom; and a much younger brother she tries to protect.

Meanwhile, my mom’s great. Growing up, we had a pretty good home life under the circumstances. Jen used to take refuge there a lot when she couldn’t deal with her own situation. But then there’s the Belphegor factor. Demon father is a pretty big trump card, especially since he totally took advantage of my mom’s teenaged naïveté to knock her up when she accidentally summoned him with a Ouija board.

So, yeah, Jen and I balance each other pretty well. Since we’ve been friends, I’ve only kept one secret from her and that was my crush on Cody. Which, to be fair, I kept in part because he and the whole Fairfax clan are on the eldritch down-low. But it all came out earlier this summer, and the upshot of the matter is that I admitted my crush to Jen and outed Cody as a werewolf in the process. Which I should have done a lot earlier, since Jen’s friendship is more important to me than the eldritch honor code, and I knew she’d keep Cody’s secret.

So, okay.

What that all meant now was that the whole story included the part at the beginning where Cody and I were groping and making out like über-horny teenagers, as well as the evening’s culmination in bom-chicka-wow-wow sex with Sinclair.

Jen stared at me. “Are you serious?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Wow.” She toyed with some leftover fries on her plate. We’d both ordered the daily special, Monte Cristo sandwiches. Yum. “You and Sinclair used a condom, I hope?”

“Yeah, of course!” Although I felt a little guilty thinking about all those orgiasts who hadn’t.

“So what happens next, Daise?” Jen asked me. “I mean, how do you feel about it all today?”

“A little confused,” I admitted. “Okay, a lot confused. I mean, I like Cody, and obviously he feels something for me. But it never would have happened if it hadn’t been for the satyr. Cody’s made it clear that he’s looking for a mate and I’m the wrong species. I like Sinclair, too. I like him a lot. What happened with him was pretty awesome, too. And the whole idea of having an actual boyfriend . . . it’s appealing, you know?”

“I know.” She sounded sympathetic. “So . . . no temptation scenarios?”

“No.” I shook my head. That was the term I’d coined for the times when my father, Belphegor, was able to whisper through the gaps in the Inviolate Wall, which was not exactly as inviolate as its name suggested, to promise me the wonders that would exist if only I claimed my birthright. “So maybe there are worse things in the world I could do than act like a normal, healthy twenty-four-year-old woman, right? Hey, that reminds me. Ever hear anything about a lawyer named Dufreyne?”

“No.” Jen frowned. “Why?”

I told her about the guy in the PVB office.

“Huh.” She propped her chin on one hand. “You know, now that you mention it, I have heard rumors about some out-of-town investor buying up lots around the river channel. You think this guy’s representing him?”

“I bet.”

Jen eyed me. “Sounds like he’s got some kind of power of persuasion if he could actually get Amanda Brooks to consider it. She’s always going on about the founding families and her heritage.”

I thought so, too. And okay, my tail gave an envious little twitch. It kind of sucked to be a hell-spawn with no discernible benefits. But envy was one of the Seven Deadlies. I was already skating on thin ice with lust, and thanks to my mom’s upbringing, I was committed to being one of the good guys, dammit.

“Yeah,” I said. “But I talked her out of it—or at least I think I did.” I made a devil-horns sign with my right hand. “Oh, and by the way? The hell-spawn lawyer dude? Stacey Brooks thinks he’s hot.”

Jen made a face. “She would. Did you warn her?”

I smiled. “Nope.”

She laughed. “I wouldn’t have, either.”

Eight

After getting off to a wild start, Labor Day weekend seemed to be settling into a more sedate pace, which was okay with me. Having had the chance to debrief with Jen, I felt more settled myself, no longer bursting at the seams with my news.

I called my mom to touch base, giving her an edited version of last night’s events. Like everyone else in town, she was dying to know about the orgy.

“Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed when I gave her the lowdown. “Well, that explains why Lurine isn’t answering her phone today.” She paused. “Are you sure she’s all right?”

“Yeah.” I smiled. “At last glance, I’d say she had the situation well in hand. Literally.”

“Daisy!” Mom tried to sound scandalized, but I could tell she was laughing. “So no one was hurt? And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “No one was hurt.”

I hoped it was true, anyway. Stefan had said he sensed no one had taken great harm from the experience. Which reminded me that in my capacity as Hel’s liaison, I probably owed him a formal thank-you for his assistance last night.

If I thought about it for too long, I’d talk myself out of it, so instead I drove over to the Wheelhouse after I ended the call. Not that long ago—like, just earlier this summer—the Wheelhouse wasn’t a place I’d have gone to alone. It’s a biker bar and a ghoul hangout, and it’s always had a dicey reputation.

But now it was Stefan Ludovic’s headquarters, too.