It’s impossible to describe the effect of a goddess’s approval. A warm glow suffused me, driving away the chill of Little Niflheim. Beneath my down jacket and the layers betwixt and between, I wriggled my tail with pleasure.
Hel’s smile—well, her half smile—broadened. “You have my leave to go.”
I bowed. “Thank you.”
Fourteen
The euphoric mood that Hel’s approval had instilled in me lasted for approximately twelve hours.
Long enough for Mikill to drive me home, long enough to check the messages on my phone and confirm that Cody had gotten Ken Levitt to cover for him tomorrow night so we could go bogle hunting. Long enough to fill Mogwai’s bowl with kibble, climb into bed, and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Long enough to report to the police station the next morning to catch up on the latest backlog of filing.
And that was pretty much where it ended. At around nine thirty in the morning, Jen called me from the Reynolds place, one of the regular year-round customers of the Cassopolis family’s housecleaning service.
“Hey, Daise,” Jen said in a low tone. “I thought you might want to know that Sonya Reynolds kept her son Danny home from school today after he woke up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night.”
I swore. “The Night Hag?”
“Well, apparently he said that an evil old lady sat on his chest and strangled him.”
Crap. I’d really hoped the Night Hag wouldn’t find another victim that easily. “Does Sonya know you’re calling me?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I didn’t give her any details, but I told her she should talk to you. I’m just being quiet for the kid’s sake.”
“I’ll be right over.” So much for euphoria.
Don and Sonya Reynolds had a house on the hill overlooking downtown Pemkowet and the river beyond. I’m not sure if it qualified as a mansion, but it was big and fancy and new, occupying a large footprint on a lot where a much smaller, more modest residence had once stood.
I knew the Reynoldses by reputation—he was a local boy made good at an industrial design firm in Appeldoorn, where he was now some kind of managerial bigwig, and she was his college sweetheart—but I’d never met either of them in person. They were a good fifteen years older than me, the sort of up-and-coming power couple that got invited to all the big fund-raisers and social events in town.
Me, not so much.
“You must be Daisy,” Sonya greeted me at the door. She was a petite, pretty brunette whose conservative Talbots mom-on-the-go wardrobe made her look older than her years. Well, that and the haggard expression she wore today. “Come in. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“No thanks,” I said. “Is there somewhere we can talk without disturbing your son?”
“I think Jennifer’s finished in the kitchen,” Sonya said. “We can talk there.”
The Reynoldses’ kitchen was one of those spacious affairs with big windows admitting lots of wintry November sunlight, sleek aluminum appliances, and granite countertops with inlaid mosaic backsplashes. We sat at a table in the breakfast nook.
“Okay,” I said. “Tell me about Danny’s nightmare.”
She hesitated. “If you don’t mind, I’m a little confused. What, exactly, is your role here?”
Not for the first time, I wished my job as Hel’s liaison came with credentials other than a rune that mortal eyes couldn’t see and a magic dagger that no one else could touch. Instead, I showed her my police ID card. “I work for the department on cases where eldritch involvement is suspected.”
“And you think . . .” Sonya’s voice trailed off.
“I think it’s possible,” I said gently. “How old is your son? Has he ever had this kind of nightmare before?”
It took some coaxing, but I got the details out of her. Danny was seven years old and in second grade at Pemkowet Elementary School. He was a sensitive boy with a vivid imagination. While he was prone to nightmares, he’d never had one of this bloodcurdling intensity. After telling her about the evil old lady sitting on his chest, he’d gone nearly catatonic for the better part of an hour, finally falling asleep between his parents in their king-size bed.
“May I talk to Danny?” I asked when she’d finished. “I’d just like to ask him a question or two about the old lady.”
“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea,” Sonya demurred. “It could traumatize him all over again.”
“What kind of questions?” a boy’s voice piped up from the doorway.
“Danny!” His mother actually gasped and covered her mouth. “How long have you been standing there?”
“For one minute exactly,” he said with childlike dignity, clad in a pair of pajamas with cartoon characters from the Madagascar movies. “I wanted a glass of chocolate milk.”
“Why didn’t you ask Jennifer to get it for you?” Sonya scolded him.
I would have high-fived the kid if he’d said, Because you don’t pay your cleaning lady enough to serve as my nanny—I knew what Jen went through at some of these gigs—but his response was almost as good. “Because I can get it myself,” he said, turning a haunted gaze toward me. “I know how to make it.” Despite the bruised shadows under his eyes, he was a cute kid, with his mom’s delicate features and a shock of dark brown hair. “What did you want to ask about the old lady?”