Dark Currents
Page 33

“An adorable handful, if it helps.” Lurine reached over to tousle my hair with the careless lack of respect for personal boundaries that was part of her charm. “Even in the middle of a temper tantrum, you were a cute little brat. But I’m serious, Daisy. Your mother reminded me that there are people in the world with enough heart and courage to love even a monster.” She gave a lock of my hair a sharp tweak, her voice sounding a different note. “For that alone, I’d do anything in my power for either of you.”
Batting her hand away, I stole another glance at her to see whether she was kidding me. She wasn’t. “You are serious.”
She smiled at my incredulous expression. “What can I say, baby girl? I’m proud of you. I know what you’re trying to do. You’re doing your best, and it isn’t easy.” She waved one hand in the general direction of Appeldoorn. “And the rest of the world isn’t going to make it any easier.”
I thought about the headlines, the protestors, the righteous amens at the funeral. “That’s for sure.”
It was around seven o’clock when we parked on the campus of Van Buren College, the warm summer air promising another long, balmy evening gliding ever so slowly into the soft lavender twilight. Actually, it was a lot like the night Thad Vanderhei had died. Right around this time, I’d been headed down to the gazebo to meet Jen and listen to Los Gatos del Sol, fighting an unexpected surge of jealousy at seeing Cody Fairfax flirt with my best friend, warning an irascible milkweed fairy against stealing a changeling child.
God, that seemed like a long time ago.
But counting backward in my mind, I realized it was less than a week ago. It felt like so much had happened, so much had changed.
And if we didn’t catch a break soon, there would be a lot more change coming, none of it good.
On the sidewalk, Lurine waited patiently for me. “Ready?”
I nodded. “I’m ready.”
She winked at me. “Showtime, cupcake.”
Triton House wasn’t actually located on the Van Raalte campus, which was charming and stately on a modest scale, with lots of red brick buildings designed to emulate the town’s old Dutch architecture. The fraternity house, a gift of some wealthy fraternal alumnus, was a few blocks away, all the better to avoid being under the aegis of the college’s public safety department. But since it was part of my cover story that I was considering transferring to Van Buren, I thought it best to park on campus and walk the few blocks.
The house itself sat on a tree-lined street. It was a big, rambling place that had probably once housed multiple generations of a family, now identified by the stylized Triton symbol proudly displayed beneath the eaves. There were a few guys on the front porch drinking beer from plastic cups, and through the screen door, I could see a handful more inside. The mood seemed pretty somber, which, under the circumstances, was to be expected.
“Sorry, ladies,” one of the beer drinkers said as Lurine and I approached the porch. “Private party tonight.”
“No offense,” another added, sounding genuinely regretful. “We’re holding a wake.”
I shaded my eyes with one hand. “For Thad Vanderhei?”
The second beer drinker leaned over the porch railing. “You knew Thad?”
“Yeah.” For all the effort I put into avoiding lying, doing it came surprisingly easily. “We were in youth group together before my family moved. Thad and I stayed in touch. I’m here visiting because I was thinking of transferring. We were supposed to meet up.” I smiled sadly. “He said he really wanted to introduce me to you guys.”
“Shit, I’m sorry.” Looking stricken, he beckoned. “Come on up. I’m Dale.”
I hesitated.
“We don’t want to intrude,” Lurine said apologetically. “And I’m sorry; I didn’t know Thad.” She laid one hand on my shoulder. “I’m just here to chaperone.”
“No, no!” Dale insisted. “Come on; you’ve absolutely got to have a drink with us.”
Within a minute’s time, we were on the porch, plastic cups of tepid beer pressed into our hands.
I introduced myself as Lisa Trask and Lurine as my older sister, Sara. The Tritons asked a few cursory questions about my acquaintance with Thad, but they had other things on their minds.
“You know this is some seriously fucked-up shit you’ve walked into, right?” Dale asked me.
I shook my head. “I only found out yesterday. I called his home number when Thad wasn’t answering my texts.”
He stared into the distance. “Shit.”
I took a sip of beer. “I just can’t believe it.”
“No shit.” His mood darkened visibly. “Everything about this is pretty fucking hard to believe.”
For a fleeting moment, I wished I’d asked Stefan to come with me instead of Lurine. It would have been useful to have someone who could read emotions. But then, I still wasn’t sure I could trust him, or how well his gift would function outside of Hel’s domain, without the presence of an underworld to sustain it. As the eldritch saying goes, as below, so above.
“I thought it was an accident,” Lurine said in a voice so soft and tentative, I couldn’t believe it was coming out of her mouth.
Dale glanced at her. “You don’t think there’s one hell of a cover-up going on down there?”
She gave him an apologetic look. “I’m sorry; I don’t know anything about it.”
That opened the floodgates. The three Tritons on the porch gave vent to a confused mishmash of conspiracy theories about Thad’s death, fueled by grief, anger, and beer, compounded by reports of Thad’s restless ghost protesting the chief’s presence at his memorial service.
Lurine and I listened wide-eyed, prompting them until I was reasonably sure none of these three knew anything.
I wanted to ask about Matthew Mollenkamp and the Masters of the Universe, but I didn’t want to press my luck without an opening, and there were more Tritons inside the house.
“Mind if I use your restroom?” I asked when there was a brief lull in the outpouring of grief and fury.
“I could use a potty break, too,” Lurine added.
“No, yeah, of course not.” Dale put one hand on the small of my back. “Come on; I’ll show you where it is.”
Inside, he introduced us to the six or seven Tritons lounging on battered furniture and milling in and out of the kitchen.
Bingo.
I recognized Matthew Mollenkamp as one of the funeral attendees, and I’m pretty certain I would have ID’ed him even without the introduction. For one thing, he was older, in his mid-twenties and likely an alumnus, but mostly it was about the way the others deferred to him and the air of entitlement he exuded, even slouching in an armchair with a beer in one hand. Also, he was the only guy in the house with the balls to check out Lurine blatantly.
“Sisters, huh?” He gave us a weary half smirk. “Come back and talk to me, Trask sisters. I could use some consoling on this bleak motherfucking day.”
“Amen, brother,” one of the Tritons on an adjacent couch muttered.
Lurine and I ducked into the bathroom, which was . . . gah. Pretty much what you’d expect from a frat-house bathroom. I wondered what it was like during the regular school year at full occupancy. Using a square of toilet paper, I flushed the toilet gingerly, then waited a decent interval while Lurine peered at her face in the mirror, wrinkling her nose with displeasure.
“He’s the one, right?” she asked me. “Mollenkamp?”
“Uh-huh.” I flushed the toilet again.
“Okay, baby girl.” She applied a fresh coat of lipstick. “Let’s go see what he has to say.”
At the outset, not much. Despite his request, Matthew Mollenkamp was content to slouch in his armchair, drinking steadily while the other Tritons shared fond memories of Thad, most of which involved booze-fueled exploits.
Outside, the sunlight began to fade, dusk rising.
“Enough beer,” Matthew said abruptly, and the room fell silent. “Let’s have a real toast. Denny, get the scotch.”
A Triton in a backward-facing baseball cap hurried into the kitchen, returning with three bottles of Macallan and a stack of paper cups. Yeah, I know. Sacrilege.
After a ceremonious round of shots were poured and distributed, Matthew Mollenkamp rose to his feet. Everyone followed suit, including Lurine and me.
“To Thad,” he said.
“To Thad,” we chorused.
Everyone drank. With a couple of beers already in me, I would have faked it if I could, but Matthew was watching. He was a good-looking guy, tall and rangy, but there was a guarded look behind his hazel eyes that made me uncomfortable.
“Again,” he said.
Twice more, Denny the Triton circulated to refill our paper cups with twelve-year-old single-malt scotch with which we toasted Thad Vanderhei before Matthew Mollenkamp sank back into his armchair.
“Jesus,” he murmured. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
I blinked, wishing I weren’t starting to get more than a little drunk. Maybe I wasn’t cut out for undercover work.
“Poor boy.” Lurine perched on the overstuffed arm of Matthew’s chair, stroking his hair with idle fingers. “I know it’s awful.”
He glanced up at her. “You don’t know shit.”
She gave him a faint smile. “Try me. I might surprise you.”
His mouth curled, but it wasn’t a smile. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Lurine Hollister? Only not as hot.”
“Oh, is that that pickup-artist thing where you pretend to compliment a girl, then insult her to undermine her confidence?” Leaning down, Lurine kissed his cheek. “Honey, it’s okay. You don’t have to pretend tonight. I know you’re in a bad way.” She plucked the paper cup from his hand. “But if you’re going to keep drinking, let’s get you a proper glass so you can drink like a big boy.”