I dashed upstairs to the apartment to put on fresh lipstick and run a brush through my hair. Lurine Hollister isn’t judgmental like the lesser water elementals, but trust me when I say she’s not someone you want to encounter while looking distinctly subpar. It has to do with preservation of the ego. Even for me, and Lurine had known me since I was barely out of training pants.
After filling Mogwai’s bowl, I trotted back downstairs and fired up my mostly trusty Honda Civic again, heading for the lakeshore.
There were a lot of spectacular homes along the tree-lined Lakeshore Drive in Pemkowet, every bit as imposing as the Vanderheis’ place, and most of them considerably older. Once upon a time, most had been modest summer cottages, but over the years, far too many quaint cottages sitting on large plots were torn down and replaced with mansions that occupied every inch of space that local zoning laws allowed. The only thing they retained of their original character was their name: names like Sans Souci, Pinehaven, or Gray Gables, proudly displayed on hanging placards at the end of winding driveways, adorned with coats of arms either real or invented. Due to erosion, none of the houses along this section of Lakeshore Drive directly overlooked Lake Michigan. They were set back on the opposite side of the road, but all of them enjoyed lakefront access, usually in the form of a long series of wooden steps and decks leading down to private beaches.
A lot of them were still euphemistically called “summer homes,” as they served as seasonal residences for wealthy citizens of Chicago, Detroit, or St. Louis, but as far as I was concerned, they were mansions.
For sure, Lurine’s place qualified.
I couldn’t help but feel out of place as I turned into her drive and pulled up to the gated columns. Rolling down my window, I pressed the button on the loudspeaker and announced myself. “Um . . . hello? Hi. Daisy Johanssen to see Ms. Hollister.”
It was silly. I’d known her since she was Lurine Clemmons, living in a mobile home in Sedgewick Estate, establishing her current identity. She lived two units down from my mom, babysat me regularly when I was a kid, and served as a willing confidante when I was a teenager, before she moved out to Los Angeles. On the surface of things, Lurine was one of those friends every young person should have: old enough to serve as a role model, young enough to identify when a parent couldn’t.
Still, a lot had changed since those days.
My tail twitched restlessly while I waited for a polite voice to reply over the speaker, “Ms. Hollister will see you, Ms. Johanssen.”
There was a buzzing sound, and then the gates parted silently, swinging open on well-oiled hinges. I drove through them, and they swung silently closed behind me.
Lurine Hollister, née Clemmons, née God-knows-what in the early days of history, had done very, very well for herself. As far as I could tell, she always did.
“Ms. Johanssen.” Lurine’s—what? her manservant? housekeeper? butler? I guess he was all of the above—greeted me at the door. He had a closed, lugubrious face and impeccable manners. “Welcome.” He inclined his head in a slight bow. “Ms. Hollister is enjoying herself in the pool. She bids you join her there.”
“Great, thanks.”
I made my way through the house, past the movie stills, the promotional posters, the larger-than-life portrait in oil paint featuring Lurine in an ivory satin gown, her shoulders bare, her décolletage on pulchritudinous display.
Yeah, okay, it was kind of tacky, but in a totally awesome way.
It was painted shortly after Lurine left her career as a B-movie starlet to marry octogenarian real-estate tycoon Sanford Hollister. Naturally, there was some Anna Nicole Smith–esque tabloid scandal when he died within the year and left his fortune to her, but unlike the sad train wreck that was Anna Nicole, Lurine kept a low profile. As soon as the challenge to the will was overturned, Lurine retreated from the media spotlight altogether, returning to Pemkowet to live a fabulous and idyllic life.
For the record, I don’t actually know if she was responsible for her husband’s death, and I really, really don’t want to.
“Daisy, baby!” Lurine’s languid voice called to me as I opened the French doors onto the pool terrace. “There’s champagne in the fridge. Be a doll and bring a bottle and a couple of glasses, will you?”
“Sure.”
It was one of those high-end refrigerators that doesn’t even look like a fridge, with silky wood paneling on the doors. One whole section contained a built-in wine rack. I pulled out a bottle of Moët & Chandon, plucked a couple of champagne flutes from the gleaming, glass-fronted cupboard, and carried them out to the terrace.
Lurine’s house was situated on two wooded acres. The backyard, with its garden terrace and immense pool, was utterly secluded.
For most former B-movie starlets, that would afford the opportunity for sunbathing in the nude. For Lurine, it meant that she could luxuriate in the pool in her true form.
“Good to see you, cupcake.” Lurine lolled in the deep end of the pool, her arms slung carelessly along the edges, wet tendrils of golden hair spilling artfully over her deservedly famous breasts. At some point during the course of history, I’m pretty sure those boobs did lure men to their doom, possibly watery. She gave me a slow, lazy smile that hadn’t changed a bit since her mobile home days, dispelling any lingering unease I felt. The vast, sinuous length of her lower half filled the rest of the pool, looped and entwined coils gleaming with shifting hues of green and gold and blue, interspersed with iridescent crimson spots. It stirred the water with effortless, muscular grace, and my own little tail gave an involuntary twitch of envy. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I need a favor,” I admitted.
She patted the edge of the pool. “Bring that champagne over here, sit down, and tell me all about it. Ooh!” Her cornflower-blue eyes widened. “Is this police business? Is this about the boy who drowned?”
“Yes, and yes.” Kicking off my sandals, I sat next to her and dangled my feet in the water. “But you cannot repeat anything I tell you.”
“Cross my heart.” Lurine suited actions to words, then uncorked the champagne with a deft twist and a muted pop, filling both flutes. “Now tell.”
I laid out the bare bones of the case, and my dilemma with the naiads and other water elements.
“Dumb bitches,” Lurine commented, her voice taking on an unfamiliar edge. “Don’t they know if any one of us is involved, it could mean trouble for all of us?”
“Apparently not.” I sipped my champagne. Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t on duty. But it wasn’t like I was an official badge-carrying cop, and there’s the hospitality thing. It’s very important in the eldritch community. “Will you talk to them for me?”
“Of course,” she said promptly, studying me. “You seem kind of down, cupcake. Is it just the case, or is something else bothering you?”
I shrugged. “It’s stupid.”
And yet within ten minutes, I’d spilled the entire story of my long-standing crush on Cody, and how I’d interfered with him and Jen, and now Jen wasn’t speaking to me. Lurine was a good listener; she always had been. Not all of her gifts were obvious ones.
“See,” I said when I’d finished. “It’s stupid! Seriously, it’s like I’m still in high school!” I put my head in my hands. “And I can’t believe I’m even thinking about it at a time like this.”
“Oh, baby girl!” Lurine said with sympathy. “It’s okay. Life goes on even at the worst of times, and there are some ways no one ever grows up, no matter how long they live or how many lifetimes.”
It made me feel better. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” She pointed at my purse. “Now you get out your phone, call your friend, and apologize to her. If she won’t answer, leave a message. Or text her. Isn’t that how you kids today communicate? Get it off your chest. If she’s a good friend, she’ll forgive you sooner or later.”
After I’d done it, that made me feel better, too, even though Jen didn’t pick up. “Thanks, Lurine. Any advice on the Cody situation?”
Her look of sympathy returned. “What can I tell you? Those clans keep to their own kind, cupcake. If you go chasing after him, you’re likely to get your heart broken.” Her shoulders rose and fell. “Then again, you’re young. There are worse things in the world than heartbreak. Finding that out is a rite of passage.”
“Great,” I said glumly.
Lurine poured herself away from the edge of the pool in one fluid movement, diving below the surface. The water roiled, slopping over the sides as she undulated from one end and back in serpentine glory. Resurfacing, she gave me her slow, lazy smile, this time with more than a hint of wickedness in it. Her gleaming coils stirred suggestively around her. “You want to come to mama, baby girl? I’ll make you feel all better.”
A shiver ran from the nape of my neck to the base of my tail, making it spasm involuntarily.
Okay, here’s the thing. When it comes to ordinary, mortal humans, I’m pretty much straight, but the eldritch have a whole different Kinsey scale.
Yes, it’s twisted.
And yes, I find Lurine in her lamia form kind of hot. I can’t help it. Something about those deadly coils . . . gah! I can’t explain it.
I looked away, feeling my face get warm. “Oh, for God’s sake! Cut it out! You know, you used to babysit me.”
“Age is relative, cupcake.” There was a prodigious splash as Lurine heaved herself out of the pool. “Isn’t that what I was just saying?”
I sneaked a glance at her and relaxed. Lurine had assumed her human guise and stood two-legged, barefoot and dripping on the sun-warmed concrete, looking amused and pleased with herself as she wrapped a towel around her Playboy-centerfold figure.
That, I could handle. “Okay, so, dawn tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” She twined a second towel around her wet hair in a turban. “Why wait?”
