“I will,” he said. “He said to tell you to be in touch. He’s got somewhat that might help out with your little project.” With that, Cooper sauntered back toward his bike, straddled it, kicked it to life, and roared out of the parking lot.

Sinclair turned to me. “You want to tell me what the hell that was all about?”

I really, really didn’t. Not here and now, not in front of dear Emmy, who was glancing back and forth between us with interest, waiting to see how this was going to play out. I, um, hadn’t exactly been forthcoming yet about my bond with Stefan Ludovic. “It’s nothing. Like Cooper said, he was just checking things out.” I gave Sinclair my best puppy-dog eyes, pleading silently with him to let it go.

“All right.” He sounded reluctant, but he agreed. “Let’s get out of here.”

Emmeline slid obligingly behind the wheel of her rental convertible. “What a peculiar young man,” she remarked, pulling onto the rural highway. “Is he even old enough for a driver’s license?”

“Cooper?” I met her gaze in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you could say so. He’s more than two hundred years old. He was hanged to death in the Irish Rebellion of 1798.”

Funny how those kind of details stay with you.

Her eyelids flickered slightly. “I see.”

“He’s not a duppy, Emmy,” Sinclair said. “He’s a ghoul.”

Duppy. It seemed like I’d heard that word before. I wanted to ask what a duppy was, but I kept my mouth shut on the question for now. It was worth noting that Emmeline hadn’t been able to recognize a ghoul on sight. That, I thought, was why she’d offered to shake Cooper’s hand; she was trying to get a read on him. It was also worth noting that she’d done it without the slightest trace of fear, and Cooper had been wary enough to refuse.

Okay, duly noted. Dear Emmy was packing some serious mojo and should not be underestimated.

By the time they dropped me off at my apartment, my head was aching with the effort of containing my various emotions. It was about half an hour later, around ten thirty or so, that Sinclair called. I’d thought he might. I was sitting on my screened porch listening to Billie Holiday, a few candles lit, a glass of scotch in my hand and Mogwai on my lap, kneading and purring. I was as calm as I was going to get.

“So what’s up, Daisy?” Sinclair asked without preamble. “What’s going on?”

“Is your sister there?”

“No,” he said. “I offered, but she’s staying at a B and B downtown. Why? What did she say to you?” He hesitated. “Does it have anything to do with that rat-faced little ghoul checking up on you?”

I stroked Mogwai’s calico fur. “Do you know why she’s here?”