Lurine’s face paled beneath her sunglasses, and she drew in a sharp breath, her voice taking on that bronze-edged tone it had when she summoned the naiads, making the sunlight seem to shiver over the hot pavement of the parking lot. “Daisy Johanssen, tell me you’re not thinking of invoking your birthright!”

“No!” I protested. “God, no! Of course not.”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Don’t scare me like that, cupcake.” Behind the dark lenses, her gaze shifted to Cody, softening. “Of course you’re not defenseless,” she said. “With a big, strong, handsome police officer at your side. My apologies, Officer Fairfax. It was rude of me to imply otherwise.”

He blushed. “Please call me Cody.”

“Cody.” Lurine smiled at him. “I like the sound of it.” She pointed at me. “Call me.”

“I will!”

She glided back into the Town Car, and the driver closed the door after her. Cody and Detective Wilkes stared after it as it pulled away.

“All right.” The detective gave himself a shake. “I think . . . I think I need to rethink this case and how we’re going to handle it.” He stared at his nice leather-bound notebook. “I’m at a bit of a loss here. I’m not sure how to even report on this. Mind if we go back to the station and conference?”

“Not at all,” Cody said.

Lifting his head, Detective Wilkes gazed at the highway in the direction the Town Car had gone. “That really was Lurine Hollister, wasn’t it? I’d heard the rumor that she lived in the area, but . . .” He glanced at me. “What the hell is she? For that matter, what are you? And what did she mean about invoking your birthright?”

“Nothing germane to the case,” I said firmly. And yes, I was a bit pleased with myself for remembering the word germane and using it correctly in context. My old teacher Mr. Leary would have been proud. “Shall we go?”

Back at the station, we sent out for sandwiches and conferenced, the chief sitting in on our discussion. Away from Lurine oozing preternatural, predatory charisma all over the place, and the glittering eyes of ghouls, Detective Wilkes regained a measure of confidence.

“You weren’t kidding about this one, Dave,” he said to the chief. “It’s a tricky son of a bitch.”

Chief Bryant nodded. “Told you.”

Detective Wilkes spread one hand over the open pages of his notebook. “Here’s what I’m thinking. For now . . .” He raised one finger for emphasis. “For now, I’d like to leave this eldritch angle under wraps and let your people handle the fieldwork on it.”

“Sounds good.” The chief bit into a ham sandwich on marbled rye.