“What the hell is this? Fruit? The only way I’m eating that is if it’s cut up and sitting on the rim of a cocktail glass. With a tiny paper umbrella. Get with the program, boys.”
Asher barely moved a muscle. “So you’re saying you don’t want the fruit.”
“Fine, I’ll take the fucking fruit already,” Pan said, stomping his hooves like a sulking teenager, ducking down to swipe a pear from the top of the pile. He bit into it, the juices running through his beard, and chomped noisily. “Is he always like this?”
“You mean is he always a little nerd?” I said. “Yes.”
Pan thrust a finger at me, wagging it in approval. “See, this guy? This guy gets it. Vampire, aren’t you? Now this guy knows one or two things about drinking.”
Pear juice dripped from the end of Pan’s goatee. I clenched my fists and licked my lips. Yeah, I knew a thing or two about drinking, all right. I wasn’t so much a fan of goat’s blood. Satyr blood, though? And a satyr that was a god, to boot?
“Steady,” Gil mumbled, elbowing me in the ribs.
“You stay steady,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“Scoot over,” Pan said, inching himself between me and Asher, his butt thudding heavily on the ground as he plunked himself onto the grass. Uh-oh. Too close. Way too close. He threw back his head, nearly knocking over the basket when he stretched out his legs, then sighed.
“Rough night?” Gil said.
Pan shook his head, groaning. “You don’t know the half of it. It’s like every ten minutes there’s someone who wants something from me, and no one ever bothers to lure me over with a nice bottle of something.” He leaned over the fruit basket, picked up a mushroom, then licked gingerly at its cap. “I can’t even get high from this. Maybe I do need a tether after all, to filter out all the bad requests. I’m too nice is what it is. My kingdom for some hippies to accidentally summon me. Just once. Bong rips all around.”
Gil nodded solemnly in agreement. “I get that. Work’s been rough for us, too. It’s worse when you feel like you’ve already done everything you can, you know? You’ve exhausted all your options, but you still can’t find what you need.”
“Just a little win, am I right? Something small. But nope.” Pan tossed his half-eaten pear and the moist mushroom cap over his shoulder, then bumped fists with Gil. “You get me, man. Respect.”
This was something to behold. Gil was a man of few words. When it came to communions, Asher was always our point person, the most eloquent among us, and the least offensive. But here he was, winning over a god that might as well have been his polar opposite in personality.
And then Gil reached into his jacket, pulling out a silver flask, offering it to Pan. “Here. Take a sip.”
Pan lit up immediately, grinning from ear to ear as he greedily accepted. “Just so you know,” he said, twisting the cap off, “I don’t have a problem.” He upended the flask and drained it in one go.
I leaned over to whisper to Asher. “I didn’t know Gil carried liquor around on him.”
Asher leaned closer to answer. “He needs it to deal with you.”
I flicked him on the nose. He yelped, then rubbed at his face.
The flask fell from Pan’s fingers, and he let out a deeply satisfied sigh. His cheeks were ruddier already, his smile delighted, yet mischievous. He belched, patted his stomach, then wiped his hand across his mouth.
“That hit the spot,” he said happily. “Thanks, werewolf. Now. How can I help you gentlemen?”
“Right,” Asher said, his eyes flitting between the silver flask on the ground and Pan’s easy grin. “So, there’s been all these killings in this area, and we were wondering if you could help us with some information. We need help finding the killer.”
“Can’t help you there. It’s not like I’m constantly watching every forest on earth every waking minute. I’m not a security camera. But here’s something that I can tell you.” He threw an arm across Asher’s shoulders, pulling him close.
“Oh, God,” Asher muttered. “You smell like a minibar.”
“Enjoy my musk,” Pan drawled. “You should be glad I showered today. Now shut up, kid. Listen. Let me give you a hot tip. That’s not the question you should be asking. Look over there.”
We followed the line of his finger to the base of a tree, right across the clearing. My heart thumped. There, nestled among the roots, was another little bundle of twigs. A fetish.
“The question is: who the hell is leaving these all over the forest?”
21
We never even noticed the bundle. I shifted uncomfortably, staring at the fetish. It was shaped like a little stick figure of a man, pieces of twine holding it together at what might have been its waist, what could have passed for its neck.
“So what is that thing?” I said, eyeing the bundle warily.