Poison Fruit

“No, no,” he said hastily. “I just wanted to see if you were free. Are you at your apartment? I’ll come over.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

“I’ll see you in ten.” He hung up.

I spent the next ten minutes tidying my apartment and, okay, checking my makeup. For the record, I mostly resemble my mom: fair skin, white-blond Scandinavian hair, a pert nose. The only trait I inherited from dear old Dad’s side of the family—well, aside from the tail—is jet-black eyes, the kind you don’t find in ordinary mortal humans.

Ten minutes later, I heard Cody’s footsteps on the stairs leading to my apartment, which was located above Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery.

“I brought cinnamon rolls,” he offered, holding out a bag when I opened the door. Mrs. Browne’s cinnamon rolls were legendary. All her baked goods were. No one, human or eldritch, can bake a better brownie.

“Thanks.” I took the bag. “Come on in.”

I put the cinnamon rolls on a plate while Cody hovered in the living room of my apartment, which seemed smaller with him in it.

“Have a seat.” I set the plate with the cinnamon rolls on the coffee table in front of my futon couch.

“Daise . . .” Cody stayed on his feet. His hands opened and closed in a gesture of frustration. “I’m sorry. This is awkward.”

“Yeah.” I blew out a breath. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

He sat on the futon, and I took a seat on the adjacent armchair. The cinnamon rolls sat untouched. Mogwai, the big calico tomcat who had more or less adopted me, peered warily around the door to my bedroom.

“How have you been?” Cody asked. “Since . . . ?” He let the sentence die.

“Okay,” I said. “You?”

“Okay.”

See, here’s the thing. I’ll spare the details, but the gist of the matter is that if Cody and I hadn’t hooked up that first time—which was, by the way, completely spontaneous and unexpected—it’s possible that we would have found the Tall Man’s stolen remains; or at least Cody, with his werewolf-keen olfactory sense, would have. There’s absolutely, positively no way we could have known it at the time, but the fact is that while we were lolling in the afterglow of earth-shattering sex, a thunderstorm washed away a scent trail we would have stumbled across in the course of duty, which would have meant no Halloween debacle, no axe-wielding zombie skeleton. All in all, a much better outcome.

I know Cody didn’t blame me, but I knew he blamed himself for it, which made a situation that was already awkward even worse. And it frustrated me, because it gave him an excuse to avoid me.

Which is why I’d put a lot of thought into the matter while I was mooning over life’s subtle beauties.

“It probably wouldn’t have mattered, you know,” I said to Cody. He looked blankly at me. “You and me? Delaying the investigation?” I shook my head. “It wouldn’t have mattered, Cody. We spent a couple of hours canvassing the neighborhood around the cemetery that morning. Either way, the thunderstorm would have passed through long before we went to Brannigan’s house. That scent trail would have been gone.”

“Yeah.” Cody ran a hand through his bronze-colored hair. “I figured that out after I had a chance to cool down. We still should have started investigating right away and I’m not letting myself off the hook for it, but . . .” He shrugged. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Oh.

“Why?” I asked softly, regarding him. He wore a worn flannel shirt and faded jeans, and it looked good on him. Unlike a lot of men, Cody Fairfax could pull off backwoods chic. “Are you here to give me the unsuitable-mate speech, Cody? Because I’ve already heard it.”

A corner of his mouth twitched wryly, but there was regret in his topaz eyes. “Not the long version.”

I said nothing.

Cody glanced around the living room, his gaze lighting on the small steel buckler leaning against my bookcase. “What the hell do you have a shield for, Daisy? Are you going to a Renaissance fair?”

“No,” I said. “It’s for practicing. It helps me visualize a mental shield.”

While I don’t have any special powers per se, it turns out that thanks to my outsize emotions, I do have an abundance of what Stefan Ludovic—hot ghoul, six-hundred-year-old immortal Bohemian knight, and the issue I was actively avoiding—informed me the ancient Greeks called pneuma, or the breath of life, and George Lucas called the Force, or midi-chlorians. Just kidding on that last part. I don’t think Stefan’s seen Star Wars, although he has surprised me before. At any rate, under his tutelage, I’ve learned to channel that energy into a mental shield, which is handy for warding off things like the emotion-draining ability of ghouls—more politely known as the Outcast—and vampiric hypnosis.

It can also be used as a weapon, which Stefan warned me was very, very dangerous, and that I should not attempt it before he gauged me ready. Given that I nearly got myself killed doing that very thing, I’d say he was right.

Anyway.

“Did Ludovic give that to you?” Cody asked me, an edge to his tone. His nostrils flared slightly, and there was a glint of phosphorescent green in his eyes. In the bedroom doorway, Mogwai hissed and bristled.

“Yeah,” I said. “He did.” My heart ached a little. “Goddammit, Cody! We’ve been over this before, too. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me I’m an unsuitable mate, then act jealous. It’s not fair.”