Poison Fruit

“Honestly, no.” Lurine looked genuinely perplexed. “He’s got his own demesne in Montreal.”

“Montreal?” Mom echoed. “Why on earth?”

“Oh, it was part of that whole eldritch diaspora of the twentieth century.” Lurine waved a dismissive hand at the passage of time. “Hades probably foresaw the Greek economy tanking in this century. He’s the Greek god of wealth as well as god of the underworld, you know. He must have seen an opportunity there.”

“Yeah, he’s spent the last fifty or sixty years behind the scenes building one of the world’s biggest underground cities in Montreal.” Underworld deities tended to be reclusive and keep a low profile, but I knew about Montreal because that’s where Cody’s late ex-girlfriend—and current sister-in-law—were from. With a pang, I wondered if the Fairfax clan would be importing more Québécois werewolves for the upcoming mixer. “From what I understand, it’s the poshest underworld in existence.”

“Maybe he’s just looking for an investment opportunity,” my mom suggested. “Property values are on the rise.”

“It’s possible,” Lurine agreed. “I mean, no offense, but Hades is a lot more worldly than Hel. That’s what comes of being a god of wealth.”

I wasn’t convinced. “Maybe.”

“Do you want me to read the cards for you, honey?” Mom asked. “We can do it right now.”

I glanced out the window, where the murky gray light was dimming. “I’d better not take the time. I need to report to Hel. Can I take you up on it later?”

She smiled. “Anytime.”

At the door, I gave her an extra-long hug. My mom, the innocent. While Daniel Dufreyne’s mother had been enjoying her compensation, mine had been waiting tables and sewing tail-slits into my onesies. I wished I could go back in time and protect her, even if it meant negating my own existence.

“Be careful out there, honey,” Mom cautioned me. “Down there in Little Niflheim, too. Okay?”

“I will,” I promised.

      Thirteen

By the time I sent my request for an audience with Hel, it was well after sunset.

The process was a simple one. An iron casket I’d stashed on the top shelf of my closet held a copper bowl, a box of wooden kitchen matches, and six massive scales of pine bark from Yggdrasil II that were densely etched with runic script.

There had been seven, but I’d used one a couple of months ago. Since then, I’d come to consider Lee Hastings a friend, but the initial price of his aid in developing a database for me was, as he put it, a single glimpse of Hel.

For this presumption, Hel offered Lee a terrifying demonstration of her ability to stop his heart with a thought; and when I took the blame for allowing him to accompany me, she generously included me in the demonstration.

Not that that was on my mind or anything as I took my gear out to the park next door.

Okay, it was totally on my mind, even though I felt a hundred percent confident in making this request. Having a goddess demonstrate her ability to stop your heart will do that to you.

In case you’re wondering, I don’t begrudge Hel the demonstration. I deserved the responsibility I took for Lee’s transgression, and you don’t say something like that to a deity without being prepared to accept the repercussions. You just don’t. A deity will take you at your word. Hel could be cruel and Hel could be compassionate, but she was always fair.

Anyway.

Sitting cross-legged, with my shoulders hunched against the cold November wind, I placed the copper bowl before me, struck a match, and set fire to one of the six remaining scales, dropping it into the bowl. The dry, brittle bark burned briskly, crackling and snapping, flames devouring the runes. A thin trickle of fragrant piney smoke vanished into the darkening sky overhead.

I watched it go. When the scale of bark had burned to ashes in the bottom of the bowl, I retreated to my apartment to wait.

It took about fifteen minutes before I heard the familiar chugging rumble of Mikill’s dune buggy pulling into the alley beside my apartment. To be honest, I’d been hoping Mikill drove something else in the off-season, maybe a nice warm SUV with all-wheel drive and power windows, but I guess that was a vain hope. If there’s one thing a frost giant doesn’t mind, it’s a blast of cold wind blowing through his beard.

So I bundled up in a down coat that made me look like a miniature version of the Michelin Man, wrapped a wool scarf around my neck, and yanked an old Pemkowet High School knit ski hat over my head, making sure my ears were covered.

“Greetings, Daisy Johanssen!” Towering beside the dune buggy, Mikill raised his left hand in salutation to display the spear-headed rune that indicated he was one of Hel’s guards. “Your request for an audience has been granted.”

“Thanks, Mikill.” I flashed my own palm in response before dragging on a pair of warm gloves. “Hey, you look good. This weather agrees with you.”

It was true. In warmer weather, Mikill looked like an enormous ice sculpture in the process of melting. With the temperature hovering under freezing, he looked like a pristine ice sculpture.

A modest smile curved his blue lips, the rime of frost on his paler blue skin crackling. “It is kind of you to notice.”

“How could I not?” I climbed into the passenger seat, fishing around at my feet for the loaf of bread that was the hellhound Garm’s tribute before buckling my seat belt. “Okay, ready when you are.”