Poison Fruit

At any rate, I climbed into his truck and we headed out to the old Presbyterian camp. I filled him in on the latest during the drive, both the Night Hag attack and the Elysian Fields business.

He let out a low whistle at Daniel Dufreyne’s born-of-an-innocent revelation. “That’s pretty heavy, Daise. How do you feel about it?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Right now, I just want to catch this freakin’ Night Hag before she goes after someone else.”

“Agreed.” Cody turned onto a narrow road that wound up and down through densely forested dunes toward the beach. “But if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you.”

“Thanks.”

That brought on a brief awkward silence. We passed the WATCH FOR PEDESTRIANS street sign over which someone with an irreverent sense of humor had plastered a sticker substituting the word Presbyterians, and turned onto the dirt two-track that led to the camp, which was nestled deep in the woods.

It was one of those places I’d known about all my life but had never visited, mostly because, well, I was neither a Presbyterian nor a camper. “Have you been out here before?” I asked Cody.

“Sure,” he said. “Caleb and I used to ride our bikes out here and explore during the off-season when we were kids. Only during the day, though. You never did?”

“Nope,” I said. “Guess I wasn’t the adventurous type.”

“It’s a great piece of property.” Cody concentrated on driving down the rutted path, which had steep drop-offs on either side. “It’s been some kind of Presbyterian back-to-nature camp for over a hundred years. I hate to think of it being sold for development.” He spared me a quick glance. “Your hell-spawn lawyer who may or may not work for Hades isn’t nosing around it, is he?”

“No,” I said. “As far as I can tell, it’s just properties around Little Niflheim.”

“Interesting.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I said. “I was thinking disturbing.”

“That, too.” Cody passed a couple of maintenance buildings and pulled into the first clearing of hard-packed dirt that served as a parking lot. Illuminated by the truck’s headlights, various rustic signs indicated where additional tracks led deeper into the woods toward a dismaying number of cabins and lodges scattered throughout the grounds. “Any idea where to start?”

“You tell me,” I said. “You’re the nose.”

“Just thought you might have some insider fey intel.” He cut the engine and grabbed a flashlight. “Let’s have a look and a sniff.”

It was seriously dark out there, the kind of pitch-blackness that you forget exists away from the pervasive streetlights of civilization. I have great night vision—the one tangible bonus of my infernal heritage—but it takes a minute or so for my eyes to adjust, especially in darkness this impenetrable. Hel’s sawmill had nothing on this. Cody swung the beam of his flashlight around, sniffing the night air.

“Do you actually know what a bogle smells like?” I asked, trying to avoid looking at the beam. The faster my eyes adjusted, the better. I felt like Jodie Foster fumbling around in Buffalo Bill’s basement in The Silence of the Lambs.

“Not exactly,” he admitted. “I never noticed any traces of eldritch presence when I was out here as a kid, but then, I wasn’t old enough to hunt yet. I figure I’ll recognize it when I smell it.” He trained his beam on the nearest track. “Let’s try down there.”

We followed the track for a quarter of a mile or so, trees looming out of the darkness as my eyes slowly grew accustomed to the lack of light. Every few yards, Cody paused to inhale in short, sharp bursts.

“What did the, uh, hellebore fairy say again?” he asked me. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure what a bogle is, let alone where to look for one.”

“You know, neither am I. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but I always thought bogle was just another name for hobgoblins.” I was beginning to shiver in the cold and wish I’d worn the Michelin Man down coat instead of my black leather motorcycle jacket. Served me right for succumbing to vanity, I guess. “All Ellie said was that the bogle’s haunt was in the woods but it prowls the grounds here.”

“Let’s go back,” Cody said decisively. “Try another trail.”

“You’re the tracker,” I said.

We hiked back down the stretch of frozen, rutted mud to the clearing and struck out on a different track, trudging up an incline. I could hear the steady crash and hiss of waves breaking in the distance, and guessed we were heading west toward the lakeshore. Lake Michigan sounded cold.

Halfway up the incline, Cody held out one arm. “Hold on,” he said, nostrils working. “I smell something.”

“Bogle?” I asked.

He glanced at me, phosphorescent green flashing behind his eyes. “I’m guessing yes. Smells like moldy old leather and bracken.”

“Sounds like a bogle to me,” I said. “But what do I know?”

Cody grinned. “Let’s check it out.”

The wind picked up as we climbed higher, the sound of waves growing louder. All around us, trees creaked and groaned, branches scraping against one another. It was all very Blair Witch Project. I wrapped my arms around myself against the cold, trying not to think about the fact that that movie scared the crap out of me.