Poison Fruit

“All right, all right.” The chief patted my arm in an awkward gesture of affection. “Keep it together, Daisy. This thing’s turned serious, and it’s going to be hard to keep a lid on it after this morning. I need you to find this Night Hag and fast. Do whatever you need to do. All right?”

I took a deep breath. “All right.”

“Believe me, I don’t like this any better than you do.” In the wintry November light, Chief Bryant looked old and tired, deep lines etched into his heavy features. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re talking about manslaughter here. A woman’s been killed in my town, on my watch, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. So I’m counting on you, Daisy.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.” The chief gave me one last pat. “Good girl. Keep me updated.”

“Will do.” I watched him lumber toward his squad car, wishing I had the faintest idea what to do next.

      Seventeen

I was still standing in the parking lot, watching the chief’s taillights dwindle and trying to collect my thoughts, when a British motorcycle that looked like it belonged in a period piece about World War II sputtered into the entrance.

“Hey there, Miss Daisy.” Pulling up to the curb outside the Open Hearth Center, Cooper knocked the kickstand into place with the heel of his boot and shoved a pair of vintage touring goggles onto his forehead. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“No kidding,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Lovely to see you, too,” he said mildly, dismounting from the bike. “With the big man out of town, I’m filling in on Good Sam duty.”

“Good Sam duty?” I echoed.

“Oh, aye, himself didn’t tell you?” Cooper’s angelic blue eyes were shrewd in his thin face. “Community outreach and the like.” He nodded at the facility. “There’s been a death here, don’tcha know? Got the call a little while ago. I’m here to console the bereaved and offer solace to those in need.”

I eyed him uncertainly, trying to determine whether or not he was serious. “Someone from the center called you?”

“Your doubt wounds me, m’lady.” Cooper rubbed his hands, clad in fingerless black leather gloves, together briskly. “It cuts me to the quick. Yes, someone did. But I confess, I can take no credit for the Good Sam program. That was the big man’s doing.” He assessed me, his pupils doing a quick wax-and-wane. “May I ask why anger hangs about you like a thundercloud?”

I told him.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Nasty creatures, those.”

“Any suggestions?” I inquired.

Considering my question, Cooper rubbed his hands together again and blew on his fingertips. “As I recall, you’ve been hexed before, Miss Daisy. If you’re in need of a nightmare fit to make you soil your bedsheets and summon a Night Hag, why not ask that witchy lad with whom you were keeping company to oblige? Him and his coven?”

A spark of hope kindled inside me. “They can do that?”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “They ought do.”

If he’d been anyone else, I would have hugged him. “Thanks, Cooper. That’s a great idea.”

“So it is.” We gazed at each other across the gulf that divided us. Cooper cleared his throat. “I ought to be venturing within to offer my services. Are the residents greatly distraught at the loss of one of their own?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I said. “I think they may be more excited about the fact that Chief Bryant paid a call.”

“It was ever thus,” he said in a philosophical tone. “Let’s go see if I can be of use, shall we?”

Inside the Open Hearth Center, Cooper was a big hit. The residents might not have been unduly grieved by the loss of Irma Claussen—I had the impression that most of them, being unaware that she died in fear, regarded her sudden passing as a blessing—but they had their share of pain and suffering, sorrow and regret.

And, too, there was the boredom of their circumscribed existence, dull routines alleviated by visits from friends and loved ones, visits that were always too short and too seldom. I’m not saying the staff and volunteers didn’t do a great job of planning activities—from what I could see, they did—but those couldn’t compete with a visit from a real live member of the Outcast, a youthful-looking lad who was willing to listen to the trials and tribulations of old age and illness, to flirt with the ladies and banter with the gentlemen, his eyes glittering in his too-pale face as he siphoned off a measure of whatever negative emotions afflicted them.

Cody, of course, didn’t like it. “I wouldn’t trust him with my grandparents,” he grumbled.

“No one’s asking you to,” I observed.

“Mr. Ludovic expressed every confidence in Mr. Cooper.” Nurse Luisa watched him interact with the residents. “I’d say it appears justified, wouldn’t you?”

“Were you the one who called him?” I asked.

She nodded. “Under Mr. Ludovic’s direction, the assistance of the Outcast has been invaluable here.”

“He’s feeding on mortals without their permission,” Cody said quietly. “That’s against the rules.”

The nurse gave him a sharp look. “You used the Outcast for crowd control during the recent hauntings, didn’t you, officer?”