Poison Fruit

“Huh.” He rubbed his chin. “Do you think they’re capable of it?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But Sinclair’s sister, Emmy, put a hex on me that damn near made me think I was dying. It’s worth a try.”

Cody opened the passenger door of his pickup truck for me. “Ask him. We’ve got nothing else.”

He drove me home and pulled into the alley. It seemed like a lot longer ago than just last night that I’d run upstairs to grab my overnight bag, hopeful that a few hours’ worth of gruesome movies and a big hoagie would provoke a nightmare intense enough to bring the Night Hag to my bedside.

Now, it seemed more than a little naive. As grisly and sadistic as the Saw movies were, they were just movies. They weren’t real. Watching a scary movie was nothing to facing down the prospect of a long, protracted death from liver failure like Irma Claussen, or reliving whatever trauma Scott Evans had experienced in combat in Iraq. I didn’t know what haunted Danny Reynolds’s dreams, but nighttime could be filled with outsize terrors for any child, real or imagined. In fact, I’d met one.

I found myself wishing I’d taken the bogle up on his offer of a beer. In the cold light of day, with a woman dead of terror, the memory of yesterday evening’s bogle hunt seemed downright idyllic.

“You’ll let me know about the hex?” Cody said.

I nodded. “Are you on duty tonight?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll be available if you need me. As of today, the Night Hag’s our top priority.”

“Okay.” I gathered my overnight bag and hesitated. “How are we full moon–wise?”

“Fine,” Cody said. “We’ve got at least a week before I’m out of commission.”

“Good.” I reached for the car door handle.

“Daise?”

“Yeah?”

A hint of phosphorescent green shimmered behind Cody’s eyes. “Did you really agree to a date with Ludovic?”

“Maybe.” I met his gaze and held it. “How are plans for the great Pemkowet winter werewolf mixer coming along?”

“Oh, fuck the mixer!” he said. “It’s just—”

“I know,” I said. “Cody, we keep going around and around, but nothing changes, does it?”

“No,” he murmured.

“Okay, well, yes, I agreed to . . . something . . . with Stefan,” I said. “I don’t even know what to call it, and frankly, I don’t know what the hell he’s doing in Poland or when he’s coming back. But there is going to be a mixer, right?”

“Yeah.” Cody looked away. “After the holidays. The second weekend in January.” He looked back at me. “Actually, I’m supposed to invite you.”

“To the mixer?”

“Just the initial meeting. Um, it’s customary for a representative of the presiding deity of the demesne to make the acquaintance of potential new clan members.” He read my expression. “Daisy, this was not my idea. The elders are insisting we need to follow the proper protocol.”

“Did it occur to them that under the circumstances, that might be a wee bit insensitive?” I inquired.

“I raised that point,” he said. “It didn’t trump protocol.”

“Great,” I said. “Tell them I’ll think about it. Right now, I’ve got bigger things on my mind. If we don’t catch this Night Hag, I might not have to worry about carrying out any future responsibilities as Hel’s liaison.”

“It’s not your fault, Daise,” Cody said. “You’re doing everything you possibly can.”

I opened the car door. “Tell that to poor old Mrs. Claussen.”

      Eighteen

After a quick shower and a bowl of cereal, I tried calling Sinclair. He didn’t pick up, but I knew he was working at the nursery, which was a bonus since his boss, Warren Rodgers, was another member of the coven. I sent Sinclair a quick text to let him know I’d be stopping by before heading back out.

The Green Man Nursery was in the countryside a few miles north of town. It occupied a lot of acreage and there were several greenhouses. I wasn’t sure where to start looking for Sinclair and Warren—you wouldn’t think there was much to do in a plant nursery at this time of year, but according to Sinclair, there was a lot of prep work involved in getting the larger trees and shrubs ready to weather the long winter—but I checked my phone after pulling into the gravel drive and saw Sinclair had texted me back to say that he and Warren were working in the barn.

It was a picturesque old barn that had been lovingly restored and painted a bright fire-engine red, with a big sign advertising the nursery above the barn doors. As I crunched my way over the gravel, Sinclair slid the door open to greet me, a somber expression on his face. “Hey, Daise.”

“I take it you heard,” I said.

“Unfortunately, yeah.” He opened the door wider. “Come on in. We’re just getting ready for the farmers’ market tomorrow.”

Inside, it smelled like Christmas, the scent of freshly cut evergreen boughs hanging pungent in the air. Over on one worktable, Warren Rodgers was painstakingly pruning miniature potted firs into the shape of tabletop Christmas trees. Two additional tables were heaped high with boughs of white pine, juniper and fir, holly, pinecones, and spools of red and gold ribbon.