Poison Fruit

Anyway.

Suffice it to say that it was a grueling couple of days. By the time Sinclair called me at a little before nine o’clock on Sunday night to say that the hex charm was ready, my nerves were frazzled. I was on edge and ready to be done with it.

“Are you sure about this, Daisy?” Sinclair asked me, the leather pouch in his hand and worry in his eyes. “It’s dangerous, you know.”

Now that the moment was here, there was a part of me that wanted to say no. Hell, are any of us ever prepared to face our deepest, darkest fears? Not to mention the part where I had to subdue the Night Hag.

But there was the memory of Scott Evans, the muzzle of his pistol jammed under his chin; of seven-year-old Danny Reynolds afraid of the night and the terrors it held; of the lingering rictus of fear on Mrs. Claussen’s face, her crabbed hands raised in a futile gesture of defense.

“Yeah.” I held out my hand. “I’m sure.”

Sinclair placed the charm into my palm. “Like I said, put it under your pillow. Make sure there’s no cold iron around you, especially . . . what’s it called? Your, um, magic dagger?”

“Dauda-dagr?”

“Right.” He nodded. “It probably shouldn’t even be under the same roof as you, okay?”

“Good point.” I’d made sure dauda-dagr wasn’t in the bedroom with me when we’d tried the other night, but maybe that wasn’t enough.

“You’re doing this out at Cody’s?” Sinclair asked. I nodded. “Tell him . . . tell him to stay out of your way, to let the nightmare run its course. But to be careful.” He sighed. “Shit, I don’t know what to tell him, Daisy. Or you. Just . . . both of you be careful, okay?”

“Can you be more specific?” I asked him wryly.

He shook his head. “Not really. This is uncharted territory.”

I tightened my fist on the hex charm in its leather pouch and kissed his cheek. “I’ll do my best.”

“Good luck,” Sinclair said. “And when it’s over, bring the charm back. I’ll make sure it’s undone.”

“I will,” I said to him. “Thanks, Sinclair. For everything.”

Hex charm in hand, I drove out to Cody’s place in the countryside.

If things had been a little awkward between us the last time, this time it was ten times worse. Somehow, the fact that working on the case had led directly to our initial attempt made it feel more like a professional undertaking. Even watching back-to-back Saw movies and downing hoagies was part of the job. This time, it was late enough that both of us had already eaten, but early enough that neither of us was ready for sleep, and there was nothing constructive and time-consuming to distract us from the fact that we were alone together in Cody’s house.

“So, um, Sinclair suggested that dauda-dagr shouldn’t be under the same roof,” I said, casting around for a safe topic of conversation. “I thought maybe I could stash it in your workshop.”

“Good idea,” Cody said. “I’ll store my duty belt and gear out there for the night.” He frowned in thought. “What about silverware?”

“What about it?” I asked.

“It’s stainless steel,” he said. “It might have a high enough iron content to count.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure none of the Night Hag’s victims had emptied their kitchen drawers,” I said. “On the other hand, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Right.”

So in addition to stashing dauda-dagr and Cody’s duty belt with his service pistol, flashlight, handcuffs, and other accoutrements in the outbuilding behind his house where he had his leatherworking studio, we hauled several drawers of silverware and kitchen utensils and a cupboard full of pots and pans out back, along with a toaster, a toolbox, his off-duty pistol, an ancient metal fan, a floor lamp, and a cast-iron poker.

At least it gave us something to do.

“What about the grate?” Cody eyed the fireplace. “That probably ought to go.”

As far as fireplaces go, it was tidy and well swept, but that’s not saying much. The grate was still encrusted with years’ worth of soot and ash residue. “We might be overthinking this, Cody.”

“Probably,” he agreed. “Do you want to take that chance?”

I sighed. “I’ll hold the door for you.”

To call it a dirty job was an understatement. Wrestling the heavy cast-iron grate out of the fireplace and hauling it to the workshop out back was a filthy job. By the time it was done, Cody had sooty grime smeared all the way up to his elbows, and all over the front of his jeans and flannel shirt. Standing in the doorway of the workshop, surveying the array of household goods we’d dragged into it, both of us recognized the absurdity of what we’d done and burst into helpless peals of laughter.

“Oh, my God!” Cody rubbed tears of laughter from his eyes with the heel of one hand. “Okay, the grate was overkill.”

“You just . . .” I pointed at him, laughing too hard to get the words out. At that moment in time, Cody’s soot-smeared eye sockets were the funniest thing I’d ever seen. “Your face!” I finally managed to gasp. “You look like you lost a fight.”

“What?” He glanced at his grime-blackened hands. “Oh, shit.”

“Okay, let’s go back to the house.” I regained a measure of control. “Don’t touch anything.”