Poison Fruit

“You tell me.” Despite the fact that I’d had no intention of doing so, I found myself giving the bogle an abbreviated account of what had happened yesterday. What can I say? He really was easy to talk to.

“Sounds to me like you did the man a kindness,” Skrrzzzt said when I’d finished. “You losing sleep over it?”

“You could say so,” I said.

“Figures.” He drained his beer. “You mortals have soft hearts to go along with your soft little bodies. Beer me?”

I tossed him a fresh one. “So what advice do four generations’ worth of camp counselors have for me?”

“Are you kidding?” The bogle chuckled, a sound like dry branches snapping underfoot. “This is way out of their league. I was hoping you were here to talk about your love life. You want my advice?”

“Sure.”

“Get over it,” Skrrzzzt said simply. “Like it or not, it’s part of your job.”

“That’s it?” I asked him. “That’s your sage advice?”

The bogle shrugged. “It is what it is, mamacita. Did you think it was all gonna be beer and skittles when you accepted that nasty-ass magic dagger you’ve got hidden under your coat from a goddess of the freakin’ dead?”

“No, but . . .” I couldn’t think of a way to finish my protest. “No.”

“Well, there you go, then.” Skrrzzzt hoisted his beer in my direction. “Feel better?”

Oddly, I did. Skrrzzzt’s advice notwithstanding, I wasn’t about to “get over it” now or ever—I don’t think killing someone, even if for the best possible reasons, is something anyone should “get over”—but I felt calmer.

“Yeah,” I said. “Actually, I do. Thanks.”

“No problemo,” the bogle said. “Sometimes it just helps to talk things out, and sometimes it’s easier with someone you’ve only just met. Fresh perspective, no emotional baggage, yadda, yadda, yadda.” He swigged his beer. “And that, little lady, is wisdom gleaned from eavesdropping on four generations of camp counselors.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” I set down my empty beer can. “Consider yourself off the hook for scaring me. You’re still up a favor in my ledger.”

“Cool.” Skrrzzzt looked relieved, then dismayed as I rummaged for my keys. “Hey, you’re not taking off already, are you?”

“I don’t mean to confess and run, but it’s getting late,” I said. “And I have to work tomorrow.”

“Pffft!” He waved a dismissive hand. “It gets dark so early this time of year. It’s barely past six o’clock. C’mon, keep me company for a while longer. We can play a board game.” Rising, he padded on backward-bending legs over to the bookshelves and perused them. “What have we got here? Risk, Monopoly . . . eh, not really my bag . . . Scrabble . . . you like Scrabble?”

“It’s okay,” I said. “Do you?”

Skrrzzzt scratched his lank, mossy hair. “You know, I can’t say I’ve actually played any of these—I’ve just watched humans do it. Seems like a decent way to pass the time.”

“Well, maybe we should pick an easy one.” I got up to look. “One where I can remember the rules.”

We settled on Battleship and played three rounds. I won the first two and Skrrzzzt won the last, after which I left over his protests, promising I’d come back some other time.

“You’d best mean what you say, mamacita,” the bogle said to me. “Because I’m gonna hold you to it.”

“I know.” I smiled at him. “Don’t worry. I know better than to make false promises in the eldritch community.”

“Right on.” Skrrzzzt nodded and held out one fist. “Respect.”

I bumped his fist with my own. “Respect.”

It’s funny, but Skrrzzzt was right. I did feel better after talking to him, and part of it was because he wasn’t involved in any of my drama. Feeling generous, I drove home, fed Mogwai, and logged in to the Pemkowet Ledger to record an additional favor owed in the bogle’s record. I figured lending a sympathetic listening ear to Hel’s liaison counted. If and when the old campsite sold and was developed as residential housing, I’d definitely put in a word with the homeowners’ association on Skrrzzzt’s behalf.

After all, if the bogle had managed to maintain a good working relationship with the Presbyterian camp for four generations, there was no reason to think he couldn’t do the same with new owners.

If I had dreams that night, I didn’t remember them. I awoke feeling well rested—and, as a bonus, in an immaculately clean apartment, thanks to yesterday’s flurry of housekeeping. I celebrated by making a big breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon before heading down to the police station on foot.

About twenty yards before I reached the station, an inexplicable tingle ran the length of my spine.

Something felt wrong.

I glanced around, my tail twitching. Nothing seemed amiss. There were a few cars parked along the street, but most of the shops weren’t open for business yet. On the opposite side, a couple of women carrying yoga mats were chatting in an animated fashion on their way to the studio at the end of a picturesque little alley.

Shrugging, I continued onward.

Inside the station, it was pandemonium. Chief Bryant, Bart Mallick, Ken Levitt, and Patty Rogan were all crowded in the foyer around the reception desk, all of them talking at once, trying to talk over one another.