Poison Fruit

“Duly noted,” I said. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”

“No.”

Ohh-kay. There wasn’t a lot I could say to that, which seemed to be something of a theme to my weekend.

“I do apologize.” Behind the desk, Stefan stood. “Having so recently established my authority among the Outcast in Pemkowet, I am reluctant to leave on such short notice. But this successor is a friend of long standing. And if I understand the situation rightly . . .” His voice turned grave as he rounded the desk. “I may have a favor to ask of you, Daisy. A very great favor.”

I rose from my seat. “Care to give me a hint?”

He hesitated. “Lest what I fear not come to pass, I would rather not say.”

“Okay.” I shrugged. “Safe travels.”

“Daisy.” Stefan’s voice dropped to a lower register, setting off butterflies in the pit of my stomach. He took a step toward me. I fought the urge to raise my shield, caught in the push-pull of conflicting emotions that his nearness created in me. He cupped my face, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones, and bowed his head toward me, his slightly-too-long black hair falling to frame his face. “Given the state of your emotions last night, perhaps it is for the best that we must continue this conversation at a later date,” he murmured. “But do you agree that we will continue it?”

I raised my hands to grip his wrists—not to push him away, just to hold him in place. “Yes.”

Stefan’s mouth covered mine as he kissed me, hard. I kissed him back. I could feel the bond between us, feel a part of myself spilling into him. The two of us together was a dangerous proposition, which was what made it so damn exciting and terrifying. The last time he’d kissed me, I’d pulled away and raised my shield.

This time, I didn’t.

It was Stefan who broke the kiss. He was breathing hard, his pupils dilated, a sliver of icy blue rimmed in black around them. His mouth stretched into a predator’s grin. “I will count the hours, Daisy Johanssen.”

I smiled back at him just as fiercely. “So will I.”

What can I say?

Hawtt!!

      Four

On Monday morning, I arrived at the police station to catch up on filing, only to walk into a situation. I’d call it a domestic disturbance, except the wild-eyed guy and the skinny, bleached-blond chick screaming at each other weren’t in their own domicile.

“—want to file a report, goddammit!” he yelled at her. “Some crazy old bitch breaks into our apartment in the middle of the night—”

“—need to go back on yer meds!”

“—fucking sits on my chest—”

“Yuh need to go back on yer meds, Scott!”

Behind the reception desk, Patty Rogan looked more annoyed than frightened, probably because Chief Bryant was in the process of lumbering out of his office like a bear disturbed from its hibernation.

“What seems to be the problem here?” he rumbled, hitching up his duty belt. “Oh, morning, Daisy.”

“Morning, chief.” I kept my distance. I’d rather face down an ogre than get in the middle of a domestic dispute, especially since the only ogre I know is a friend of the family.

The feuding couple began shouting at the same time again. The chief winced and held up one big hand for silence. It worked. For an ordinary human being, the chief has a lot of presence. He looked at Patty Rogan, who cleared her throat.

“Mr. Evans here would like to file a report regarding an intruder,” Patty said in a neutral tone. “Mrs. Evans is of the opinion that there was no intrusion.”

Chief Bryant pointed at the wild-eyed guy. “Scott Evans, right? Braden’s boy?” The guy nodded, looking marginally less agitated. “You first.”

“That ain’t—” his wife began indignantly.

The chief silenced her with a look. “You’ll get your turn, ma’am.”

The upshot of Scott Evans’s story was that he’d awakened in the middle of the night to find an elderly woman sitting on his chest—an elderly woman with skeletal features, glowing red eyes, and long, lank hair, that is. He’d been terrified and unable to move as she’d reached down and begun to throttle him, leaning over to inhale his breath. He was sure he was going to die, but then his wife, Dawn, rolled over in her sleep, and the scary old lady fled.

Somewhere in the course of Scott’s less-than-coherent recitation, the chief gave me an inquiring look, which I answered with a slight shrug and head shake. I wasn’t sure if a succubus was anything like an incubus, but it didn’t sound at all similar to my mother’s experience. Other than that, I couldn’t think of anything in Pemkowet’s eldritch population that would fit the profile.

“All right, ma’am,” the chief said to Dawn Evans when her husband had finished. “What’s your version?”

She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “There weren’t no old lady, sir.” There were dark circles under her eyes. “Scott’s got the PTSD. Sometimes he sees thangs. And he ain’t bin takin’ his meds.”

“It’s got nothing to do with the meds!” he shouted. “She was there, dammit!”

“Oh, honey! Ah know yuh think so.” Sorrow, a whole world of it, had replaced the anger in her tone. “But she weren’t.”

It was enough to convince Chief Bryant. “All right, here’s what we’re going to do. Scott, Mrs. Rogan here’s going to take your statement, and I’ll send Officer Mallick over to examine the apartment for any sign of forced entry. Meanwhile, I want you to go home and take your medication. Can you do that for me?”