Poison Fruit: Agent of Hel

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Amen,” I said, ignoring Cody’s arched eyebrow. “Ms. Martinez, did you send someone to the Sisters of Selene to pick up protective charms?”

  “Yes, one of the nursing assistants.” She shuddered. “Poor Mrs. Claussen. Do you suppose there’s anything Mr. Cooper could do for her departed soul?”

  “You know, I have no idea.” I called Cooper over to ask him.

  Cooper heard me out, rocking back and forth on the heels of his boots, hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m afraid not,” he said in a gentle voice, directing his comments to Nurse Luisa. “She’s well beyond the likes of me. Gone off to meet Saint Peter at the pearly gates, I hope, or whatever fate she’s earned in this life. I envy her the chance.” His mask of boyish charm slipped, revealing something old and stark and weary beneath it. “Was she a good woman?”

  She hesitated. “I can’t really say. She was a lonely woman.”

  “Well, whatever she suffered in this mortal coil, it’s all behind her,” he said, his usual insouciance returning. “Including the Night Hag.”

  “Hey, Johnny boy!” one of the residents, a dashing older gentleman, called from the common room. “Don’t forget, you promised us a rousing rendition of ‘The Wild Rover’ before you go!”

  Cooper glanced over his shoulder. “So I did, Mr. Fergus. Never fear, I’ve not forgotten.”

  “Johnny boy?” I said.

  “All these months and you’ve never asked after my Christian name?” Cooper teased me. “For shame, Daisy Johanssen.”

  “I guess I always thought of you as a one-name phenomenon,” I said. “Like Bono or Sting.”

  “Ah, well, that’s all right, then,” he said.

  “John Cooper,” Cody said. “Funny, that sounds more English than Irish.”

  There are certain things you don’t say to a two-hundred-year-old Irish ghoul who was hanged to death fighting in a rebellion. Cooper went very still, his pupils contracting to pinpoints. Cody faced him down, his upper lip curling. I reached for my mental shield, although I didn’t kindle it.

  “Cut it out, guys,” I said. “Now’s not the time.”

  “Well, and I’m sorry I’m not a MacGillicuddy or an O’Sullivan,” Cooper said in a terse tone. “But I assure you, there’ve been Coopers in Ireland since the invention of the barrel, boyo.”

  “My apologies.” Cody’s apology sounded as sincere as . . . well, let’s just say it totally didn’t. “Just keep your cool.”

  “Oh, I will.” Cooper cocked his head at me. “So I hear you and the big man are to have a proper date when he returns, Miss Daisy. I imagine he’s looking forward to it.”

  I couldn’t blame him for baiting Cody in turn, but I wasn’t about to take part in it. “You’d better get back to the residents, Cooper,” I said. “You don’t want to leave Mr. Fergus hanging.”

  He gave me a little salute. “Good luck to you.”

  I’d planned to ask Sandra Sweddon about the possibilities of a nightmare hex, but she’d already left, probably on to her next volunteer gig. Cody and I took our own leave of the Open Hearth Center to the accompaniment of half a dozen residents clapping and stomping in enthusiastic counterpoint as Cooper sang in a surprisingly strong tenor that it was no, nay, never no more that he’d play the wild rover.

  “Sorry about that.” Cody’s apology to me sounded marginally more sincere. “You’re right. It was inappropriate.”

  “Cooper was a big help to us when we were questioning suspects about the Tall Man’s remains,” I reminded him.

  The telltale muscle in his jaw twitched. “That was before he lost control and turned a couple of tourists into emotionless zombies.”

  “Stefan promised that they’d make a complete recovery,” I said. “And we’ll never know how much worse it would have been if the Outcast hadn’t been there when the crowd panicked. You just said yourself that it was for the common good.”

  “Yeah, right up until the point where Cooper started ravening.” He sighed. “I don’t want to fight about this, Daise. I’m just frustrated. We’re at a dead end here and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Cooper—”

  Cody raised his voice. “I don’t want to talk about Cooper!”

  “Cooper had a suggestion,” I said, ignoring his objection. “He thought Sinclair and the coven ought to be able to create some sort of hex that would give me nightmares. I believe ‘a nightmare fit to make me soil the bed and summon a Night Hag’ was the way he put it,” I added.

  “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.

  “Hey, Mr. Rodgers,” I said. “It smells wonderful in here.” He glanced up to give me a taciturn nod.

  “Do you mind if I keep working while we talk?” Sinclair asked. “We’ve got a lot to do.”

  “Go right ahead.” I took a seat on an available stool, watching as Sinclair selected pieces of evergreen, trimmed them deftly with a pair of shears, and affixed them to a circular form with florists’ wire. As a Christmas wreath took shape beneath his hands, a look of serenity settled over his features. Working with plants, even cut plants, agreed with Sinclair. I almost hated to disturb him.

  When I didn’t say anything, Sinclair stole a quick glance at me. “So, no luck finding that bogle?”

  “No,” I said. “We found the bogle.”

  “And?”

  “The bogle was a big help.” I watched him wire a pinecone in place. “As a matter of fact, you can tell Stacey that she was right. She solved the Sphinx’s riddle.”

  He looked up again in surprise. “No shit?”

  “No shit,” I said. “If I can bind the Night Hag with a strand of her own hair, she’ll be compelled to obey me. The problem is, I need to lure her into a nightmare to do it, which is why I’m here to ask if you can hex me.”

  Sinclair’s deft hands went still. “Daisy.”

  Over at the adjacent worktable, Warren Rodgers set down his pruning shears and straightened.

  “I need a nightmare,” I said to them. “Not just a bad dream, but a bona fide nightmare. I tried to do it myself with scary movies and greasy food, but I don’t think that can compete with her victims’ reality.”

  “I imagine you’re right about that,” Warren said.

  I looked back and forth between them. Neither of them looked happy about my request. Not that I’d expected happy, but I’d expected a little more responsiveness. “So can you help?”

  “I’m an herbalist.” Warren’s tone was brusque. “I don’t know anything about that kind of magic.”

  Sinclair was silent.

  “You do, don’t you?” I said to him. “Sinclair, you know I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.”

  “I know you wouldn’t.” He busied himself with a sprig of holly. “But that’s dark obeah you’re talking about, and I swore I’d never go down that path. Especially after what happened with my mother and sister.”

  “I’m asking for a good cause,” I said. “Doesn’t that count for something?”

  “No one ever set out on the dark path thinking the end didn’t justify the means, Daisy.” Sinclair laced the holly in place, snipping the wire. “No one.”

  My tail stirred. “A woman died last night, Sinclair. She died alone in a state of stark terror. She cried out for help, but no one came, because they thought she was just having a bad dream. If I can’t stop this Night Hag, there may be others. And as far as I can tell, if you won’t help me, I can’t stop her. Do you want that on your conscience?”

  He shuddered, his beaded dreadlocks rattling softly. “That’s not fair.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “It’s not. But it’s true.”

  Sinclair glanced at Warren Rodgers, who returned his gaze impassively and said, “It’s your call, son.”

  “I’ll need a few days,” Sinclair said after another long pause. “It’s not something I can prepare on short notice. And I need to consult with Casimir. I suspect he’s walked down a gray path or two in his time.”

  “Thank you,” I said to him. “Um . . . how many days are we talking about?”

  “Three, more or less,” he said. “If I push it, I can have it ready for you the night after tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate it,” I said. “Truly.”

  Sinclair gave me a look that was hard to read. “I’ll need something from you, too, Daisy. I’ll need to know your deepest, darkest fear.” He smiled without humor when I hesitated. “This kind of thing doesn’t come without a price, you know. A real practitioner of the dark path would trick you into revealing it, or better yet, get one of your loved ones to inadvertently betray you.”

  “Okay.” I squared my shoulders. “Here and now?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve got to prepare the charm first. Can you be at my place around eleven o’clock tonight?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Warren made a shooing gesture at Sinclair. “Go on, get out of here. I can handle this on my own.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’ve done it before, haven’t I?” he said wryly. “There’s time yet. If we run short, folks will just have to wait until after Thanksgiving to buy their wreaths and swag. You need anything?”

  “I could use some henbane,” Sinclair said.

  “You know where the herbiary is,” Warren said. “Help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Warren,” I said to him. “I appreciate your giving Sinclair the time off.”

  He considered me. “Well, I figure he owes you. We all do. Just you make sure the risk he’s taking pays off.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  Outside, Sinclair took a deep breath. “There’s really not much I can do to speed up the process,” he said. “But it will be a blessing to have the extra time to concentrate on it. It’s going to take a lot of focus.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked. “Other than think about what my deepest, darkest fear is?”

  “I may have been a little overdramatic,” he admitted. “Phobias are good—phobias are rooted in our most primal instincts. Great stuff for invoking nightmares. Do you happen to have any phobias I don’t know about? Snakes? Spiders? Heights? Rats gnawing on your entrails?”

  “No,” I said. “No, no, and ewww! Are you sure you’re okay with this? I mean, I can keep trying the scary-movies-and-greasy-food approach.”

  Sinclair shrugged. “Honestly, I doubt it would do much good. Like you said, manufactured fear can’t compete with the real thing. And since you brought it up,” he added, “I’d really rather you didn’t keep trying while I’m working on this. All you’d do is run the risk of numbing your psyche.” His eyes were dark and grave. “Daisy, if I’m going to do this, I want to make sure it has every possible chance of succeeding.”

  I hesitated, then nodded. It would be hard to spend the next two ni
ghts idle, but my gut said he was right, and it was a fair request. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Am I okay with this?” Sinclair said. I nodded again. “Not entirely, no. But what you said was true. A low blow, maybe, but true. And Warren’s right, too. I owe you. I owe this entire town for what my mother unleashed on it. If I can help now . . .” He lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “How can I say no? I just have to trust that I’m strong enough to handle it.”

  “You are.” I caught one of his hands and squeezed it. “You’re a good man, Sinclair. There’s no one else I’d trust to hex me.”

  He squeezed my hand in response, summoning a faint smile. “Good to know. See you around eleven?”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  By the time I got home, all hell had broken loose.

  “The cat’s out of the bag, Miss Daisy,” Casimir said briefly when I returned his call in response to the urgent voice mail he’d left me. “Someone at the nursing home talked. I suspect the fresh-faced young candy-striper you sent over this morning. I’ve had a run on supplies, and I am fresh out.”

  I winced. “Didn’t you order more stock?”

  “Yes, I ordered more stock!” There was an impatient edge to his voice. “These things aren’t mass-produced, sweetheart. Do you know what the most effective charm against a predatory member of the fey is?”

  “Iron?”

  The Fabulous Casimir heaved a sigh. “Iron’s fine as a general precaution. In fact, I’ve been sending customers to Drummond’s Hardware to buy lengths of steel chain to lay around their beds. But as it so happens, the most effective charm under the circumstances is a genuine Saint Brigid’s cross. Mine are hand-woven by an elderly hedge-witch in Ireland out of rushes that grow in a pond fed by a spring that’s been sacred since pre-Christian times, sewn with red thread spun from the wool of sheep she raised herself, and dyed with rowan berries harvested on her property,” he said grimly. “I’ve asked the dear old soul to put a rush on it, but I’m not holding my breath.”