Poison Fruit

by Jacqueline Carey

  “How’s about a little mood lighting?” Skrrzzzt suggested, setting down the case of beer and reaching for a battery-operated camping lantern on a high shelf. “Let’s see if there’s any juice left in this bad boy.” He switched on the lantern, which emitted a dim glow. “Perfecto! Beer me?”

  I opened the case and handed him a beer. “So is the camp just leaving all this stuff here?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced around. “They’ve salvaged anything worth saving. Pity. Lot of love in these old walls.”

  I fished out a beer for myself and took a seat on one of the big chairs. “I bet. I’ll be sorry to see it go.”

  “You and me both, mamacita.” Skrrzzzt set the lantern on the floor between us and sat in a chair opposite me, slinging one arm along the headrest. “So what’s on your mind?”

  I shrugged. “Nothing special.”

  “Now, now!” The bogle wagged a long, black-clawed finger at me. “You didn’t come all the way out here all by yourself just to say thanks. Is it man trouble?” His orange eyes glowed with avid curiosity. “A certain werewolf, perchance? You can tell old Skrrzzzt,” he said in a wheedling tone. “I’ve got the experience of listening to four generations’ worth of camp counselors under my belt.”

  “Okay.” I cracked open my beer and took a gulp. “I killed a man yesterday.”

  Skrrzzzt let out a low whistle and opened his own can. “You got me there, mamacita. Not what I expected.” He took a long pull on his beer, then wiped his leathery lips. “He deserve it?”

  “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.

  My bad feeling intensified.

  “Hey!” I called. “What’s up? What’s going on?”

  Glancing over at me, the chief held up one hand for silence and the conversation came to a halt. “Daisy.” The expression on his heavy face was grim. “We’re being sued.”

  Twenty-nine

  I stared at Chief Bryant. “What do you mean we’re being sued? All of us? The Pemkowet PD?”

  He shook his head. “Not the department.”

  “It’s the PVB.” Behind the desk, Patty was unable to contain the news. “And the city and East Pemkowet and the township. They’re all named as codefendants.”

  I shifted my blank gaze to her. “Who? How? Why?”

  “It’s a class-action lawsuit to the tune of forty-five million dollars.” The chief’s mouth twisted in distaste. “The plaintiffs are suing for damages for physical, emotional, and psychological injuries sustained during the events of last October.”

  I blinked. “Can they even do that?”

  “Apparently so,” he said. “As far as I know, there’s no precedent, but a judge has certified the cla
im. That means that one way or another, it’s moving forward.” He drummed his thick fingers on the desk, scowling at me. “Guess which particular attorney filed the suit and has been appointed representative counsel for the plaintiffs?”

  I drew in a sharp breath. “Son of a bitch!” It hit me then. One of the cars parked on the street where I’d felt the first tingle of wrongness had been a sleek silver Jaguar, a car I’d last seen hell-spawn lawyer Daniel Dufreyne getting into and driving away in, leaving me with unanswered questions.

  “Excuse me,” I said, turning on my heel and heading for the door.

  Outside, Daniel Dufreyne had emerged from his car in anticipation of my return. It looked like he was posing for a photo shoot for GQ. He wore a long, expensive-looking charcoal wool coat with a burgundy cashmere scarf around his neck, and he was leaning back against the hood of the Jaguar, feet propped on the curb clad in highly polished black oxfords, hands laced before him in black leather gloves that fit like, well, really expensive gloves.

  He was smiling, his unnaturally white teeth gleaming. I struggled with the urge to punch him in those white, white teeth.

  “Daisy Johanssen.” His voice turned my name into an unwelcome caress. “I was hoping to see you this morning.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Why?”

  Dufreyne’s smile widened like a shark’s. “Schadenfreude,” he said. “It means—”

  “I know what it means!” I shouted. “It means you came here to gloat. What the hell do you have against Pemkowet? What the hell do you have against me?”

  His smile vanished. “Why, I’ve got nothing whatsoever in the world against Pemkowet,” he said in a disingenuous tone. “It’s a charming little community. It’s not your fault that the conjoined local governments and the visitors bureau made bad decisions that led to a lot of innocent tourists suffering harm. All I want to do is ensure that redress is made, so it never happens again.”

  “Bullshit,” I said bluntly. “You were here trying to buy property on behalf of some developer—Amanda Brooks’s property in particular. You can’t tell me that’s not a conflict of interest.”

  “A point of correction.” Dufreyne held up one gloved finger. “I did facilitate the purchase of several parcels of land on behalf of Elysian Fields. Naturally, that party is concerned about property values declining based on governmental malfeasance.” He shrugged. “However, they have no stake in the outcome of this lawsuit beyond the general well-being of the community.”

  “And bankrupting Amanda Brooks in the process, forcing her to sell her property, too?” I said.

  A gleam of unholy amusement lit his black eyes. “The lawsuit doesn’t target Ms. Brooks as an individual. The fact that she happens to own a parcel of interest is entirely coincidental.”

  Something about Dufreyne’s barely suppressed glee made me believe he was telling the truth. I remembered the map that Lee had shown me—God, it felt like months ago—with the red blotch of lots that Elysian Fields had purchased encroaching on Hel’s territory. The old Cavannaugh property that belonged to Amanda Brooks had been a decent-size wedge of unsold green, but it was dwarfed by Hel’s territory.

  And that was owned by the City of Pemkowet.

  My skin prickled under my old down coat. The reek of the hell-spawn lawyer’s wrongness filled my sinuses. “You don’t give a damn about the Cavannaugh property,” I whispered. “You’re going after Hel’s territory.”

  Dufreyne widened his eyes in mock innocence. “Now, why in the world would I do that?”

  “I don’t know.” My initial shock was giving way to a rising vortex of anger. “But if this lawsuit bankrupts Pemkowet’s tri-community governments, something’s going to have to be sold, isn’t it? Something big?”

  “In the event of a decision in favor of the plaintiffs, the terms of the settlement would be determined by the presiding judge, Ms. Johanssen,” he said primly.

  I ignored the comment. “Why? Who’s behind Elysian Fields? Is it Hades?” I asked. Dufreyne’s eyelids flickered. “I saw his mark on your palm.”

  “Ah, is that what you think you saw?” His voice turned smooth and velvety. “You were mistaken.”

  Now that he was trying to use powers of persuasion on me, the theory seemed a lot more convincing. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”

  “Yes, you were.” Dufreyne’s voice took on a new, weird resonance, like his voice was an electric guitar and he’d just stepped on an invisible reverb pedal. It washed over me like a vibrating wave of sound, broke, and receded, leaving me unaffected. He raised one manscaped eyebrow. “Hmm.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. “It doesn’t work on me, does it?”

  Dufreyne was unperturbed. “Apparently not.”

  “Is that how you’re planning to convince the judge to settle in your favor?” I inquired. “Because I’m pretty sure there’s no legal precedent for holding mundane authorities responsible for eldritch transgressions. And you should have done your homework, because unfortunately for you, the nearest courthouse is in Allegan.” I pointed south. “Miles outside of Hel’s sphere of influence. It won’t work there.”

  Daniel Dufreyne burst into laughter—laughter filled with cruelty and genuine unfettered mirth. “Is that what you think?” Reaching into his coat, he drew out a silk pocket square and wiped his eyes. “Ah, Daisy! You poor, provincial little thing.” He replaced the pocket square. “You’ve lived your whole life in this town, haven’t you?”

  “Not my whole life,” I said defensively.

  Abandoning his insouciant pose, Dufreyne drew himself upright to his full height. “I’m a demon’s son,” he hissed in my face, his breath filled with that awful stench of wrongness. “Offspring of a genuine apex faith, not some pathetic remnant of a dwindling pagan god’s twilight years. Do you really think my power is dependent on having a functioning underworld beneath my feet?” He touched his chest. “I carry the underworld inside me, just like you do, cousin.”

  I held my ground, trembling with fury. “Does your master Hades know you talk about him that way?”

  His nostrils flared. “Hades is not—”

  “Hey, there!” Chief Bryant’s gruff voice interrupted. “Dufreyne, is it?” He settled his meaty hands on his duty belt. “Step away from her.”

  Dufreyne paused, then took a deliberate step backward. His eyes were black and icy. “We were just talking, officer.”

  “Well, keep moving.” The chief jerked his chin at the lawyer. “Or I’ll write you up for disturbing the peace.”

  “Oh, but you wouldn’t do that, officer.” Dufreyne skipped the dulcet tone and went straight for reverb. “Would you?”

  Chief Bryant frowned. “No. No, I guess I wouldn’t.”

  Dufreyne nodded. “Leave us.”

  And just like that, Pemkowet’s chief of police, a stalwart, strong-willed man who’d been a father figure to me for almost as long as I could remember, turned and walked back into the station, meek as a lamb.

  I felt sick with rage and helplessness. “Why? Why are you doing this? What does Hades want with Pemkowet? Is he declaring war on Hel? And why the fuck are you hell-bent on tormenting me?”

  “So many questions!” Daniel Dufreyne steepled his gloved fingers, tapping his lips. “Oh, my. Why do you think you deserve answers?”

  “Because this is my town!” I shouted at him, unable to contain my fury. Overhead, a power line whined and a streetlight burst into shards, littering the pavement below.

  “Ah, see!” Dufreyne said with satisfaction. “There you go. It’s not that I want to torment you, per se, but there’s just something unspeakably delicious about your impotent rage. And let’s face it,” he added. “The last time we met, you must admit, you were unbearably smug about your innocent and oh-so-loving mother.”

  I hadn’t been smug. I’d committed the crime of feeling sorry for him and letting it show. It punctured my anger like a balloon.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured. “Please, don’t punish Pemko
wet for my offense.”

  Dufreyne shrugged and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Look, I don’t mean to burst your bubble, but this isn’t about you. As far as I’m concerned, the schadenfreude’s a bonus. Everything else is just business. You can’t take it personally.”

  I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Yeah, it’s kind of hard not to when you show up on my doorstep to revel in my impotent rage, cousin.”

  His black eyes gleamed. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be that way. But you’ll never take that risk, will you?”

  Daughter . . .

  I shuddered, remembering my nightmare, the vault of heaven cracking open above me. “No.”

  “Pity.”

  “Does your master Hades know you feel that way?” I asked. “Hankering for Armageddon and all?”

  Dufreyne didn’t rise to the bait this time. “I represent an investment on the part of my sponsor,” he said. “Any investment carries a certain amount of risk.” He showed his white teeth in a grin. “So far, I’ve proved worthwhile.”

  “Good for you,” I said. “But I’m still wondering what in the hell Hades wants with Pemkowet, because I have it on pretty good authority that no god can maintain two demesnes. Am I wrong?”

  “Do you expect me to answer that?” Dufreyne inquired.

  “It would be nice,” I said.

  He considered it. “All right. I’ll give you one for free. No, Hades isn’t declaring war on Hel. Hades has no interest in Pemkowet.”

  I searched Dufreyne’s blandly handsome face, trying to determine if he was telling the truth. I thought he might be—he had that same barely hidden smirk, hinting at the delightful irony that the truth was as bitter as a lie. You’d think a hell-spawn would have a better poker face, but then again, if his emotions ran as high as mine did, I guess it made sense.

  “So who does?” I asked him. “Whose behalf are you acting on?”

  Removing his hands from his pockets, he spread them in a gesture of wounded innocence. “Why, the plaintiffs, of course.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “Do the plaintiffs have a stake in Elysian Fields?”