Poison Fruit (17 page)

Still, the impression lingered. It was there beneath her sunken eyelids, there in the rigid muscles that bracketed her mouth and corded her throat, there in the swollen, crabbed hands raised in a defensive posture.

She had died afraid. Very, very afraid.

Chief Bryant fished the dwarf-wrought watch out of his pocket and held it dangling over Irma Claussen’s body. The watch began to rotate on the end of its chain, twirling like a gyroscope, the hands on its face spinning backward.

Night Hag.

The fucking
Night Hag
had scared this poor woman to death. A
wave of helpless rage burst over me. Overhead, some old ducts creaked ominously in protest.

“Daisy,” Cody said in quiet warning.

The nurse glanced back and forth among the three of us. “What is it?”

I gritted my teeth, trying unsuccessfully to wrestle my anger under control, to tie it up in a box to be opened later. “Cody, can you fill her
in and tell her what she needs to do?” I said to him. “I think I need to step outside for a moment.”

He nodded. “You’ve got it.”

“I’ll come with you,” Chief Bryant said. “I want a quick update on where we are with this thing.” He laid one meaty palm briefly on Irma Claussen’s brow, murmuring, “Godspeed you, ma’am.”

Outside in the parking lot, the cold air helped cool my temper. The chief listened impassively in his warm, fleece-lined uniform jacket while I told him the latest. “Why can’t Hel just banish the bitch herself?” he asked when I’d finished. “She’s a goddamn goddess, isn’t she?”

“Yeah,” I said. “But it doesn’t work that way. See, Hel only has complete authority over her own subjects in Little Niflheim. Here, aboveground, she has to rely on an agent of her authority to maintain her order.”

“You,” he said.

“Me,” I agreed. “I can banish the damn thing in her name, sir.” Tears of frustration stung my eyes. “I just have to
catch
it!”

“All right, all right.” The chief patted my arm in an awkward gesture of affection. “Keep it together, Daisy. This thing’s turned serious, and it’s going to be hard to keep a lid on it after this morning. I need you to find this Night Hag and fast. Do whatever you need to do. All right?”

I took a deep breath. “All right.”

“Believe me, I don’t like this any better than you do.” In the wintry November light, Chief Bryant looked old and tired, deep lines etched into his heavy features. “As far as I’m concerned, we’re talking about manslaughter here. A woman’s been killed in
my
town, on
my
watch,
and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. So I’m counting on you, Daisy.”

“I understand.”

“I know you do.” The chief gave me one last pat. “Good girl. Keep me updated.”

“Will do.” I watched him lumber toward his squad car, wishing I had the faintest idea what to do next.

Seventeen

I
was still standing in the parking lot, watching the chief’s taillights dwindle and trying to collect my thoughts, when a British motorcycle that looked like it belonged in a period piece about World War II sputtered into the entrance.

“Hey there, Miss Daisy.” Pulling up to the curb outside the Open Hearth Center, Cooper knocked the kickstand into place with the heel of his boot and shoved a pair of vintage touring goggles onto his forehead. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“No kidding,” I said. “What are
you
doing here?”

“Lovely to see you, too,” he said mildly, dismounting from the bike. “With the big man out of town, I’m filling in on Good Sam duty.”

“Good Sam duty?” I echoed.

“Oh, aye, himself didn’t tell you?” Cooper’s angelic blue eyes were shrewd in his thin face. “Community outreach and the like.” He nodded at the facility. “There’s been a death here, don’tcha know? Got the call a little while ago. I’m here to console the bereaved and offer solace to those in need.”

I eyed him uncertainly, trying to determine whether or not he was serious. “Someone from the center called you?”

“Your doubt wounds me, m’lady.” Cooper rubbed his hands, clad in fingerless black leather gloves, together briskly. “It cuts me to the quick. Yes, someone did. But I confess, I can take no credit for the Good Sam program. That was the big man’s doing.” He assessed me, his pupils doing a quick wax-and-wane. “May I ask why anger hangs about you like a thundercloud?”

I told him.

“Ah.” He nodded. “Nasty creatures, those.”

“Any suggestions?” I inquired.

Considering my question, Cooper rubbed his hands together again and blew on his fingertips. “As I recall, you’ve been hexed before, Miss Daisy. If you’re in need of a nightmare fit to make you soil your bedsheets and summon a Night Hag, why not ask that witchy lad with whom you were keeping company to oblige? Him and his coven?”

A spark of hope kindled inside me. “They can do that?”

He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “They ought do.”

If he’d been anyone else, I would have hugged him. “Thanks, Cooper. That’s a great idea.”

“So it is.” We gazed at each other across the gulf that divided us. Cooper cleared his throat. “I ought to be venturing within to offer my services. Are the residents greatly distraught at the loss of one of their own?”

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” I said. “I think they may be more excited about the fact that Chief Bryant paid a call.”

“It was ever thus,” he said in a philosophical tone. “Let’s go see if I can be of use, shall we?”

Inside the Open Hearth Center, Cooper was a big hit. The residents might not have been unduly grieved by the loss of Irma Claussen—I had the impression that most of them, being unaware that she died in fear, regarded her sudden passing as a blessing—but they had their share of pain and suffering, sorrow and regret.

And, too, there was the boredom of their circumscribed existence, dull routines alleviated by visits from friends and loved ones, visits that were always too short and too seldom. I’m not saying the staff and volunteers didn’t do a great job of planning activities—from what I could
see, they did—but those couldn’t compete with a visit from a real live member of the Outcast, a youthful-looking lad who was willing to listen to the trials and tribulations of old age and illness, to flirt with the ladies and banter with the gentlemen, his eyes glittering in his too-pale face as he siphoned off a measure of whatever negative emotions afflicted them.

Cody, of course, didn’t like it. “I wouldn’t trust him with
my
grandparents,” he grumbled.

“No one’s asking you to,” I observed.

“Mr. Ludovic expressed every confidence in Mr. Cooper.” Nurse Luisa watched him interact with the residents. “I’d say it appears justified, wouldn’t you?”

“Were you the one who called him?” I asked.

She nodded. “Under Mr. Ludovic’s direction, the assistance of the Outcast has been invaluable here.”

“He’s feeding on mortals without their permission,” Cody said quietly. “That’s against the rules.”

The nurse gave him a sharp look. “You used the Outcast for crowd control during the recent hauntings, didn’t you, officer?”

“That was a matter of public safety,” he said. “It was for the common good.”

Nurse Luisa gestured at the residents. “And we make decisions regarding their care and the common good of the community here at Open Hearth on a daily basis. How many of them do you think are truly capable of giving informed consent? Half the time, someone else holds their power of attorney.” She shook her head. “As far as I’m concerned, if one of the Outcast can give them a measure of comfort and gladness above and beyond what modern medicine allows, they’re doing God’s work whether the Lord acknowledges it or not.” She crossed herself. “And if it brings those poor, doomed souls solace to know they’re doing good work in this world, all the better.”

“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?”