Poison Fruit (18 page)

“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

A
fter 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 nights 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.”

“I get it, I get it!” I said. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“For one thing, don’t send anyone else my way,” Casimir said. “I locked the door and put up the
Closed
sign, because all I’ve got to offer at this point is a set of instructions I printed off the Internet for weaving your own Saint Brigid’s cross out of drinking straws.”

I paused. “Will it work?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m doing my best, Cas,” I said. “Has Sinclair been in touch?”

“Not today. Why?”

“He will be,” I said. “I’ve asked him to conjure a hex that will give me nightmares. Spine-tingling, bed-wetting nightmares. It’s the only way I’m going to catch this Night Hag. Can you help?”

There was a silence on the other end. “Are you sure about that, Miss Daisy?” Casimir’s voice had turned gentle.

“No,” I said. “Have you got any better ideas?”

“No.”

“Well, we’re going forward with Plan Hex,” I said. “The only downside, other than the prospect of terrifying nightmares and the fact that I have to somehow manage to overcome the Night Hag, is that it’s going to take a few days. Sinclair thinks he can have the charm ready for me by the night after tomorrow—” I heard a muffled banging sound in the background. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, just an angry villager pounding on my door,” Casimir said dourly. “Demanding that I open for business.”

“Cas, you’re going to have to reopen,” I said. “I need you to do whatever you can to reassure people and keep the peace, even if it’s just handing out instructions for weaving a cross out of drinking straws. Keep sending them to the hardware store—that ought to help. The
thing is, this Night Hag phenomenon is wired into the human subconscious. Lots of people have reported experiencing an attack when there’s no possible way they could have. There’s a whole syndrome named after it. If people start panicking—”

“It’s going to be pandemonium,” he finished. “All right, all right. I hate to stake my reputation on the placebo effect, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You’re the best.”

“Damn straight,” Casimir said. “Don’t you forget it.”

After calling Cody to give him a quick update on Plan Hex, I headed down to the police station. Pemkowet was a small town and the rumor mill worked fast. It had only been a couple of hours since the news of Mrs. Claussen’s death got out, but the phone was ringing off the hook with people calling in to ask about the danger posed by the Night Hag, and Chief Bryant was seriously disgruntled.

“I’ve got half the town afraid they’re going to be attacked in their sleep!” he thundered at me in the lobby. “And the other half will be by the end of the day! And I can’t promise that they won’t be. What, exactly, am I supposed to tell them, Daisy?”

The chief almost never yelled, but I hated it when he did. It made me feel about six years old.

“Tell them we’re working on it,” I said. “Tell them we expect to have the situation under control in the next seventy-two hours.”