Bedtime Fury

by Annabel Chase

  “Then let’s go talk to him now,” Clara said. “Mary makes an awesome apple pie. Maybe we’ll get lucky and score a slice.”

  We trudged back to our cars and drove around the fields to the Tasker farmhouse. The white clapboard house was similar to my mother’s with a wide front porch and black shutters. A pickup truck was parked in the dirt driveway.

  The front door was open so Clara called to him through the screen door.

  Ruben Tasker was a slender man, about five foot ten, with a thick head of white hair that looked like clouds. His eyebrows shot up when he saw me beside Clara.

  “Hey there, Miss Clara,” he said. “I suppose these are the friends you told me about. Didn’t mention a genetic condition.”

  I touched my head, self-conscious. “It’s an allergic reaction.”

  “This is Agent Fury,” Clara said. “And her assistant, Mr. Wyman.”

  I flashed my badge for good measure. To supernaturals and humans with the Sight, it read Federal Bureau of Magic, but to everyone else, it looked like a standard FBI-issued badge.

  “You didn’t say you were calling the feds,” he said. “Is it pot? It’s drugs, isn’t it? Are you here to arrest me?”

  “No, Mr. Tasker. I know you’re not responsible for putting that plant on your farm.”

  He studied me closely. “Your name’s Fury?”

  “That’s right. Eden. I grew up on Munster Close.”

  He folded his arms. “Beatrice and Stanley’s daughter who moved away?”

  “Yes, but I came back a few months ago.” I suddenly felt like I was an unwitting participant in a staring contest with the farmer.

  “And the FBI is interested in my plant?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Neville interjected. “The botany division.”

  “There’s a botany division?” His tone reflected a healthy level of skepticism. Smart man.

  “Of course,” I lied. “There’s basically a division for everything. If you can dream it, they’ll have agents to handle it.”

  “At my age, nothing surprises me. Come on in.” He stepped aside to allow us entry.

  “I hope you don’t mind that I called Agent Fury,” Clara said. “I knew she’d be interested. Plants are her specialty.”

  I cleared my throat in an effort not to choke. Killing plants was more my specialty.

  “Mary, we have more visitors,” Mr. Tasker called. “Put the kettle on, would you?”

  Clara and I followed Mr. Tasker into the kitchen. It was a pleasant space with floral wallpaper and ceramic chickens on a shelf. The oval wooden table appeared well-worn but otherwise in good condition.

  “Clara’s back?” Mary Tasker bustled into the kitchen. She was a stout woman with wire-rimmed glasses, white hair, and round, rosy cheeks. If there were an opening for Mrs. Claus at the mall, Mary Tasker would only need to don a red dress.

  “Sorry to disturb you again,” Clara said. “I called a couple friends to take a look at your plant.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mary said. “That. Ruben is convinced he’s made a discovery.” She filled the kettle with water and placed it on the stovetop.

  “Well, it’s not pot, so why is the FBI interested?” Mr. Tasker sat at the table and gestured for Clara and I to join him.

  “I hope chamomile is okay,” Mary said. She pulled two mugs from the cabinet.

  “Chamomile makes me want to smother myself under the covers and go to sleep,” Clara said. “It’s perfect.”

  “Good for me, thanks,” I said. I shifted my focus back to Mr. Tasker. “The FBI is interested because it appears to be a foreign species.” I neglected to mention just how foreign it might be. “You don’t have any idea how it got there?”

  The older man shook his head. “Like I told Clara, I do a regular check of my land. It seems to have appeared out of nowhere. Weird-looking thing, isn’t it?”

  “I’d advise you to steer clear of it, in case it’s poisonous,” I said.

  His eyes rounded. “I should’ve thought of that myself. Some farmer I am. I was too curious to consider that it might hurt me.”

  “Did you touch it?” I asked.

  “Sure, but I washed my hands when I came in afterward.” He stroked his chin. “If it is poisonous and came out of nowhere, do you think it’s possible one of them companies is trying to use it to get rid of us?”

  “You think one of the companies that’s harassing you placed a poisonous plant on your farm to kill you?” I asked. It seemed far-fetched.

  “Or make us too sick to put up a fight,” Mr. Tasker said. “You’d be surprised what lengths some people will go to for what they want.”

  No, I really wouldn’t.

  “What can you tell me about the companies?” I asked.

  Mr. Tasker smiled. “You mean you’re not going to dismiss me as a conspiracy nut?”

  “Not unless you give me a good reason,” I said.

  He winked at Clara. “I knew I could count on you. You’re much smarter than that Cawdrey fella.”

  “I know,” Clara said simply.

  I was proud of her for not undervaluing herself like she would’ve done in high school.

  “There’s a real estate development company called Brimstone,” Mr. Tasker said. “They want the land so they can build a new townhouse community with a lake in the middle. Mr. Brimstone showed me the plans himself.”

  “A little presumptuous to have plans for land he doesn’t own, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “My thoughts exactly,” the farmer said. “He wanted to share his vision, as though it would make me want to hand over the keys to my kingdom.”

  Beside the stove, Mary wore an amused expression. “Your kingdom,” she repeated. “I don’t think so, dearest.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “And the other company?” I asked.

  “Tin Soldiers, Incorporated,” Mr. Tasker said. “They want to turn the farm into a junk yard.”

  I stretched my neck forward. “Seriously? I would think they’d need zoning permission and that isn’t likely.”

  “It is when your company is represented by Jayson Swift,” Clara said.

  I cringed. Not Jayson Swift. Although the lawyer was human, he could easily pass for one hundred percent slimy demon. It didn’t help that he had a seat on the town council.

  “What about Brimstone?” I asked.

  “He has an in-house team,” Clara said.

  “Mary isn’t particularly fond of Brimstone’s head goon,” Mr. Tasker said. “What’s the man’s name again, Mary?”

  “Who?” She set a mug in front of each of us and sat beside her husband.

  “The one from the real estate developer’s office,” Mr. Tasker said.

  She waved a hand. “Oh, never mind about that. I was being foolish.”

  Clara’s brow knitted. “You told me his visits made you uncomfortable.”

  “I shouldn’t have put it like that,” Mary said. “It makes him sound strange.”

  “Well, maybe he is,” I said. “You have a plant of unknown origin on your land. What if it’s related?”

  “If it’s as rare as everyone thinks, then it’s likely endangered,” Mary said. “A plant like that will likely need to be protected, which means no one could develop the land. We should be doing something to protect it right now. Keep it safe from harm.”

  “That makes sense,” Mr. Tasker agreed. “Who designates plants as endangered? Should I call someone?”

  “I’ll take care of it, Mr. Tasker,” I said. I didn’t want attention drawn to the plant with glowing spores. If I wasn’t careful, Chipping Cheddar would end up on the internet in connection with alien invasions and I’d be in hot water with FBM headquarters for failing to contain the situation.

  “Gus,” Mr. Tasker said abruptly.

  I looked at him. “Excuse me?”

  “Gus is the name of the fella who’s been coming around.”

  Mary didn’t react.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I
’ll be sure to suggest that he spend his outdoor time in the park instead.” And if that ‘suggestion’ involved a knee to the groin, then so be it.

  “Will you need any quotes from me for the article?” Mr. Tasker asked.

  Clara shot me a quizzical look.

  “I’ll have to ask you to keep this under your hat for now, Mr. Tasker,” I said. “Don’t mention it to friends or family. It’s standard procedure.”

  He reluctantly agreed.

  We said our goodbyes and almost made it back to the car when a familiar sight came into view.

  “Stuart?” I said. With dark shadows under his eyes and unkempt white hair, Stuart Riggin looked worse than he had in Magic Beans.

  Stuart seemed confused at first, likely because of my swollen head. “Hello again, Agent Fury. Everything okay with your head? It’s not a tumor, is it?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that,” I said. “Just an allergic reaction.” To my family. “Neville, Clara. This is Mr. Riggin, the Taskers’ neighbor.”

  “Have you come to examine my wife?” he asked. The hopeful note in his voice pierced my heart.

  “Her condition hasn’t improved?” I asked.

  “Only getting worse,” he replied.

  “Did you take her for a second opinion like I suggested?” I asked.

  Mr. Riggin nodded. “Sure did. I took her to Dr. Verity, just like you said.”

  “And what did she think?”

  “That it could be the early onset of dementia,” the old man said. “She wasn’t sure at this point. The symptoms weren’t conclusive.”

  “What's the alternative then?” I asked.

  “The doctor said to keep an eye on her for now,” he said. “She said that Shelley is lucid and her memories are intact.” He shrugged. “I tried to explain that all the light’s gone out in her eyes. My wife has always had a spark of mischief, if you know what I mean. Not now. Last night, I made a joke about nuns. Shelley loves those kinds of jokes, but she didn't laugh. Didn't even crack a smile. She just kept on chewing her pork loin.”

  I felt sorry for Mr. Riggin, but there wasn’t much I could do. Medical issues were outside my area of expertise. “Well, I promise you’re in good hands with Dr. Verity. I would make sure to follow up with her, especially if your wife’s condition starts to deteriorate.”

  Disappointment rippled across his wrinkled features and I felt a pang of guilt. I desperately wanted to help everyone—that’s part of my savior complex, as my mother likes to call it—but even a powerful fury had her limits.

  “Shelley’s taking a nap, so I thought I’d drop in and chew the fat with Ruben and Mary,” he said.

  Hopefully, the Taskers would keep quiet about the plant. I didn’t need Stuart more anxious than he already was.

  “Best of luck, Stuart,” I said.

  He nodded toward the front door. “Don’t need luck. The only thing I need right now is pie.”

  Chapter Seven

  Later that evening, I showed the photos of the plant to Aunt Thora. “Recognize this at all?”

  She scrutinized the photos. “Was Princess Buttercup rooting around in Mrs. Paulson’s garden again? You'd better be careful or she’ll report you to the HOA.”

  “No, this plant is growing on the Tasker farm. We’re pretty sure it's supernatural.”

  Aunt Thora held the phone closer to her face to examine the photo. “Yes, I can certainly see why you would think that. Such odd spores.”

  “Can you identify it?” I asked eagerly.

  Aunt Thora set the phone back on the counter. “Not without research.”

  “Oh, are we sharing photos?” My mother swept into the kitchen. “Why don’t I show you photos of the Day of Darkness outfits I found? I think they’ll look stunning on us.”

  I groaned. “Mom, I’m working. I don’t have time for fashion.”

  My mother looked me up and down. “You’ve made that quite clear.” She shoved the phone under my nose. “What do you think of this one? Too much lace?”

  “Any lace is too much lace,” I said.

  She swiped to the next photo. “How about these?” Four women were dressed in black floor-length gowns. One of the dresses had puffy, capped sleeves and another had a plunging neckline. I could guess which one of us the latter dress was for.

  “Too formal,” I said. “Looks like they’re attending a fancy funeral with a full orchestra.”

  My mother sighed a swiped again. “What about these?”

  “Mom, they’re all mini-dresses. Grandma won’t wear that.”

  “Neither will I,” Aunt Thora said.

  “We can make theirs longer versions,” my mother said. “That’s easy enough.” She nudged me. “Come on, Eden. You have my legs. You might as well show them off.”

  “And here I thought I had my own legs,” I replied.

  “You should thank me that you didn’t inherit your father’s legs,” my mother said. “They look like plump sausage links.”

  “I’m not wearing that bizarre hair accessory,” I said. It looked like the woman in the photo had black feathers sprouting out of the top of her head. As far as I was concerned, the concealed feathers on my back were quite enough.

  “I like that dress,” Aunt Thora said, tapping the screen. “Make sure it reaches my ankles though.”

  “All of Beatrice’s dresses reach her ankles,” Grandma interjected. “It just depends on which part of the date it is.” She looked at me and smiled. “How’s your day been? Any passing rabbits mistake your head for a cabbage?”

  I glared at her. “The day is almost over, thankfully.”

  “It was a good day for me,” Grandma crowed. “I won my battles and I collected more Little Critters for the next battle. I’m an unstoppable force.”

  “I’m sure the local children are thrilled,” I said.

  Aunt Thora glanced around the house. “Speaking of children, it’s awfully quiet here without Ryan and Olivia.”

  “They were here until after dinner,” my mother said. “Just pretend they’re asleep in their room.”

  “That’s what you do when they’re right next to you,” Grandma said.

  The remark dredged up flashes of memories—my mother ignoring my stream of chatter while she admired herself in the mirror. My mother forgetting my existence at the clothing store when she became enthralled by the salesman. If she’d been born before Narcissus, the term would now be beatricism.

  The James Bond theme song played and I snatched my phone to my ear. I’d switched Neville’s ringtone from Harry Potter music when he said he’d rather be associated with Bond’s Q than a Hufflepuff. Ouch.

  “Hey, Neville.”

  “I believe I have rather distressing news about our discovery,” Neville said.

  I walked into the family room for privacy. “It’s poisonous?”

  “Worse. It’s alive.”

  “Well, duh. Even I know that plants are living creatures. How else can I kill them?”

  “You don’t understand.” Neville cleared his throat, causing the hair on the back of my neck to prickle.

  “I need to come to the office, don’t I?”

  “It would be wise, yes.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Eden, you need to pick a dress,” my mother said, as I hurried past her. My head felt like it was full of jelly when I moved too quickly. I couldn’t wait for this hex to lift.

  I drove across town to the office as fast as I dared without inviting Deputy Guthrie to pull me over. Holes was closed, but the lights in the tattoo parlor were still ablaze. I noticed the office door was ajar and found Neville hovering near the front of the room. He practically pounced on me when I entered.

  “It’s a pod demon,” the wizard blurted.

  “Can you wait until I’m through the door to hit me with bad news?” I closed the door behind me. “What’s a pod demon?”

  He scurried to his desk and tapped the computer mouse. “This.”

  I
moved behind his chair for a better glimpse of the screen. “How is that a demon?” The image reminded me of dandelion seeds floating through the air.

  “It’s not a demon,” he said.

  “Oh, that’s a relief.”

  “It’s many demons.”

  Well, crap.

  “Many potential demons,” he clarified. He pointed to the wisps of white on the screen. “Those glowing spores we saw on the pod become these.”

  “And the pod is the plant we found?”

  He nodded. “They grow on the pod and disburse when they’re ready.”

  My throat tightened. “Ready for what?”

  “Ready to find a host. The spores carry through the air until they either settle inside a host or fail to find one and die.”

  “And the demon takes over the host?”

  “Basically, yes.”

  I stared at the screen. It was hard to believe those little puffs of cloud could be so dangerous. “What happens to the person when the demon takes over the body?”

  “According to the database, the host is slowly drained of its life force.”

  “So if a demon jumps into a body, the person stays?”

  “For a time,” he said. “However, you can only share space like that for so long before one of you dies. These demons are designed to kill their hosts slowly.”

  “At least that means we’ll still have a chance to save anyone who’s been inhabited.” I rubbed my hands over my face, thinking. “We have no idea how many spores are floating around town and who might already be inhabited.”

  “Not with certainty, no,” Neville said. “There’s a checklist, though.”

  “Show me.”

  Neville opened a new tab. “Top Ten Signs Your Friend Has Been Taken Over By A Pod Demon.”

  I frowned at him. “Are you sure this isn’t from the supernaturallifehacks website?”

  “It’s official,” Neville said.

  I started to read the list of signs. “Devoid of emotion. Blank stare. Minimal talking. Sounds like my dad after binge-watching on Netflix.” I studied the rest of the list. “Why do they want to take over? Power?”

  “They’re not trying to take over the world to rule it,” Neville said. “Their minds don’t work that way. Spreading their seed is in their nature. It’s a biological need.”