Poison Fruit

by Jacqueline Carey

  “It’s just coffee,” I said to Jen. “And at least I had the decency to make you sound like an adult.”

  “Yeah, and I’ll sound like a jerk if I try to explain it was just a joke,” she grumbled. “Speaking of coffee—seriously, is there any?”

  “I’ll make some.”

  “Thanks.” Jen began extricating herself from the tangle of sheets and blankets. “Hey, Daise? Did Stefan reply? You didn’t say.”

  In my mortification, I’d forgotten to look. Now I did, and what I saw made me frown. “Yeah, he did.”

  “Well?”

  “He says he needs to talk to me,” I said. “And I should stop by the Wheelhouse today.” Jen and I exchanged a look. “Do you think he changed his mind? Do you think he got sick of waiting for me to make up mine?”

  Jen shook her head. “I don’t think someone who’s been alive for six hundred years loses patience easily.”

  I wasn’t so sure. That text might have been enough to remind Stefan of the vast gap in age and experience that lay between us and convince him to change his mind.

  Maybe.

  On the other hand, thanks to the fact that I’d let him feed on my emotions last summer, Stefan had a direct pipeline into what I was feeling—a fact that I conveniently managed to ignore most of the time. At least that meant he’d know I was a little messed up last night. And today, for that matter. With the weight of my hangover crushing down on me, coffee seemed like a very good idea.

  I shrugged. “We’ll see.”

  In the kitchen, Jen shuffled up behind me, wrapped in a blanket. “I’m really sorry about the text, Daise.” She rested her chin on my shoulder as I poured water into the coffeemaker. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

  “I blame the playlist,” I said. “We wouldn’t have been acting like teenagers if you’d left Billie Holiday on.”

  Jen grimaced. “I blame the tequila.”

  “That, too.” I turned to face her. “But you laid some righteous truths on me, too.”

  She gave me a wry smile. “Well, I hope I didn’t undo whatever good it did.”

  “Eh.” I waved a dismissive hand. “You’re right about that, too. Screw him if he can’t take a joke.”

  Half an hour later, fortified by coffee, we drove in separate cars to the Sit’n Sip; separate cars because I planned to stop by the Wheelhouse later and, no matter how hot she thought Stefan was, Jen had no intention of walking into a biker bar filled with ghouls; and the Sit’n Sip because when you have a towering hangover in Pemkowet, that’s where you go for a gloriously greasy breakfast. I’m talking the equivalent of a Denny’s Grand Slam, scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns, plus a side of biscuits and sausage gravy. It sounds disgustingly excessive—okay, it is disgustingly excessive, but there’s nothing better for putting ballast in your belly to offset that queasy, acidic, roiling sensation.

  By the time I scraped my plate clean, I felt marginally human—no pun intended. When it came to hangovers, apparently I was all human.

  Of course, now I had to face Stefan, and despite what I’d said to Jen, I wasn’t feeling all that easy, breezy, and carefree about it. For one thing, there was the lingering mortification. For another, there was the dawning realization that it really wasn’t a good idea to respond to someone’s interest in you immediately after someone else has . . . well, not broken your heart, but definitely dinged it.

  Especially when that initial someone can read your emotions like a book and will know that’s exactly what you’re doing, which is why I entered the Wheelhouse with my mental shield blazing.

  At this hour—it was around eleven thirty a.m. on a Sunday—it wasn’t busy. Actually, the Wheelhouse was never really what I’d call busy for a bar in a thriving resort town. There just aren’t that many Outcast in existence, and according to Stefan, far fewer of them are created in the postmodern era. But since their numbers barely dwindle, the small patronage that existed was stable.

  And, of course, there were their . . . hangers-on, I guess. Victims is the word that comes to mind, but that’s probably rude. The unhappy souls on whom the Outcast fed, and who relied upon the Outcast to take away their pain and misery.

  Before Stefan came to town, that included a lot of drug addicts—meth-heads in particular. The Outcast did a lively trade in meth, perpetuating a vicious cycle of misery that gave them a constant source of sustenance. Stefan considered that particular flavor of wretchedness a kind of chemically induced poison and after establishing himself as the head ghoul in charge, he banned the drug trade.

  But there are plenty of reasons why people can be miserable in this world, and some of the patrons, mostly women, came to the Wheelhouse for the respite they found there. For the record, the overwhelming majority of the Outcast I’d encountered had been men. The only female member of the Outcast I’d met was dead.

  I know, because I killed her.

  Anyway.

  There was a little silence as I entered the bar, the Outcast assessing my psychic shield, the hangers-on evaluating me as a rival. Cooper, Stefan’s chief lieutenant, peeled himself away from the pool table, where he’d been engaged in conversation with a woman who looked old enough to be his mother, and sauntered over.

  “Hey there, Miss Daisy,” he greeted me, looking a bit wary. “You’re keeping well, I hope?”

  “Well enough, thanks,” I said. “And you?”

  Cooper’s mouth twisted as he regarded the mental shield I kept raised between us. “Well enough that you needn’t fear me.”

  The last time I’d seen Cooper, he’d been ravening, which is what happens when one of the Outcast loses self-control, and pretty much what it sounds like. It wasn’t entirely his fault—he’d been part of the ghoul squad that was providing emergency emotional crowd control at the Halloween parade, and had overestimated his discipline and stayed too long. But the upshot was that he’d completely drained a couple of mortal humans, a father and daughter, of their emotions, rendering them terrifyingly vacant. Stefan had assured me that they would recover in a week’s time. I sure as hell hoped that they had.

  At any rate, Cooper’s pupils were steady and normal now, not out-of-control pits of blackness. I lowered my shield a measure. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Ah, you’ve the right to. It’s you I’m owin’ an apology.”

  “Accepted.” I started to put out my hand, then thought better of it. When it came to me and my super-size emotions, Cooper preferred to avoid temptation.

  “Hey, Coop!” His hanger-on joined us, carrying a drink with the exaggerated care of someone who’s already had a few. Not that I was one to judge, certainly not this morning. “Who’s your friend?”

  There was a jealous note in her voice. At close range, she wasn’t as old as I’d taken her for, probably only a few years older than me. Years of hard living had taken a toll, and her heavy makeup wasn’t doing her any favors.

  Cooper glanced sidelong at her, his pupils dilating slightly. The apparent age gap between them was still disconcerting, but then, it was bound to be. Cooper was over two hundred years old, but he had been seventeen when he was Outcast, and his body would never age a day.

  The tense lines of the woman’s face softened under his gaze, her jealousy vanishing.

  “Daisy here is Hel’s liaison,” Cooper said to her in a surprisingly gentle tone. “The right-hand woman of the goddess herself. Go back to the pool table, Susie lass, and I’ll join you in a tick.”

  She went, placid and obedient.

  “Is she your . . .?” I didn’t know what to call her.

  “Source?” He shrugged again. “One of them, sure enough.” The bleakness that lived behind his angelic blue eyes surfaced briefly. “Nothing more.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, painfully aware of the inadequacy of the words.

  “I know.” Cooper set aside his pain to summon a sweet smile. “So! Here to see the big man, are we?”


  “We are,” I confirmed.

  He beckoned. “Come along, then. Himself will be tickled.”

  I hoped so.

  Stefan was on a phone call when Cooper knocked on the door to his office at the rear of the bar, but he opened the door and waved me in. I took a seat and waited. Stefan paced as he spoke into his cell phone, unusually restless for him. I had no idea who he was talking to or what they were talking about, since he wasn’t speaking English or any language I recognized. Not that I’m any great linguist—I’ve got two years of high school Spanish under my belt—but at least I have a passing familiarity with some of the biggies. I mean, I’ve seen foreign films. Whatever this was, not so much.

  “My apologies,” Stefan said after concluding his call. “So.” He sat behind his desk and raised one eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile hovering in the corners of his mouth. “Haaawwwtt?”

  Oh, my God. Somehow, the way he drew the word out made it even worse. Although I kept my shield in place to deflect my emotions, a scalding tide of blood rose to flush my face. “Um, yeah, about that. I didn’t . . .” I paused. Okay, I hadn’t sent the text, but I hadn’t stopped Jen from sending it. And middle-school language or not, the sentiment was apt. Stefan sat motionless, regarding me with the patience and discipline honed by centuries. His pupils were steady in his ice-blue eyes, a stunning hue you only see in Siberian huskies and the occasional supermodel.

  Unexpectedly, I decided to own it. “Yeah,” I said, lowering my shield. “That’s what the kids called it back in my day.”

  Stefan’s smile deepened and his eyelids flickered slightly. “Based on the chagrin I sense mingled with your embarrassment, I suspect you were not the author of the message, Daisy. But the fact that you were willing to allow me to believe it to be the case is . . . intriguing.”

  I squared my shoulders and raised my chin, ignoring the fact that my heart rate had increased. “I’m glad you think so.”

  A shadow of regret crossed Stefan’s face. “Unfortunately, I asked to speak to you on a professional matter as Hel’s liaison. A situation that requires my attention has arisen in Wieliczka.”

  “Wieliczka?” I echoed.

  “The town in Poland where I most recently resided,” Stefan said. His jaw hardened and his pupils waxed. “Apparently, the successor I appointed there is encountering some . . . difficulties.”

  “Oh.” I found myself unreasonably disappointed by the news. “Do you have to go yourself? Can you send one of your lieutenants?”

  He shook his head. “It is a delicate business that requires knowledge of the situation and the players. I must go myself. If there is aught that you require, Cooper will be in charge in my absence.”

  “Duly noted,” I said. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”

  “No.”

  Ohh-kay. There wasn’t a lot I could say to that, which seemed to be something of a theme to my weekend.

  “I do apologize.” Behind the desk, Stefan stood. “Having so recently established my authority among the Outcast in Pemkowet, I am reluctant to leave on such short notice. But this successor is a friend of long standing. And if I understand the situation rightly . . .” His voice turned grave as he rounded the desk. “I may have a favor to ask of you, Daisy. A very great favor.”

  I rose from my seat. “Care to give me a hint?”

  He hesitated. “Lest what I fear not come to pass, I would rather not say.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “Safe travels.”

  “Daisy.” Stefan’s voice dropped to a lower register, setting off butterflies in the pit of my stomach. He took a step toward me. I fought the urge to raise my shield, caught in the push-pull of conflicting emotions that his nearness created in me. He cupped my face, his thumbs caressing my cheekbones, and bowed his head toward me, his slightly-too-long black hair falling to frame his face. “Given the state of your emotions last night, perhaps it is for the best that we must continue this conversation at a later date,” he murmured. “But do you agree that we will continue it?”

  I raised my hands to grip his wrists—not to push him away, just to hold him in place. “Yes.”

  Stefan’s mouth covered mine as he kissed me, hard. I kissed him back. I could feel the bond between us, feel a part of myself spilling into him. The two of us together was a dangerous proposition, which was what made it so damn exciting and terrifying. The last time he’d kissed me, I’d pulled away and raised my shield.

  This time, I didn’t.

  It was Stefan who broke the kiss. He was breathing hard, his pupils dilated, a sliver of icy blue rimmed in black around them. His mouth stretched into a predator’s grin. “I will count the hours, Daisy Johanssen.”

  I smiled back at him just as fiercely. “So will I.”

  What can I say?

  Hawtt!!

  Four

  On Monday morning, I arrived at the police station to catch up on filing, only to walk into a situation. I’d call it a domestic disturbance, except the wild-eyed guy and the skinny, bleached-blond chick screaming at each other weren’t in their own domicile.

  “—want to file a report, goddammit!” he yelled at her. “Some crazy old bitch breaks into our apartment in the middle of the night—”

  “—need to go back on yer meds!”

  “—fucking sits on my chest—”

  “Yuh need to go back on yer meds, Scott!”

  Behind the reception desk, Patty Rogan looked more annoyed than frightened, probably because Chief Bryant was in the process of lumbering out of his office like a bear disturbed from its hibernation.

  “What seems to be the problem here?” he rumbled, hitching up his duty belt. “Oh, morning, Daisy.”

  “Morning, chief.” I kept my distance. I’d rather face down an ogre than get in the middle of a domestic dispute, especially since the only ogre I know is a friend of the family.

  The feuding couple began shouting at the same time again. The chief winced and held up one big hand for silence. It worked. For an ordinary human being, the chief has a lot of presence. He looked at Patty Rogan, who cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Evans here would like to file a report regarding an intruder,” Patty said in a neutral tone. “Mrs. Evans is of the opinion that there was no intrusion.”

  Chief Bryant pointed at the wild-eyed guy. “Scott Evans, right? Braden’s boy?” The guy nodded, looking marginally less agitated. “You first.”

  “That ain’t—” his wife began indignantly.

  The chief silenced her with a look. “You’ll get your turn, ma’am.”

  The upshot of Scott Evans’s story was that he’d awakened in the middle of the night to find an elderly woman sitting on his chest—an elderly woman with skeletal features, glowing red eyes, and long, lank hair, that is. He’d been terrified and unable to move as she’d reached down and begun to throttle him, leaning over to inhale his breath. He was sure he was going to die, but then his wife, Dawn, rolled over in her sleep, and the scary old lady fled.

  Somewhere in the course of Scott’s less-than-coherent recitation, the chief gave me an inquiring look, which I answered with a slight shrug and head shake. I wasn’t sure if a succubus was anything like an incubus, but it didn’t sound at all similar to my mother’s experience. Other than that, I couldn’t think of anything in Pemkowet’s eldritch population that would fit the profile.

  “All right, ma’am,” the chief said to Dawn Evans when her husband had finished. “What’s your version?”

  She sighed, her shoulders slumping. “There weren’t no old lady, sir.” There were dark circles under her eyes. “Scott’s got the PTSD. Sometimes he sees thangs. And he ain’t bin takin’ his meds.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with the meds!” he shouted. “She was there, dammit!”

  “Oh, honey! Ah know yuh think so.” Sorrow, a whole world of it, had replaced the anger in her tone. “But she weren’t.”

  It was enough to convince Chief Bryant. “All right, here’s what we’re going t
o do. Scott, Mrs. Rogan here’s going to take your statement, and I’ll send Officer Mallick over to examine the apartment for any sign of forced entry. Meanwhile, I want you to go home and take your medication. Can you do that for me?”

  “I guess.”

  “Is that an affirmative, soldier?” The chief pressed him.

  Scott Evans stood a bit taller. “Yes, sir!”

  “Good man.” The chief nodded in approval. “All right, then. Carry on.”

  Feeling bad for Dawn, I sat with her while her husband repeated his story and Patty took down the details. “I take it you’re not from here?” I said to her.

  “No’m.” She gave me a tired smile. “Is it that obvious?”

  “Kind of, yeah,” I admitted. “Where are you from originally?”

  “Alabama,” Dawn murmured, tears filling her eyes. She sniffled and knuckled her eyes. “Ah’m sorry. It’s just that this is so hard. Ah love Scott, ah do, but this is so goddamn hard. His family tries to help as best they can, but . . .” A stifled sob escaped her, and she clenched her teeth on another.

  “Hey, hey!” I put my arm around her shoulders. “It’s okay. I mean, it’s not, but . . . just breathe, okay?”

  Dawn swallowed and nodded. “Thank yuh.”

  I found a tissue in my messenger bag and handed it to her. “So how did you end up here in Pemkowet?”

  She blew her nose. “We met in Iraq,” she said, pronouncing it “eye-rack.” “Same ole story. Girl meets boy, falls in love and gits married, moves to his hometown.”

  “You served in Iraq?”

  Dawn gave me a sidelong look. “Yes, ma’am. U.S. Army, maintenance and repair personnel. Ah drive a mean Humvee.”

  “I’m impressed,” I said.

  “Yuh mean surprised?” she asked wearily.

  I was beginning to regret my initial assessment of Dawn Evans as “skinny, bleached-blond chick.” Okay, I stand by the hair—it was pretty bad—but there was a lot more going on here. God knows, I knew what it was like to be underestimated because of my looks and age, and the thick Southern accent probably wasn’t doing her any favors in these parts. “Look.” I lowered my voice. “You’re probably right about this whole thing. I mean, you know Scott. You know what he’s been through. I don’t. I can’t even begin to imagine what you guys have seen and done and how you’re coping with it. But just to be on the safe side, it wouldn’t hurt to sprinkle your bed with holy water. And, um, hang some cold iron over your front door. An old horseshoe or something. It keeps away the fey.”