Poison Fruit

by Jacqueline Carey

  “Okay,” I said, doing my best to conceal a rising sense of apprehension. “Consider me forewarned.”

  Stefan laughed softly; a tired laugh but a genuine one. “It’s good to hear your voice.”

  I found myself flushing. “Yours, too. I miss you.” Oh, crap. Had I really said that? Yes, I had. Did I mean it? Yeah, actually, I think I did. “Do you have any idea when you’ll be back?”

  “Next week, perhaps.” He paused again. “May I ask if your circumstances have changed since we parted?”

  “My circumstances . . . oh.” Duh. If Stefan had felt my terror, he’d felt the rush of unbridled lust that followed it. My face got hotter. “No, that was just an, um, heat-of-battle kind of thing.”

  “Then I look forward to resuming our . . . conversation,” he said. “Your existence in this world gladdens my heart, Daisy.”

  Whoa.

  “Thanks,” I said, feeling awkward, but sincere. “I really needed to hear something like that right about now. But you probably knew that, didn’t you?”

  He gave another soft laugh. “Perhaps. But that does not render the sentiment any less true. Take care.”

  “You, too.”

  So that was the situation with Stefan—infuriatingly cryptic, disturbingly intimate, distinctly apprehension-making, yet definitely intriguing.

  Then there was the Cody situation, or the Cody nonsituation. I wasn’t going out of my way to avoid him, but I was just as glad that our paths didn’t cross in the days following the Night Hag incident. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to feel betrayed by his correspondence with Stephanie the werewolf in Seattle—if I had a Stefan in my life, he ought to be entitled to a Stephanie—but I couldn’t help the way I felt. And somehow it was worse knowing Cody did have feelings for me—just not strong enough feelings to override his loyalty to his clan.

  Maybe that was as it should be, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

  I talked it out with Jen. It’s not like there was anything she could do about it, but she gave me plenty of sympathy and a hearty “You go, girl,” for having said my piece to Cody, which is all I wanted anyway. Well, that and the dish on her situation with Lee, about which she was a lot less forthcoming. The only reason I knew she was going to Thanksgiving dinner at his mother’s house was because she turned down an invitation to join me at Mom’s.

  “It’s not like it’s a big deal,” Jen said dismissively. “I’m just helping out because of his mom’s arthritis.”

  “First Sinclair, now you,” I said. “Okay, tell me this. Are you going as Lee’s date or as his mom’s helper?”

  “I don’t know.” Jen made a face. “A little of both, maybe. His mom’s weird about having people over, but she’s comfortable with me since I helped take care of her when Lee’s arm was broken. And it’s a good excuse to get out of dinner with my family.”

  “Let me put it this way,” I said. “Are you getting paid for being there?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s a date.” We were sprawled at opposite ends of the couch in Sinclair’s living room while he was working at the nursery. I nudged her with one foot. “Talk about weird—why are you being so weird about this?”

  “Oh, God.” Heaving a sigh, Jen let her head flop back on the armrest. “Because it is weird, Daise. There’s a part of me that thinks, am I really doing this? Am I really dating Skeletor?”

  “You can’t—”

  “I know, I know.” She propped herself on her elbows and lifted her head. “High school was a long time ago. But the thing is, there’s another part of me that wonders if I’m good enough for Lee.” Jen’s gaze was uncertain and vulnerable. “I mean, Lee’s a big deal in the gaming industry. He’s a fucking genius, Daisy. And I clean houses for a living.”

  “Jen—”

  “He’s only here in Pemkowet to take care of his mom,” she continued. “While I was living with my parents, he built a whole life out in Seattle. Hell, maybe he knows Cody’s werewolf girlfriend! Lee’s been to gaming expos all over the world. Do you know the farthest place I’ve ever been from home?”

  “Chicago,” I murmured.

  “Chicago!” Jen echoed me. “I don’t even have a passport. I don’t even know how you get a passport. Do you know what I do know? How to get rid of stubborn toilet bowl stains! And I just—”

  “Jennifer Mary Cassopolis!” I pointed at her. “Stop it. Stop it right now. Do you like Lee?”

  “Yeah,” she mumbled. “I think I do.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Then that’s really all that matters, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” Jen asked.

  I shrugged. “I’m not saying it’s easy. But hell, at least you’re both the same species.” I softened my voice. “Lee likes you, Jen. He likes you a lot. And okay, maybe he’s overcompensating a little with the gym and the protein shakes, but you know what? You guys have a lot in common. Whatever life he built for himself in Seattle, he gave it up to take care of his mom, just like you put your life on hold to stay at home and make sure Brandon was safe.”

  For the record, Brandon was Jen’s little brother; only twelve years old, a change-of-life baby. Until recently, Jen had continued living at home to protect him from their abusive father. If you’re wondering what changed, that would be the miraculous transformation of Bethany Cassopolis from a whiny, clingy blood-slut to a badass vampire bitch who threatened to drink her father dry if he ever laid a hand on his wife or children again. So far, it had proved an effective threat.

  “That’s true,” Jen agreed.

  “You’re a good friend,” I said firmly. “You’re my best friend, Jen. You’re smart, funny, gorgeous, and loyal as hell. I’m glad you like Lee. I like him, too. But do not for one instant even begin to think that you’re not good enough for him. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “Good.” I rearranged myself on my end of the couch. “So that’s settled. Let’s get to the juicy stuff. Any fooling around? Have you at least kissed?”

  “We’ve only had one official date, Daise,” Jen reminded me. “And that was to get me out of the house while Sinclair worked up his nightmare whammy for you.”

  I raised my eyebrows at her. “And?”

  Jen sighed. “Okay, Lee kissed me good night at the front door. And, um, it may have turned into a minor make-out session. I’ll say one thing—he knows what he’s doing,” she added. “Those girls out in Seattle must have taught him a thing or two.”

  I winced. “Not exactly what I needed to hear right now, girlfriend.”

  “Sorry!” Jen grimaced. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “Eh, it’s not your fault.” I waved one hand. “It’s nobody’s fault. It just sucks, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, it does.” She gave me a shrewd look. “Which is why I’m glad you’re willing to give the hot ghoul a chance. You are going to see him when he gets back, right?”

  “Right.”

  I hadn’t told Jen about the part where Stefan forewarned me about asking for an ominously grave favor. I’m not sure why, other than the fact that since he’d made it clear he’d be asking me in my capacity as Hel’s liaison, it probably wasn’t appropriate fodder for girl talk, which meant . . . oh, gah.

  I was totally complicit in this whole cryptic-eldritch-crap scenario.

  I hadn’t told her about the nightmare, either. It was inside me, eating at me like a cancer. For a moment, I thought about spilling my guts about the whole thing . . . but after our talk, Jen looked happier and more relaxed than I’d seen her in a long time.

  I’d been able to reassure her. I’d been a good friend today.

  I didn’t want to burden her.

  So instead, I kept my mouth shut, and spilled my guts to my mom instead.

  Twenty-three

  Mom and I ended up celebrating Thanksgiving alone—which, I should add, was totally okay with both of us.

  It felt like old times, just the two of us
in her double-wide, cookbooks on loan from the library spread open all over the counters, Mom and I doing our best not to get greasy fingerprints on them while we pored over recipes in an effort to execute innovative variations on traditional holiday dishes.

  Some dishes worked better than others, although the problem may have been too many disparate elements. For example, the whole turkey marinated in coconut milk and lemongrass was delicious; combining it with a chorizo-and-rice stuffing was probably overkill.

  I didn’t care. The main point was that we were together and having fun. The affectionate glances Mom sent my way as we put a feast together kept the memory of my nightmare at a distance. Plus, we finished with a triumph, a pumpkin crème brûlée that came close to pulling the whole meal together.

  “That was awesome,” I said, pushing my chair back a few inches from the dinette table. “Thanks, Mom.”

  She cast a critical eye over the remains of our repast. “I added too much chipotle to the whipped sweet potatoes. I’ll have to remember that for next time. More coffee?”

  “Sure. I’ll get it.” I cleared a few dishes from the table and fetched the carafe of her trusty old Sunbeam coffeemaker to refill our mugs. When I sat back down, she fixed me with one of those universal mom looks, the kind of look that says, “You’re not fooling anyone, missy. I know you’ve been keeping something from me, and I mean to get it out of you, right here and now.”

  I squirmed on the vinyl-padded seat of my chair, my tail wriggling.

  “All right,” Mom said. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  She sipped her coffee and studied me. “Honey, if it’s something you really, truly don’t want to talk about, I won’t pry. But I’m your mother. I’m here for you. I’m always here for you. And I promise you, there is absolutely nothing in the world you can’t tell me.”

  I made a weak attempt at a joke. “So you’re saying you’ll help me bury the body?”

  Her blue eyes, so unlike my own, were clear and steady. “Try me.”

  “Okay.” I took a deep breath, steeling myself. “There’s something I didn’t tell you the other day about Dufreyne, that lawyer who’s been making offers on plots of land around Pemkowet. He’s a hell-spawn.”

  Mom’s gaze didn’t waver. “I heard a rumor to that effect. I wondered why you hadn’t mentioned it.”

  “You heard a . . . Oh.” That’s right, I’d told Stacey Brooks. “Is it all over town?”

  “Strangely, no,” she said. “The whole thing seems to keep slipping people’s minds. At least that’s what Sandra said.”

  Huh. So Stacey must have mentioned something to Sinclair, and Sinclair must have alerted the coven, who were better protected from supernatural influence than ordinary humans were.

  “Dufreyne’s invoked his birthright,” I said. “He’s got powers of persuasion.”

  Mom inhaled sharply. “How—?”

  “That’s the part I wasn’t sure how to tell you.” I explained what Daniel Dufreyne had told me about his mother being complicit in his conception, and how only a hell-spawn born of an innocent had the power to breach the Inviolate Wall and unleash Armageddon by invoking his or her birthright.

  She listened in a state of dazed disbelief. “So his birth was planned? Why would anyone—” Cutting herself short, she closed her eyes. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

  A pang of pain squeezed my heart. “It’s okay.”

  Mom opened her eyes, looking anguished. “No, it’s not.”

  “Yeah, it is.” I met her gaze steadily. “Mom, I’m not a kid. You don’t have to protect me from the truth. I know getting knocked up by an incubus wasn’t in your plan. I know I wasn’t an easy kid to raise. And I know you’ve had to fight your whole life against the kind of assumptions people make about someone who would let that happen to them.”

  “You were probably too little to remember, but it was a lot worse when you were a baby and we lived up north with Grandma and Grandpa,” she murmured. “They did their best, but it was hard on everyone. That’s why I decided to move to Pemkowet. At least here there are people who understand.”

  “Some,” I said. “Not all.”

  “Enough,” Mom said firmly. “Enough to build a supportive, loving community, and that’s all I wanted for both of us. When I said . . . what I said, I wasn’t talking about you, Daisy. I meant the planning and begetting part. Not the having and loving part. Were you an easy kid? No. But you were a wonderful kid, and I wouldn’t trade you for the world.” Her expression turned stern, or at least as stern as it ever got, which wasn’t very. “Are we clear?”

  I swallowed hard against a lump in my throat. “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. I’m glad.” Mom paused, searching for the right words. “So . . . is this lawyer the only one? Are there others?”

  “You mean is there a whole hell-spawn breeding program?” I asked. “I don’t know. He dropped his little bombshell and bailed, leaving me with a lot of unanswered questions. He said his mother was well compensated for the job, so whoever’s behind it has a lot of money.”

  “And at least one attorney with demonic powers of persuasion,” Mom observed. “Along with designs on Pemkowet.”

  “Right.”

  “Is that what’s had you so worried?” she asked, a crease between her brows. “Because you’re right—it is worrisome.”

  “It would be if I’d had time to worry about it,” I said. “I’ve been busy with that whole Night Hag business. And there’s something I didn’t tell you about that, too.”

  I’d told her I managed to catch and bind the Night Hag. I hadn’t told her how I’d done it.

  Now I did.

  She listened without comment as I described the nightmare that brought my deepest, darkest fear to life.

  I was sort of hoping for a “That would never happen!” or a “You would never do such a thing!” at the end of my recitation.

  Instead, my mom frowned in thought. “I’d like to read your cards tonight, Daisy. Would you be willing to let me?”

  “Yeah. I would,” I said. “But let’s do the dishes first.”

  She nodded. “Good plan.”

  Half an hour later, the dishwasher was loaded to straining and the kitchen was spotless. I poured the final dregs of coffee into our mugs as Mom and I sat back down at the dinette table. She placed her worn old deck of lotería cards from a high school Spanish class on the table between us.

  It wasn’t the first time she’d read my cards, or the tenth or the twentieth. She’d practiced on me while I was growing up, working out her own complicated system of symbolism. Most of the time, the issues I’d concentrated on were the usual childhood or adolescent dramas, and if I really thought about it, her insightful readings probably owed as much to maternal instinct as they did to skill with the cards. But she’d done a reading for me last summer, when the Vanderhei kid drowned, that was incredibly accurate and literal.

  It made me apprehensive. That had been a serious issue, but this was serious in a whole different way. This was terrifying and personal. I’d dreamed I’d broken the world, and I was afraid to find out what the cards said.

  I pulled out my significator, El Diablito, the little devil, shuffled the deck, and cut it a few times before handing it to my mom.

  “They’re just cards, honey,” Mom said gently. “They’re not magic. They can’t really tell us anything we don’t already know somewhere deep inside.”

  “That would have been more convincing before the reading you did on Thad Vanderhei’s death,” I said. “Because I assure you, I did not know deep inside that a guy with a spider tattoo was involved.”

  Mom pushed the cards away. “Daisy, we don’t have to do this.”

  “No,” I said. “I want to. Whatever the cards say, I want to know. It can’t be worse than my imagination.”

  “All right,” she said. “Do you want to reshuffle?”

  I shook my head. “Just do it. Maybe it
will end up being about my love life,” I added. “I could use some insight there, too.”

  “Let’s see.” With a deft hand, she dealt a seven-card spread in the shape of an inverted V. I never knew for sure what kind of spread Mom would use, or what significance she would ascribe to each position. Some of them were based on actual tarot spreads, but some of them she made up herself. According to her, it was an intuitive process. She turned over the first card at the apex of the V.

  El Mundo, upside down. The World, reversed. All the breath left my lungs.

  “It’s not what it looks like, Daisy,” Mom said quickly. “It’s not literal. El Mundo represents attaining success in the material world. Just because it’s reversed, all that means is you’re dealing with a setback.”

  “Really?” I found my voice. “Because I haven’t had any setbacks in my career lately, but I have had a dream that pretty much turned the world upside down. And the last reading you gave me was awfully fucking literal, Mom.”

  She gave me a look. “Language, honey.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Just don’t soft-pedal it, okay? If it’s bad, it’s bad.”

  “Okay.” Mom tapped the card. “Maybe it is literal. If it is, it’s because that’s what’s on your mind. It’s not a prediction of things to come. It’s just the issue on the table for this reading. All right?”

  “All right.”

  “Let’s see what the past holds.” She turned over the first card on the left arm of the V to reveal El Arbol, the Tree. “Ah. This represents your roots. Your history, your sense of place, your community.”

  “As in all the reasons I wouldn’t want to destroy the world?” I said. “Why’s it in my past?”

  “Because it has bearing on the issue,” Mom said patiently. “Possibly for the exact reason you just stated.” She turned over the next card. “And this represents the future.”

  It was La Corona, the Crown. “Aristocracy?” I said, hazarding a guess. After all, Stefan was a count’s son. A centuries-dead count from a nation that no longer existed, but still . . .

  “Wealth,” Mom said soberly.

  Wealth, like the kind of wealth it took to bribe a woman into bearing a hell-spawn child, maybe.