Poison Fruit (16 page)

He offered me a huge, gnarly-looking fist. “Gimme some dap.”

“You got it, son.” That was something I’d heard Jen’s twelve-year-old kid brother and his friends say to each other. I bumped my fist against Skrrzzzt’s. It felt like knocking on a knot of wood. “Take care.”

The bogle flashed me a hideous grin. “I always do, mamacita.”

Sixteen

“S
o let me make sure I’ve got this straight.” Behind the steering wheel, Cody glanced at me. “All you need is a strand of the Night Hag’s hair to bind her.”

“Right,” I said.

“Except the only way to get it is to lure her into a nightmare.”

“Yep.”

Both of us thought about that in silence for a moment. “We might have to consider using someone she’s already targeted as bait,” Cody said reluctantly. “Get them to remove the protective charms.”

“Not the Reynolds kid,” I said. “He’s only seven. Remember, the Night Hag is only corporeal to her victims. It’s not like we can use one to summon her and then take charge. Even if his parents would go for it, which they wouldn’t, you can’t ask a seven-year-old to try to bind a fucking
nightmare
.”

“No.” Cody drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “But that only leaves Scott Evans.”

“Scott Evans throttled his wife and nearly blew his brains out the last time the Night Hag attacked him,” I pointed out. “Do we really want to take a chance on a repeat performance?”

Cody blew out his breath in a sigh. “We’re screwed, aren’t we?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “I mean, there are things you can do to induce nightmares, right? Watch scary movies before bedtime?”

He spared me another glance. “You want to take her down yourself, don’t you?”

“Look, I’m not thrilled by the prospect, but I sure as hell don’t want any innocent victims to suffer further damage,” I said. “This damn
Night Hag is here without permission and she’s preying on fragile mortals in Hel’s territory. That makes her
my
responsibility.”

One corner of Cody’s mouth quirked in a smile. “I kind of like it when you get all territorial, Pixy Stix.”

“And I kind of like it when you tease me,” I murmured. “Which is why I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Daise—”

I looked at him. “Don’t.”

“Okay.” He was silent for a moment. “So what’s your plan? Go home and watch a scary movie, eat a big sandwich before bed?”

“Basically, yeah,” I admitted. “Only . . . crap, I forgot about Mrs. Browne.”

“From the bakery?”

“She’s a brownie,” I reminded him. “Talk about territorial . . . I don’t think a Night Hag would dare attack someone in a building that’s been claimed and protected by a brownie. And Mrs. Browne comes in every night to bake.”

“Can’t you just ask her to take the night off?” Cody asked.

I shook my head. “You can’t ask a brownie for anything. They bail if you do. And if Mrs. Browne’s bakery shut down—”

“—Amanda Brooks would have a cow,” he finished. “Hell, she wouldn’t be the only one. You’d probably be run out of town if you were responsible for shutting down Mrs. Browne’s Olde World Bakery, Daise.”

“No kidding,” I said. “I’d hate to lose her, too. Most of the time I’m grateful to know she’s there in the wee hours.”

“So do it at my place,” Cody said without looking at me.

“Werewolves aren’t territorial?” I said with a lightness I didn’t feel. “I’m not buying it.”

“Only when it comes to other clans.” He gave me a quick glance. “Look, Daisy, I’d actually feel a lot better about it if you did. I’d do it myself if I could, but if something attacked me in my sleep . . .” He let the sentence trail off.

“You’d shift?” I asked.

Cody nodded.

“Yeah, it would be pretty hard to pluck a strand of someone’s hair with paws,” I agreed. “And I doubt a Night Hag would attack a werewolf in the first place. I’m guessing they just prey on humans.”

“What makes you so sure she’d attack
you
?” he asked.

“I’m not,” I said. “I’m just hoping I’m human enough to fool her, what with not having claimed my birthright and all.”

Cody pulled into the alley alongside my apartment building and parked. “So are we going to do this or not?”

It felt awfully sudden, and the thought of spending the night at Cody’s gave me butterflies in the pit of my stomach, and not in a good way. “I don’t know,” I said. “Do you have any scary movies on hand?”

“My cousin Joe’s got the whole
Saw
franchise on DVD,” he said. “I’m sure we can borrow it.”

Oh, gah. “That would fit the bill.”

“So?”

“Can we get hoagies from the Sidecar?” I asked.

Cody gave me a smile filled with rueful affection. “Yeah, Daise. We can get hoagies.”

My tail twitched. “Okay, let’s do it.”

To make a long story short, it didn’t work. It wasn’t for lack of trying, that’s for sure. After I grabbed an overnight bag from my apartment and filled Mogwai’s bowl, we picked up a couple of hoagies from the Sidecar, then swung by Cody’s cousin’s place to borrow the first two
Saw
movies, which we watched in Cody’s den, sitting a self-conscious distance apart on his couch. Let me say upfront that I’m not a fan, but if anything was going to give me nightmares, three solid hours of torture porn on top of a big, greasy hoagie ought to have done it.

It didn’t.

Between the bogle hunt, the heavy food, the torture porn, and my
conflicted emotions, I was so worn out that by the time I went to bed, I slept solidly through the night in sheets that smelled like laundry detergent and a lingering trace of Cody’s scent. He’d insisted I take the bedroom while he crashed on the couch. It wasn’t the soundest night’s sleep I’d ever had—my dreams were restless and uneasy and filled with
disturbing images, but I couldn’t call them nightmares, and beneath them, I was aware of Cody’s reassuring presence in the next room.

And once again, I awoke to a phone call.

Fumbling on Cody’s nightstand, I found my phone and answered, croaking a sleepy “Hello” into my phone.

“Daisy?” It was Sandra Sweddon, who was a friend of my mom’s, a volunteer in the community, and a member of the local coven. “Sorry to disturb you so early, honey, but I’m over at the Open Hearth Center.” She lowered her voice. “Sinclair told us about the, um, situation. I’m afraid there may have another incident. A serious one.”

A jolt of adrenaline brought me more fully awake. “Another Night Hag attack?”

“I can’t be sure,” she said. “Old Mrs. Claussen passed last night. Mind you, she was very sick. But I heard the nurse who was on duty last night telling another nurse about hearing Mrs. Claussen cry out in the middle of the night, before she passed. She was saying ‘Get her off me, get her off me.’”

I swore. “Is the night nurse still there?”

“No, she’s gone home.”

“What about Mrs. Claussen’s, um, remains?” I asked. “Did the M.E. take her?”

“No, she’s here,” Sandra said. “They’re just waiting for Doc Howard to come by and sign the death certificate. She had advanced liver cancer, Daisy, so they’re not considering it a suspicious death. But I thought you’d want to know.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

I wrapped myself in a big plaid bathrobe hanging from a hook on Cody’s bedroom door and went into the living room to wake him. The call hadn’t awakened him and he was still sprawled on the couch, sound
asleep, a crocheted blanket tangled around his limbs. I allowed myself a wistful moment to gaze at him before calling his name.

He woke with a start, jerking upright and baring his teeth. His face softened at the sight of me. “Daise. No luck?”

“Bad luck,” I said. “It sounds like she struck somewhere else last night. And this time it was fatal.”

He ran his hands over his face and through his sleep-disheveled hair. “Tell me.”

I filled him in on the details.

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound good,” he agreed. “I’ll call the chief and ask him to meet us there. We’ll see what the magic watch has to say.”

Beneath Cody’s plaid bathrobe, my tail lashed with pent-up fury. “Goddammit! I really wanted to catch her.”

“I know.” Standing, Cody laid his hands on my shoulders. “It’s not your fault, Daisy. You did everything you could. But you can’t force your subconscious to cooperate.”

“I’m not going to stop trying,” I informed him.

He gave me a faint, sleepy smile. “I never imagined you would. Nice bathrobe, by the way.”

“Thanks.” I fought the sudden urge to reach up one hand and caress the bronze stubble on his cheek. “Let’s get moving.”

I’d been to the Open Hearth assisted-living facility a few times as a teenager, tagging along when my mom helped Mrs. Sweddon out with her volunteer work, planning activities for the residents. One year Mom even sewed costumes for a pet parade that the seniors talked about for months. As Cody and I pulled into the parking lot, I felt ashamed that I hadn’t been back since.

It was a nice enough facility as such things go—or at least as far as I knew, since it was the only one I’d ever visited. There were gardens surrounding it and a three-season room in the rear of the complex looked out into woodlands where the staff hung bird feeders. There were plenty of windows to admit a good amount of natural light, and all the residents had their own cozy little rooms, which were decorated with paintings donated by Pemkowet High’s most promising art students.

Still, it was a place where people came to spend their final days, and there was no getting around that knowledge.

Sandra Sweddon greeted us at the door. “This is Nurse Luisa,” she said, introducing us to a pleasant-looking woman in pink scrubs and a
name tag that read
LUISA MARTINEZ
. “I’m sure she can answer any questions you have.”

Nurse Luisa shook our hands, her expression slightly bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“That’s okay,” I assured her. “We just have a few quick questions. Can we speak privately?”

“Of course.”

“Do you want to take this, Daisy?” Cody asked me. “I’ll stay here and wait for the chief.”

“The chief of police?” Nurse Luisa paled a little. “Is that necessary? I’d really rather not alarm the residents.”

“It’s just a courtesy visit, ma’am,” Cody said. “Chief Bryant likes to pay his respects to the deceased.”

Nurse Luisa gave him a look that said
News to me
, but she escorted me to an office and closed the door behind us. “Can I ask what this is all about, Ms. Johanssen?”

“It may be nothing,” I said. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to wait until the chief arrives to discuss it. Can you tell me how Mrs. Claussen died?”

“Well, Dr. Howard will make the final call after he examines her, but she appears to have suffered an acute myocardial infarction,” she said. “A heart attack.”

I fished a notepad out of my messenger bag. “Is that unusual for someone in her condition?”

The nurse shook her head. “She had a mild coronary incident earlier in the year,” she said. “Normally I’d say it was a blessing in disguise.”

I jotted down “previous heart attack,” mostly just because taking notes made me look more professional. “Why?”

“Because in Mrs. Claussen’s case, the alternative was a slow, protracted death from liver failure,” she said.

“So why is it that you’re reluctant to say a sudden death was a blessing this time?” I inquired.

Nurse Luisa pressed her lips together. “The look on her face.”

“Which was?”

“Terrified,” she said briefly. “That and what Connie said.”

“Connie’s the nurse who was on duty last night?” I asked. She nodded. “What’s her last name?”

“Adams.”

I wrote that down. “And what did she say to you about Mrs. Claussen?”

“Connie said she was passing her room at around four o’clock in the morning, and she heard Mrs. Claussen saying, ‘Get her off me, get her off me.’”

“Did she investigate at the time?” I asked.

“No,” Nurse Luisa said. “Not until the morning. You must understand, it’s not uncommon for residents to have nightmares or talk in their sleep. Unless there’s a medical issue, we try to respect their privacy. Connie waited a moment, and when she heard nothing further, returned to the office.”

“Was Mrs. Claussen prone to nightmares?”

She hesitated. “She’d had incidents in the past, yes. Lately it was hard to say. The medication she was on to manage her pain kept her fairly heavily sedated, but some patients do report nightmares as a side effect of opiate drugs.”

“So she could have been having nightmares,” I said. “But she was too sedated to complain about them?”

“Or possibly to remember them,” Nurse Luisa agreed. “Or to distinguish between reality and a bad dream.”

An assistant knocked on the door to let us know that Chief Bryant had arrived. I closed my notepad and put it away. “Thank you. If you don’t mind, we’d like to take a look at the body.”

In the foyer, the chief greeted me with a cordial nod. Nurse Luisa led us through the sunlit common room, where seniors looked up from their backgammon games and jigsaw puzzles—which, ew, reminded me of creepy Jigsaw from the movies last night—to speculate about our
presence in loud whispers, to the residence halls, pausing outside room 14. It had a plastic nameplate with
IRMA CLAUSSEN
on it. The nurse swiped her keycard and opened the door.

Cody and I followed the chief inside. It was a modest room without a lot of personal effects—a few photographs atop a low dresser, a potted
ficus tree in the corner. Mrs. Claussen’s body lay atop the bed, loosely wrapped in a clean white sheet that had been placed beneath her. Striding over to the bed, Chief Bryant gently folded the sheet back from her face.

“We closed her eyes,” Nurse Luisa said behind us, a slight tremor in her voice. “We did our best. We always do.”

I made myself look.

Last night, I’d watched a number of actors and actresses meet their demise in a variety of sadistic and gory scenarios. Irma Claussen’s death was infinitely more real and infinitely more affecting. She looked old and shrunken beneath the sheet, her fragile, liver-spotted skin tinged with yellow. At a glance, it wasn’t obvious that she’d died in a state of terror. The Open Hearth nursing staff had done a good job of closing her eyes, of trying to coax the muscles of her face to soften from a rictus of terror.