Forbidden Fruit
Page 7

He eyes the bump on my head and says, “I get it. No explanation necessary.”
“Some days are like that,” I say with a sigh.
He grins. “Most of mine, actually. Later, Shannon.”
As I’m heading for the bus stop, my phone beeps. Honestly, I’m surprised Jesse hasn’t messaged me sooner. I’m not 100% sure if I love being looped in so tightly, but on the other hand, it means he cares. So I can handle the attention, especially when it comes with perks like the other night.
This might sound dumb, but are you all right?
Minor head trauma, self-inflicted. Nothing to worry about.
But worrying is my only superpower.
Lies. You also look amazing in jeans.
It’s absurd that I can enjoy flirting with him so much via text. But I’m smiling as I board the bus. Patting my bag, I make sure my radio’s still in place. Since that freaky meet-up outside the market, I don’t go anywhere without it. My magickal focus, so to speak, fits in a backpack, so there’s no reason for me to go unarmed, especially when things could turn scary in a split second. Reassured that I’m not helpless, I transfer near downtown and ride a little farther, then I hop off a block from the store. The whole time, I’m aware somebody could be following me, but I don’t see anyone. Nobody else gets off at my stop, anyway, and there are no puddles they can use to spy on me.
I hurry along the sidewalk and enter the trading company. A bell jingles, and I’m overcome by an urge to leave. The feeling almost chokes me, but I force myself to continue deeper into the shop. As I get closer to the back room, the aversion dissipates. I push through the curtain, and everything’s just as I’d pictured in my mind’s eye. Only I don’t remember coming here per se; it’s more like a dream.
An elderly woman sits behind the counter. She watches me with still, dead eyes, and she doesn’t smile. Customarily, a greeting might be in order or an offer to help the customer find what she’s looking for. This clerk tracks my movements with her eyes, which seem impossibly dark and deep, too much for her grandmotherly demeanor. For God’s sake, she has knitting on the counter. I feel weird thinking she’s pure evil, like I might be guilty of ageism, but I have the same feeling now as I did the other night at the mall.
I hardly dare to breathe as I move through the shop, pretending to look at the arcane accoutrements. I suspect this might’ve been a mistake. Why didn’t I tell Jesse where I was going? I’m wondering if they can track my phone. He’ll try that, right, when I turn up missing? Then I remember that’s for contract phones and mine’s pay-as-you-go. Dammit.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” She speaks at last, and her voice has an awful quality, like a dead thing scrabbling up from the bottom of a well.
“I’m just browsing.” What the hell. Since I came all this way, I might as well ask what’s on my mind. “This might be an odd question, but…have I ever been in here before?”
And that’s when the old woman vaults the counter like a stick bug and tries to kill me.
Seven
I stumble back a few steps and topple a display between us. The shattering glass slows her down long enough for me to pop open my backpack. Dodging between display racks, I weave away from her. Madness and malevolence radiate from her in smothering waves, and she’s eerily silent, just the rough gasps of a body unused to such physical exertion.
“Maybe we could talk things through,” I offer. “Get some counseling? I’m sure whatever it is I did to you, which I apparently don’t remember, I can make amends. How do you feel about macramé rugs?”
Her bony fist smashes through some stained-glass shelving, and her blood spatters me as I dive away. It smells faintly of rotten eggs.
“So that’s a no on arts and crafts?”
When she sweeps her arm across a shelf, crystal shards rain down, tangling in my hair. At her next attack, some kind of dust explodes all over us, making me choke, but it hampers the crazy demonic assassin as well. Close up, I can see the uneven patches on her skin. Her eyes roll in her head, spinning like no human could manage, and that creeps me out enough that I almost drop my radio.
Almost.
I tug at the dials with cold, shaking fingers. I’ve never tried to summon whatever spirits might be listening, but I need help. So I spin at random and call out, “Restless dead, I summon you to this place, I call you to my aid.”
At first it seems like I’ve chosen a bad channel and nothing’s within the sound of my voice. Worried, I duck the heavy urn she hurls at me. If she keeps this up, she’ll destroy the store’s whole inventory. Also, she’ll open my head like a melon. Of the two, I’m more concerned about the latter.
I jiggle the dial and mutter the call again, and this time, I feel them coming. The temperature in the room drops by ten degrees, sending a chill down my spine. Tingles radiate outward from where my fingers are touching the radio, my energy fueling their hunger, but it’s not sated. I could never give enough to make them feel warm or whole. This is like tossing a few scraps to a starving predator. Though it’s dusk outside, that purple plum of a sunset, it’s darker still in the store, as if some pagan god dropped a black bag over the sun.
“Drain her,” I command.
Darkness swarms around the old woman. I stop running then, watching in horrified fascination as her body pulls taut, held by unseen hands. Her feet come up, nearly off the floor, and she quakes from head to toe. At first, she lashes out, snarling in incoherent rage, but her skin grows paler and paler, then the creature driving her body leaps away. It’s hard to distinguish its sooty swirl from my starving spirits, but I track the energy; it dives from the old woman into the telephone, and I’m astonished. Is that how demons travel? If they’re energy, it stands to reason they could pass in telephone or electrical wires, right? Holy shit. It makes me want to break all my electronics, right this minute. But I’m so busy pondering the implications that I almost forget to stop the feast.
“Stop!” I call. “Don’t kill her. Restless dead, I send you from this place.”
The room chills further, and I fear they won’t listen. Part of me wonders why they heed me at all. But the ghosts withdraw in a misty blur, quick as they came. The old woman drops in a heap on the floor, amid the wreckage. With trembling hands, I turn off the radio. There’s no sign of what truly happened here, apart from her collapse and my minor injuries. How the hell can I explain this?
Good thing I’ve got a cop on speed dial, but like usual, he’s already calling me. “Shan, what the fuck?”
“Hey. So can you please send EMTs…and I’d appreciate it if you came too. There will be questions…and I don’t know what to say.” I give him the address.
“Are you hurt?” He sounds frantic. I hear horns honking, Jesse swearing, and the screech of tires. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Sit tight. Wait, no, first get to a safe location and sit tight.” The fact that he’s repeating himself is kind of adorable.
“I’m not hurt. The ambulance is for someone else.” I kneel beside the old woman and press two fingers to her throat. “She’s alive but in bad shape.”
“Christ almighty, Shan.” He produces a string of curses that would impress me at any other time.
“I’m hanging up now. I’ll be here, and you need to focus on your driving.”
He’s still ranting when I cut the call. Sometimes I think Jesse’s not used to females like me. I sit down beside the old woman, feeling horrible and helpless, but was I supposed to let her kill me? I did the best I could. Heart heavy, I dig into my bag and produce a chocolate bar. Eating it keeps me from passing out.
Jesse arrives before the medical personnel. He runs through the shop, apparently not bothered by the aversion spell that rocked me in the front of the store. I guess if you can shake it off, you belong here. His cop instincts make him clear the room before he approaches, then he kneels beside me.
“What the hell happened here?”
I give him the nutshell version of how I remembered this place and thought visiting might help. Then I explain the woman’s weird reaction and how she went after me. He can tell by looking at her she’s been hosting for a while, as that’s not good for your health, but this account won’t satisfy the authorities.
Quickly, he searches the premises, and I watch, puzzled. “What’re you doing?”
“Quiet. I’ll deal with you later.”
Hm. I like the sound of that. So I shut up, letting him do his thing.
At last he comes back, seeming relieved. “This is a break for us. There are no security cameras, so we’ll go with an unknown assailant. Caucasian male, late twenties, brown hair, no distinguishing features.” He pauses. “That’s your report, right, Ms. Cheney?”
I see where he’s going with this. That’s too general a description to convict anyone; it applies to billions of men across the country. “Absolutely. He tore up the place and scared the clerk so bad, she had some kind of seizure. I ran away from him and called you…because we’re acquainted and I thought you might come faster than 911.” I wish I could use a stronger word to describe our relationship, but I rather doubt Jesse wants me to announce that I’d give a kidney to fuck him, especially in official documents.
The EMTs race in, just as I’m concluding this version of events. Other police officers arrive as well, and they start the inquiry. Jesse tries to shield me from the worst of it, but he can’t keep the rest of the force from trying to figure out what happened. Fortunately, the shop is busted up enough that they can’t be sure what kind of goods were sold. Some of the powders and potions would probably draw strange looks if the officers were reading the labels instead of questioning me.
The ambulance takes the old woman away, and I’m left repeating my story, hoping it doesn’t sound rehearsed. I don’t have to pretend I’m shaken or that I can’t remember much because, oh my God, it all happened so fast. I’ve seen enough cop shows to be confident these guys hear that all the time from agitated witnesses.
Finally, Jesse says, “I’d like to get the cuts on her hands checked out. I’ll make sure she comes in for a follow-up interview.”
“I think we’re good, actually.” The other cop puts away his notepad. “It was probably a tweaker, looking for some fast cash. Don’t imagine he found any in a place like this. They usually knock over convenience stores.”
“Maybe he was just in the neighborhood,” Jesse says with a straight face.
The uniformed officer laughs. “Crime of opportunity? Maybe. It doesn’t sound like much planning went into this.”
Soon after, Jesse escorts me to his SUV, makes sure I buckle up, and then he drives exactly two blocks. For the first time, I notice how tightly he’s locked himself down, like if he didn’t have his hands balled into fists, he’d be screaming and punching things. Is it odd that I find this self-control insanely hot, even while I’m contemplating all the delicious ways I can make him lose it?