Sweet Poison Wine

  Sweet Poison Wine

  by

  Seanan McGuire

  Buckley Township, Michigan, 1932

  The mice surrounded the crib in a ring three-deep, watching raptly as the baby slept. Occasionally, he would kick his little feet or scrub at his face with a tiny fist. Every time this happened, the mice would give a muted cheer, pitched softly enough not to wake him.

  Fran stood in the doorway, her travel valise clutched in one hand and an anxious expression on her face. “I’m just not sure he’s ready for this.”

  “Daniel will be fine,” said Enid firmly, taking her daughter-in-law by the elbow and steering her away from the room. “Alex and I have plenty of experience with infants. He’s two months old, and that’s plenty old enough to spend a few days with his grandparents while his mama and papa go off and have their honeymoon.”

  “But—”

  “The mice will be here too, and you know they’d never let anything happen to that little boy. They’d die before they let him come to harm.”

  Fran’s face twisted, like she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to smile or scowl. “Rodent babysitters aren’t exactly the norm, Enid.”

  “In this family, they are.” Enid continued to guide Fran down the hall. “You and Johnny are married now. You deserve a little time alone with each other to figure out exactly what that means.”

  “But—” This time, Fran cut herself off before Enid could do it for her. “I’m just not sure that I’m ready for this.”

  “You’re not.” Enid let go of Fran’s elbow when they reached the top of the stairs, smiling at the younger woman. “Here’s a secret, though: you never will be. He’ll grow up a little more every day until it’s you wiping away tears at the back of the wedding hall, and you still won’t be ready. So right now what you need to do is go on your honeymoon, and trust that between me, Alex, and the mice, we can keep a baby intact for a week.”

  Slowly, Fran began to nod. “I was taught that it’s rude to argue with my elders,” she said. “I guess that means I ought to listen.”

  “I guess it does,” agreed Enid. “Now get your behind down the stairs before the train leaves without you.”

  Only stealing one glance back at the bedroom where her infant son was sleeping—attended by a congregation of worshipful mice—Frances Healy laughed and went running down the stairs.

  Enid followed more sedately, shaking her head and smiling to herself. She couldn’t fault her daughter-in-law for her reluctance, or for her eagerness to get away for a little while, now that she was certain it was allowed. Fran had been too pregnant to see her own toes during the wedding, and while Enid would never dream of prying, she was quite sure that couldn’t have made for a satisfactory wedding night. And then Daniel had shown up, just as pretty as you please, and he hadn’t made things any easier, being a baby and all. Even the best baby in the world exists to make sure its parents don’t get any private time together, and Daniel was rather fonder of screaming his head off than some of the babies Enid had known. That was Fran’s side of the family showing through.

  Jonathan was waiting at the base of the stairs, his own bag next to his feet. He was dressed in his usual traveling attire: a plain brown suit that neither drew nor obviously deflected attention, sensible shoes, and a simple trilby hat. The suit had been fitted to him, naturally, and was designed to conceal a multitude of weapons, along with the garrote hidden in the hat brim and the spare knives in the shoes. Jonathan had been born and raised a Healy. He knew better than to go anywhere unarmed.

  At the moment, however, he didn’t look like a man who was thinking about weapons, or much of anything else for that matter. He was watching Fran come down the stairs and smiling to himself, and if anyone had ever questioned whether Enid Healy’s dour little boy could grow up to love a woman, that expression would have answered them right on the spot.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” Fran said, stepping off the last step. “I had to get my throwing knives.”

  Jonathan raised an eyebrow, studying her. Fran’s travelling clothes consisted of a blue cotton sundress under a white wool sweater, sensible heels, and a broad-brimmed straw hat. Finally, he asked, “Where did you put them?”

  “I’ll show you in Chicago,” said Fran, and linked her arm through his.

  Outside, Alexander Healy—who was driving them to Ann Arbor to meet their train, or would be, assuming they ever made it out to the truck—honked the horn. Jonathan sighed and looked up the stairs toward Enid.

  “I suppose we’re off,” he said. “We’ll be at the Carmichael Hotel if you need us for any reason. We can be home almost immediately, if—”

  “Johnny.” He stopped talking, run aground on the calm beach of his mother’s voice. Enid descended the stairs, arms crossed, looking at him levelly. “There won’t be any problems, and as I’ve just reassured Fran, your father and I know how to keep a baby alive. Now get out of here before he wakes up and you lose your nerve.” She made a small shooing gesture. “I’m serious. Get. I don’t want to see you for a week.”

  “But—”

  “Get.”

  “Come on, city boy.” Fran tugged him toward the door. “I think she’ll start throwing things next.”

  “See you in a week, Mother,” said Jonathan, as he allowed himself to be tugged.

  “Stay longer if you want to!” Enid waved, and kept waving until the pair was safely outside, leaving her alone in the house with her grandson, and the mice. She dropped her hand and sat down on the stair behind her, letting out a small sigh of relief. The kids would have their honeymoon.

  No matter what might come next—and she’d been dealing with the cryptid world for long enough to know that there was always something coming next—the kids would have their honeymoon. That was good enough for her.

  Enid Healy closed her eyes, leaning sideways against the wall, and listened for the sound of her grandson waking up.

  The train ride from Ann Arbor to Chicago took a little under eleven hours, during which time they did not punch through into any parallel dimensions, were not attacked by imps or sprites of any kind, and did not have to share the private car that Jonathan’s parents had so thoughtfully hired for them. Instead, they spent the first hour carefully searching through their bags to be sure that Jonathan’s plea for a mouse-free honeymoon had been obeyed.

  “I think we’re in the clear,” said Fran, finally beginning to refold her clothing.

  “There’s only one test left to perform.” Jonathan stood up a little straighter, cleared his throat, and said, “I truly wish to learn the Catechism of the Well-Groomed Priestess.”

  Silence answered this statement. Silence, and staring on the part of Fran, who was looking at him like he’d just grown a second head.

  After waiting a full minute, Jonathan nodded. “Either we’re alone, or they’ve sent us a mute mouse. In either case, I declare this the closest we may ever have to privacy.”

  “Who in the hell is the ‘Well-Groomed Priestess’?” asked Fran. “I thought Enid was the Patient Priestess.”

  “She is, and you’re the Violent Priestess,” said Jonathan. “Remember that the mice have been with us for generations. My grandmother, Caroline, was the Well-Groomed Priestess. The mice learned quite a few tips on hair and wardrobe maintenance from her.”

  “And see, I wondered why they had so many opinions on shampoo.” Fran closed her valise with a snap. “I guess it really is just you and me, city boy. Back on the road together.”

  “Ah, but this time, our destination is not a horrible flesh-rending creature of the night,” said Jonathan, sitting back down. Fran promptly moved to perch in his lap. He smiled as he slipped his arms around her
waist. “Nor is it a biological oddity that demands my full attention.”

  “I’m pretty odd,” said Fran, and kissed him.

  The next ten hours seemed to pass with remarkable speed. Before they knew it, the conductor was calling ten minutes to Chicago, and the train was beginning to slow, the landscape outside becoming more and more defined. Fran moved to press her nose against the window while Jonathan was still doing up his trousers.

  “It’s so big,” she marveled. “People really live here? Like this?”

  “Since I doubt they maintain the whole place solely for the benefit of tourists, yes, I’m reasonably sure that people live here.”

  Fran turned around and hit him with her hat.

  Jonathan laughed as he pulled it from her hands and replaced it on her head. “I mean, yes, absolutely, my love, people live here. Happy, well-content people whom we will now go and visit in their natural habitat, which is absolutely not a sham.”

  “Why did I marry you again?”

  “To be honest, Fran, I have no idea. But I am thankful every single day that you did.”

  Fran grinned at him. “Wait until we’ve been married a little longer, and then I’ll be impressed to hear you say that.”

  “I intend to say it every day until I die.” Jonathan stood, moving to the cabin’s small vanity mirror in order to adjust his tie. “The Carmichael Hotel is very nice. I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  “You keep saying that, and every time, I get a little bit more suspicious.” Fran removed her hat again, this time to finger-comb her hair and twist it back into a vague semblance of the tidy curls she’d started the trip with. “What’s wrong with the place? Is it owned by vampires or something?”

  “Don’t be silly, Fran, vampires don’t exist.”

  “Says the man who had to search his luggage for talking mice.” Fran put her hat back on and folded her arms. “What’s wrong with our hotel?”

  “The mice have already turned Daniel’s conception into a holy ritual; did you really want them to come along on our honeymoon?” Jonathan picked up his trilby, removing a piece of lint from the brim. “As for the hotel, it’s owned by a very pleasant family that has lived in Chicago for several generations now.”

  “Mmm-hmm. And they are...?”

  “What makes you so very sure they’re not human?”

  “I’ve met you, I’ve met your family, I’ve gone traveling with you before. It seems like the only time I see other humans is when I go into town to do the shopping.” The train shuddered to a stop, and the voice of the conductor shouting out the station drifted in from the hall. “Now what are they?”

  “Gorgons,” said Jonathan, and opened the cabin door, stopping Fran’s protests before they could properly begin. Oh, no one would think anything of it if they heard her discussing mythology with her husband, but she knew better than to make a scene by arguing with him in public. Attracting attention at the very start of their honeymoon would just make it more likely that something would try to kill them before they were ready to go home.

  That didn’t stop her from glaring as she took his elbow, squeezing a little too tightly in the process. Jonathan winced. Fran bared her teeth in the semblance of a smile.

  “That sounds lovely, dear,” she said. “Let’s go meet your friends.”

  “Yes, let’s,” he said, and led her off the train into the city of Chicago.

  As Jonathan had expected, Fran’s annoyance had managed to last until they caught their cab outside the station, and she was distracted by the city itself. Chicago was a city more than capable of distracting visitors and residents alike, but for Fran, who had grown up in the west and then moved to the wilds of rural Michigan, it might as well have been the marvelous Land of Oz. The buildings were taller, the streets were more crowded, and the people were more fabulously dressed, moving along the sidewalks like a dozen types of exotic bird. Fran pressed her nose against the glass, still holding onto Jonathan’s arm—only now she was holding onto an anchor, not trying to express her sharp-nailed displeasure.

  The cabbie chuckled, watching them in his rearview mirror. “Where are you kids in from?” he asked.

  “Ann Arbor,” said Jonathan. “It’s our honeymoon.”

  “Aw, that’s sweet. Chicago is for lovers.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  The cabbie chuckled again, pulling off the main thoroughfare and onto a narrower street, following it until the flat mirror of the lake became visible between the buildings. He pulled to a stop in front of a four-story brownstone that looked like any other business, save for the discreet sign above the door that read “Carmichael Hotel.”

  “I wondered if anyone ever stayed here,” he said. “How’s the lodging?”

  “Terrible,” said Jonathan. “The beds are hard, the food is atrocious, and there are mice.”

  The cabbie twisted in his seat to frown as he took the cash that Jonathan was offering him. “Then if you don’t mind my asking, why in the world would you bring such a beautiful young woman here for her honeymoon? Miss, if you decide you need to find yourself a better husband, you just look me up.”

  “I’m thinkin’ about it right now, believe me,” said Fran, who was eyeing Jonathan with frank disbelief.

  “The owners are friends of my father,” said Jonathan. “We’ve made a reservation for the weekend, to keep everyone happy, but we’re actually going to be in town for a week. We’ll be moving to a nicer hotel as soon as we’ve fulfilled our familial obligations.”

  “Ah,” said the cabbie, understanding lighting his face. “Family’s hard sometimes. Well, you have a wonderful time, and Miss, please don’t judge our city by this rat-trap.”

  “I’ll do my very best not to,” said Fran primly, and slid out of the cab, with Jonathan close behind. They retrieved their luggage from the trunk. Jonathan retrieved his change from the driver. And they stood outside the hotel, watching, as the cab pulled away.

  Once they were alone, Fran slanted a look Jonathan’s way. He smiled a little. “Yes, I was lying,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because cabbies talk. It’s what they do. And one of the things they like to talk about is where people can stay when they come to visit the city.” Jonathan picked up his suitcase and started for the hotel door. Fran paced him. “The Carmichael doesn’t need the business, and most of the people who would be likely to hear about the place wouldn’t be very happy if they came to stay here. They’d probably have the experience I just described.”

  “But we won’t?” asked Fran dubiously.

  “No, we won’t,” he said, and opened the door for her. “After you.”

  Still eyeing him dubiously, Fran stepped into the lobby of the Carmichael Hotel.

  It was a small, plain room, better suited to a tailor’s shop or bus station than a hotel. The wallpaper was old and faded, and the furniture looked like it would fall to pieces if someone sat down on it with too much force. There was a receiving desk, but there was no one there. Jonathan kissed her cheek as he walked past her and rang the tarnished brass bell.

  “This isn’t building my confidence, Johnny,” she said.

  “Have patience.” A minute ticked by while Fran glared at the furniture and Jonathan waited. Finally, he rang the bell again, this time waiting only a few seconds before he rang it a third time.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming,” snarled an irritable female voice. A plump young woman with tinted green spectacles and a kerchief tied over her head emerged from the door behind the desk, glowering at the pair like they had inconvenienced her beyond all reason. Her features were strong and Greek, matching her olive skin, but she had no visible hair—not even eyebrows. “What do you want?”

  “A room, please,” said Jonathan.

  “We’re full,” snapped the woman.

  “We have a reservation.”

  “We lost it.”

  “It’s under the name ‘Healy.’”

  The woman’s demeanor changed insta
ntly, scowl becoming a smile that lit up her entire face. “Johnny? Johnny Healy?” she demanded.

  “The very same,” he said. “This is my lovely wife, Frances.”

  “Hello,” said Fran suspiciously. “You would be...?”

  The woman kept smiling as she said, “My name’s Asta Kalakos. This is my family’s place, and any wife of Jonathan’s is welcome here.”

  “Asta, really?” Jonathan asked, sounding delighted. “You grew up!”

  “So did you,” Asta replied. “My father will be thrilled to see you. Please, come with me.” She gestured for them to step behind the counter. Jonathan offered Fran his hand. After only a moment’s hesitation she took it, and they followed the kerchiefed girl as she walked back through the door she had used to enter.

  The hallway on the other side was virtually featureless, with a splintery bare wood floor and wallpaper so filthy that it made Fran’s skin crawl.

  “Isn’t it a little odd to leave your lobby unattended?” asked Fran.

  “Oh, it would be, if that was the lobby,” said Asta. “Here we are.” She stopped at a large oak door that looked entirely out of place in its surroundings. “Welcome to the Carmichael Hotel,” she said, and pushed the door open to reveal an opulently decorated lobby that looked like it took up the better part of the ground floor.

  “Oh my word...” breathed Fran.

  Grinning, Jonathan took her arm and led her inside, past the smug-looking Asta.

  The décor was perhaps thirty years out of date, calling back to an era of decadence and plenty. The walls were draped with gold and brown velvet, and the carpet was so plush that even Fran’s sensible heels sank deep every time she stepped down. Small conversation nooks had been formed near the bar and the fireplace; their occupants looked up, tensing when they saw the young couple, only to relax again when they realized that Asta was following them.

  A young woman who could have been Asta’s twin was standing behind the wide mahogany desk. She was wearing a brown and gold uniform that matched the lobby. That was not, however, what properly held Fran’s attention, or caused her to tighten her grasp on Jonathan’s arm to a painful degree.