S2 Chapter 10: In the Shadow of an Apple Tree

AQUILO Season 2 Chapter 10

In the shadow of an apple tree. Big, tall letters wear a lilac hue in the early morning. The sweet smell of apples and wood rises from the ground, conjured by the warmth of the rising sun. For the first time since coming here, I notice how faded the paint on the side of the repurposed barn really is. The aged maroon is sun-bleached and the white is stained and chipped.

I'd never given thought to how long the figs have been growing apples and brewing cider. Olivia looks to be in her late fifties, and Henry... I can't put an age on Henry, but he might as well be from a previous century. Olivia would never let slip about who the figs really are. A year ago in Montreal, if someone had laid such a thick layer of mystery over a family, I'd have said they were hiding a criminal history.

In Akewillow? Who the hell knows what that could mean? Putting aside the impact of all I experienced yesterday, I finally indulged in a full night's sleep. Not a moment of it was as restful as I wanted, and each moment was earned with one of a half dozen interruptions. Nightmares and sobbing fits fought over my slumber like dogs over a bone.

Panic attacks and sheer terror were the crowd cheering them on. But I've slept, and compared to the previous two days, I'm as bright-eyed and bushy-tailed as a spring squirrel. And I'm going to need it. Olivia's shown that she's capable of some tough love, and in the list of people on whose bad side I would not want to get, she sits near the top. I'm glad she's in my camp, because she's a great friend.

but also because she'd be a formidable enemy. She told me to keep Henry out of my business with Agnes, and I intend to respect her wishes. But she said nothing about keeping her out of it. I push the doorbell and I can hear the retro sounds of old chimes singing their song through the door. A furtive look behind reminds me how fresh the day is. Good for me. The figs tend to rise with dawn.

A side effect of running an orchard, I suppose. Besides, I don't have a choice. Olivia said she had an early day. I want to say good morning, she says as a manner of greeting. But I'm going to wait to hear what gives me the pleasure of your visit first. I go through the whole song and dance of avoiding her eyes, fiddling with the hem of my shirt and stuttering before I give an answer. I need help.

I know you said not to involve Henry, but I think I'm in over my head, and I don't know who else to ask. Mm-hmm, Olivia says, her emotions and intentions reserved. She's chewing up my answer. her mind like a closed mouth and her thoughts like teeth tearing at my intentions, extracting the flavor, judging the taste, coming to a decision. Good morning.

We walk through the dusty rows of metal kegs in the fig's barn. I've never gone behind the walls of their cider-making operation, behind those big, white letters. It's quaint and almost cozy. The wood panel walls and high windows lend a rustic comfort to the large space, but the obvious temperature-controlled warehouse and brewery have the guts of a modern operation. There's the familiar door to a cold room.

one where I can assume stores of ingredients and finished products are kept. A small manual bottling machine rests under a plastic sheet in the back, next to a bucket of metal caps. On the wall, there are images of the fig cidery and orchard, along with early examples of their logo that now adorn bottles of cider, jars of sauce, and boxes of pies.

I really wish I could tell you more than you already know, Miriam. Olivia is gathering papers into a worn leather attaché. It looks like an older version of the ones used by Orléans in Alessandria, the Inquisition. She's preparing for work, getting ready to take her small, powder-blue sedan on the road to visit bars, restaurants, and bistros in the area to sell them on her products. I've already helped her carry a couple of cases of cider and put them in the trunk.

Anything would be helpful. Doris must have talked about the demon while she was alive. Did she mention if there's any other way to keep it from killing? Or just slow it down a week so I have time to figure something out? Doris did talk about the demon. Like you, she wanted my help. But what do I know about demons? My only weapon against hunger is pies and crumbles. What about Mayor Byrne? She closed a hell gate.

Maybe that's where the demon is from. Maybe she knows a way to send it back. Olivia shakes her head, an apologetic smile on her face. She taps a stack of papers on a desk to straighten them. lifting up a small cloud of dust in the process. The mayors of Aquilo have their own sacred duties, and I doubt they'll want to take on any more. But people are going to die. Young women are going to die.

Women like Clara and Anais and Candace are going to go missing and be found eviscerated. The only thing I know can stop them are magic cakes that I'm no longer sure I can bake properly. How can Olivia be so cavalier? She's one of the few people in Aquilo aware of the exact nature of the threat we're facing, but this is just another early workday for her. I would rather they don't.

she says, buckling her attaché closed. But it's not in my hands. What about Henry? Olivia freezes in place. She looks up from her desk to me, her features dark as bruised apples. She frowns with the kind of menace I've never seen from her. She's suddenly a mother hen ready to fight a fox to protect her chicks. She lifts her attache from the table and lets it rest by her side as she carries it towards the door.

Henry has nothing to do with this, and we are going to do everything in our power to keep it that way. Do we understand each other, child? No, we do not understand each other at all. I want to tell her that I have no idea what she could possibly be talking about. The only reason I'm asking about Henry is because he showed up at Agnes and Peter's place when it was my idea to spy on them.

and because Olivia won't stop insisting that I keep him out of my business. Why? I ask, desperation fueling a defiance that I rarely bring to the surface. Does he know anything that could help? I don't need him to participate directly in anything. Just any crumb of information could save lives. Olivia hesitates in her impatience. Her stone facade falters, the stoic determination wavering under my pummeling of words. It could save my life. There. One final blow of the chisel.

and the granite mask cracks and crumbles. We reach her car, and Olivia, defeated by the threat that the danger could reach not just some random girl in Akewillow, but me, the great-grandniece of her dear friend, breaks through. Fine, she relents. I'll cut you a deal. She allows the promise to linger between us while she unlocks her door, sets her leather attache on the floor of the vehicle, sits down, buckles up, and starts the engine.

Warm air blows out of her open window, pushed out by the car's air conditioning. The morning sun reaches over the roof of the barn, bathing us with bright light and obscuring the name of Fig Orchard on the wall. You've got to promise me. You will not ask why or how, and you will not involve me or Henry any further. Do I make myself perfectly clear? Aquilo mom is leaving no room for interpretation.

Whatever it is she's going to tell comes with conditions, yes, but it's her tone that paints a dark portrait of her seriousness. I've seen Olivia be flippant about demons and ghosts, talking about both like one would describe the weather, or maybe an irritating bird. Whatever it is she's offering to divulge, she does so with dramatic care. Clear as a summer sky, I assure her. Good, she says before clearing her throat.

There's something in Aquilo that a lot of people would like to get their hands on. The Inquisition wants it, and other, even less savory individuals would positively kill for it. It's at City Hall. You might have already seen it and probably didn't even give a damn when you did. And it's one of two things that might help with the hunger demon. What the hell could it be? I mentally trace my steps from the last time I went to City Hall.

It's a strange building, with a small courthouse and counters for all sorts of municipal business, from the handling of permits, issuing of documents, and paying of tickets and fines. Everything is doubled up in mirror images. It's one of five buildings in town that sits on the national divide, the Aquilo Cafe being another. The decor is old, with a lot of varnished wood banisters, tiled floors, and high ceilings that feature elaborate crown moldings.

Bisecting the first floor is a long, wide corridor with blue and red lines running parallel down the middle. At the end, the office of the mayors and their staff, and, inside a glass case hanging from the wall, there's a sword. It looks old, dusty, and forgotten, like any of a hundred paintings, plaques, and flags that also adorn the walls. The sword? Mm-hmm, Olivia answers. That can kill a demon.

assuming you can stab it before it stabs you. She reaches out of her car and pokes my stomach, just around where the scar in my abdomen is located. Again, she adds for emphasis. I try to imagine myself locked in mortal combat with a supernatural nemesis, parrying blows and striking ripostes with an enchanted blade in my hand, apron flapping in the wind as lightning tears the sky above the forest.

And it's the single most ridiculous image my brain has ever conjured. I've seen the beast at its worst, tearing through the Aquilo cafe, exhibiting preternatural strength and agility. The monster may be slow when sniffing around for a meal, but it's fast as a jackal when fighting. My belly aches at the memory of what even a second of one-on-one combat reaped for me. No.

My sword is a wooden spoon and my battlefield a kitchen. When I walk into the woods behind the cafe, the battle must have already been won. The offering of enchanted cake but a formality. Literally the dessert at the end of the meal.

What's the other thing? Her brown eyes catch the sun as they stare into me. Their dark chocolate hue is lit up to an almost burning orange. I bet she can read my very soul right now, and what she finds there, well, that's nothing I want to be proud of. The other thing that can stop that demon is the same goddamn thing that's been stopping it for ten months. But the Petit Four don't work anymore. I've been telling her this for days. I saw it with my own eyes.

For weeks now, the hunger demon has been circling my cakes longer and longer before consuming them and their power. Last time, it ignored the Petit Four completely, satisfied to eat another monster instead. Not your cakes, Miriam. You. Stupid, useless Olivia. I go to her for help and she gives me a pep talk. Me.

The power was inside of you all along, I think to myself in a mocking tone. The only power inside of me is the one to make feasts for kings and celebrities. What I need is the secrets of the Dufour women who came before me. I need a solid understanding of the mechanics that make pistachio marzipan petit four a food capable of feeding the unfeedable. I need to understand how a supernaturally starving demon can be sated for a full week by consuming only one of the cakes.

while Agnes, who weighs about as much as a wet cat, can eat five in a row and still hunger. There has to be more than intent and willpower. I've been pouring the kind of intent only the purest of terror can boil up into them. but they've been getting weaker with every attempt. I have to go home and take care of this. Pore over Doris's recipe grimoire, tear apart her kitchen, do anything and everything to unlock whatever secret of hers I missed.

But just as I'm about to turn the corner onto Rue Principal, my phone buzzes from my pocket. The weather has been scorching today, and the walk back from Olivia's home like a stroll through a furnace. This is how sun-dried tomatoes feel, except I'm anything but dry. The air is thick with humidity, and my clothes are soaked with the sweat of a long walk. Ms. Dufour?

Detective L'Amour's soft voice asks through an electronic filter. Detective? No one wants to get a personal call from the cops. Especially not a detective. While I know L'Amour is a customer, I've said it before, we're not friends. Considering the tone on which we parted last time he was at the Aquilo, I doubt this is a social call. What I'm saying is...

It's never good news when the authorities are on the line. I have good news I thought you might want to hear. Right. Make me a liar then, why don't you? I stop and look around. deserted streets down the way I came, and deserted streets between me and my destination. Aquilo has gotten sleepier and sleepier in the last week, and while I think I know the cause, suspicions are a far cry from a solution.

Good news? That would be a welcome change. The words are almost more meant for me than they are for him. Theodore LaRiviere is awake. The run down Rue Principale and all the way to the hospital should have been agony. Already weary from walking to and from the fig orchard, scorched by an unforgiving sun on the way back, dehydrated and sunburnt, breaking into a sprint should have been the end of me.

Annette might have come close. He's coherent, and his physician wants to keep him under observation, but since you're the one who found him, I wanted you to know. L'Amour's words repeat themselves in my ear as I walk through the automatic door of the modest Aquilo hospital. A rush of mechanically cooled air envelopes me, summoning goose flesh all over my skin and sending a chill up my spine.

I half expect my cornea to fog up, like the glass doors of the frozen section at the grocery store when they're open for too long. I'm no family member, and Teddy is a minor, but Lamour says he's talked to Ms. LaRiviere and she knows I'm dropping by. After all, if what the detective told me is true, Teddy asked for me by name when he woke up. Ms. Dufour? Elodie LaRiviere looks like she's in her late 20s and has her life together.

Jeans, shorts to fit the weather, and a pretty summer blouse to match. Her short, auburn hair is held in place by an honest-to-God ribbon, and her sneakers are as white as the day is hot. She's everything I'm not and looks like nothing in her life has trained her for what she's gone through in the last two days. Hi, Elodie. Instincts take over and my arms open up.

If I don't know Detective L'Amour, I know Ms. LaRiviere even less. For most of my time in Aquilo, she was the manager at the grocery store. Until this summer, when she graduated to Teddy's mom. She's otherwise an infrequent patron, though always a pleasant one. Now she's hugging me like a long-lost sister. It's uncomfortable and awkward, yet...

It replenishes a pool of energy that I didn't realize was running dry. I'm so sorry about what happened to Teddy, I say, going through the motions, but feeling them genuinely nonetheless. Is he doing okay?

Do you know what happened? She takes my hand in hers and starts walking me towards the elevator. The corridor and small ER are both filled with people. The citizens of Aquilo who should be wandering the streets, filling up businesses and occupying my coffee shop, are all here. Most of them are taking a nap on the uncomfortable-looking chairs of the reception area.

there are even some sitting on the ground napping with their hands over their chests and their heads down he looks fine but he doesn't remember much The doctors want to send him to Montreal for an MRI, but he insisted on talking to you. Elodie's hands squeeze mine, crushing my knuckles against each other, grinding them painfully. Why does he want to talk to you? She asks, and I can hear the suspicion in her voice. I... I don't know. And I don't. But I have my own fears.

They're vague worries like formless shadows barely seen at twilight. They could be nothing, or they could be the worst thing, but there's no way of knowing until light is cast on the shadows. The last person I saw with Teddy was Peter. The last time I saw Peter was with Helen. And there was something about his smile. Something evil and gross. Maybe... maybe you can get him to tell us what happened. He won't tell me, and he won't tell the detective. Teddy's been given his own room.

Unlike Michael Valencia and a dozen others who are stuffed together on this floor, the boy has been given his own space. Also unlike Michael, he's still got monitoring equipment plugged into him, along with the ever-present IV. The curtains to his window are closed, leaving only a slim line of the day's sun spilling onto the floor and bed, like so much pale honey. The mix of darkness and light.

Stark shadows and shallow breathing brings me back to two nights ago in the alley. I remember seeing Teddy on the ground, displayed out on the asphalt. I could tell he landed on his arm by the way it stretched out in front of him. bloody from breaking his fall. Like now, he looked so very fragile. The boundless energy that would burst out of him like it does any healthy 12-year-old, having been sucked out. Hey, buddy.

I whisper. Part of me expects his reaction to be full of vigor. This is the boy who bounces off the wall whenever I promise him cookies and soda in exchange for an errand. I've dismissed L'Amour and Elodie as not friends because our relationship is so much more business and acquaintance, a mix of polite civilities. But when it comes to Teddy, I'm glad to say he's a friend. The fact that he's a kid be damned.

Hey. He seems to hesitate, looking for something. My name? Miriam. He looks tiny in his bed. Where Michael filled the sheets and was snug between the railings, I could fit two boys like Teddy in there. His arm is bandaged up, wrapped with gauze and tape. He's a pitiful sight to behold, but his smile speaks of the sort of innocent courage only children are capable of, strong in the face of adversity because they don't know any better, or because they understand something we forget with age.

How you doing there? I ask him that while sitting in the chair next to the bed. I'm tired, he says, repeating a theme I've heard and seen all over town. A spark of anger flares within me towards Agnes. Was going after Teddy, doing whatever it is she does, her way of getting revenge on me for firing her? Good thing you're already in bed then.

I stick my tongue out at him, highlighting the joke. He responds in kind. What happened? I don't remember. Peter had me help him put tape on the walls of the house he's working on. Peter's name stings to hear, but I push the memory of last night aside, unwilling or incapable of processing it for now. I nod for Teddy to continue. He gave me a $10 bill, and I remember leaving, and I think someone was following me, so I ducked into the alleys because I know them real well, and then he trails off.

struggling to put together his memories of the night. Take your time. I'm not going anywhere. There was a thing, like someone, but with huge bat wings, and they snuck up behind me and... And that's it. That's all I remember. Batwing? Like a vampire? Teddy shakes his head as if I'd made the most ridiculous claim he'd ever heard. Right.

No such thing as a vampire. He shakes his head again, more vigorously this time. Mr. Fig hunts vampires, he says, as matter of fact is Olivia warning me about demons in the alley. My whole face tightens into a knot as I struggle to keep some composure. Right. Vampires. Agnes is a day-walking vampire. That might actually explain a few things. So... There are vampires, I ask for clarity. No, Teddy insists. There are no vampires in Aquilo. A familiar refrain.

How do you know that there are no vampires in Aquilo? I told you, because of Mr. Fig. I must have sounded like an absolute nutcase when I asked the nurse on my way out if Teddy had any teeth or bite marks on his body. The only answer I received was a look of curious worry.

This is the kind of information reserved for investigators looking into Teddy's disappearance and what happened to him. By the sound of it, the exhaustion, loss of consciousness, and dehydration, the eventual conclusion is going to be heat stroke. No one seems bothered that so many people are suffering similar symptoms. No one is even asking if perhaps there's some kind of flu or disease going around.

Certainly no one is theorizing that this could all be the work of a vampire masquerading as a young girl. Or, and I have to keep in mind that this is a very real possibility, That last theory is a figment of a young boy's hyperactive imagination. Yet, I can't shake the idea of Agnes. Bitter and vengeful, stalking Teddy as he leaves the house Peter is working on, the perfect target to reap her vengeance on both her brother and I. As for the best, he doesn't remember anything.

I hate to imagine what being attacked by a blood-sucking creature of the night might be like. If that's the case, though, why wouldn't Olivia allow Henry to hunt down Agnes? Unless... Unless Olivia is also under her spell. It would explain why she pushed to have me hire her and was so resentful when I let her go.

All the pieces are falling together at last. I may not have a full picture yet, but for the first time since Peter and Agnes came through the front door of the Aquilo, a vague image is taking shape. I walk through the front door of the café.

My mind racing, hungry to dig into Doris's recipe book and see if I might find anything in there that relates to vampires and bloodsuckers. Muscle memory makes me pick up and tie Doris's apron around my waist. Her wooden spoon is in the pocket, along with the notepad I used to take orders when they get particularly complicated. There's always that one guy who wants double mint espresso iced coffee with half soy milk and half almond milk or something.

I'm about to lock myself in the kitchen with the grimoire of recipes when I see it. Well, it's been a while. From the shelf where I keep the boxes of table salt, a few have been knocked down. One even burst open. spreading its content all over the tiles. In the white dusting of salt, I can see paw prints that have become so very familiar in the last few months. The raccoons haven't done this in a very long time.

Not since I managed to tame the hunger demon with my petite four. I try to swallow hard, but the little saliva I can summon from my dry mouth gets stuck in my throat. Have I already run out of time? Only one way to find out, isn't there? I don't know what I'm going to face by stepping out of the cafe. The day aged while I was at the hospital, and then walking around pretending to run errands, mulling over what Teddy told me.

Separating reality from fiction felt impossible, especially not here, not in Aquilo. Whatever it is I find, or that finds me, I refuse to face it unarmed. I may not have a magic sword at my disposal, tucked away in a pretty glass case, but I have a fillet knife. In a quick motion, I pluck the thin blade from the knife block. It's the same weapon I first brought with me to Aquilo.

when I still thought Gulliver might be a serial killer. It stayed with me in my bag, all the way from Montreal, and for several days after, only coming to its permanent home in the kitchen when I was sure no one was trying to kill me. No one human, at least. Tucking the knife into my apron pocket, I step outside to the back of the cafe. This is a familiar battleground for me.

While I've been using it as more of a confessional, pouring my heart out to a raccoon who probably doesn't understand the sounds I'm making, it's where I first encountered the hunger demon. It's where I first saw the gruesome results of its feeding, and where I received my first injury at its hands. As expected, there's a circle of salt and an empty box next to one of the dumpsters.

The raccoons know, and they've prepared. I walk over to the dumpster and crouch to pick up the box. They must have grabbed the one that was already open because the box is empty and the circle is incomplete. The circle is incomplete. Terror, like a spider made of ice, crawls up the length of my spine, spreading cold fear through my muscles on its way to my neck. Like a diver.

Spotting a dorsal fin cutting through the surface of the water, I struggle to find a way to safety. Instead of a boat, I look to the door of the Aquilo.

My head swivels back and forth as panic gets the better of me, only stopping at the sound of a familiar hiss. It's here. The Don, the biggest of the raccoons, is sticking his head out of the dumpster. looking past me and baring his teeth in a snarl it's right behind me isn't it i ask not expecting much of an answer but the dawn sticks his head out further

holding on to the rim of the dumpster with his forepaws, growling fiercely at whatever is creeping at my back. My hand slips into the pocket of my apron, closing on the handle of my fillet knife, clutching the utensil in a stone-like grip. In what I imagine to be a graceful, powerful movement, I swing the blade out of my apron, cutting the air around in an arc behind me. I feel resistance as my weapon finds purchase. However, the target I hit...

remains unfazed. To my horror, my worst fears are confirmed. Sight and smell are simultaneously assaulted by the gruesome creature's presence. Skin like a drowned corpse, and its face dominated by a bottomless mouth the hunger demon seems built to consume. Only at the level of its abdomen does the design fail, having no stomach or intestines through which it can digest whatever it manages to eat.

It swings at me, and I attempt to parry the strike, but it's not the fillet knife I fished out of my pocket. It's Doris's spoon. And it shatters under the impact. For a brief second, grief takes a hold of me. Spoons are an important heirloom for the Dufour women. The spoons of all Doris's predecessors hang on the wall of the café. Each is as different from the other as a fingerprint.

They're a lasting testament to their personalities. I'd never given any thought to how attached I'd become to Doris's spoon. It's the extension of her that made my great-grandaunt feel present in my life. Now, it's lying on the cooling gray asphalt behind the cafe, splintered and broken, much like I'm likely to be in a few moments. I fumble in my apron pocket, hoping beyond hope that I can maybe grab the... My already speeding heart skips a beat. Something hit the dumpster behind me.

I can't, in my panicked state of mind, imagine that the raccoons created that kind of sound. Even when I've slammed the cover of the dumpster, making a deafening metallic fracas, it was never near that loud. The hunger demon is just as surprised as I am, moving its eyes from me to whatever threat made the sound. I can see it a little from the corner of my eye.

The shadow of the dumpster and the thing standing on it, cast by the porch light. Putting reason and safety aside, I pull my gaze from the danger in front to assess the one behind. The shape of leathery wings cuts a deadly silhouette across the sky, stretching almost a dozen feet in the air. A smell of sweet sweat and crushed roses compete with the stench of rotting meat emanating from the hunger demon.

Crouched atop the dumpster is a different kind of monster. Instead of causing nightmarish revulsion, this creature inspires dangerous attraction. It's... Beautiful in ways that my mind can't come to grasp with. Words too slippery to find purchase. It's enthralling. crouched onto itself but slowly rising up in emotion that I can only describe as lustful. Feminine in ways I've only seen in magazines, but with a touch of something animal, the creature appears naked.

with pale lavender skin and veins running in crimson at all strategic locations. Her eyes are globes of pure gold, shiny and soulful. Her hair is raven with hints of violet in the light. She's riveting. She's the personification of forbidden passion. She's... She's Agnes. Aquilo is written by J.F. Dubot and narrated and produced by me, Amy Frost. If you enjoy the show, please leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. You have no idea how much it helps.

Want to support the show? Buy us a coffee. Visit ko-fi.com slash Aquilo to donate a cup. Questions? Comments? Email us at aquilo at gmail dot com. Follow us on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram under the username AQUILO.