They spent the next day continuing north, just to make sure they were out of the font’s domain, then took a day to rest once they reached the coast, spending it sprawled out on the beach. The four opted to camp in a small cluster of massive palm-like trees, using ropes and their tents to rig up some shade for the two members of the party that wilted in the noon sun.

While they were making camp, Jack discovered the odd trees under which they’d camped and that had dotted the coast held a secret under their hardened fronds. At the center of each tree was a brilliant red core that snapped like crisp lettuce and tasted not too dissimilar to cherries. He and Rory cut down one of the giants, using its outer material for the campfire and setting out the sliced inner flesh to roast near the flames. The resulting was something with the consistency of dried pineapple and the taste of grenadine cherries, which his panel labeled “Dried Shore Palmetto Hearts”.

The rest of their afternoon was spent coaxing emperor crabs the size of hubcaps out of the water. It was easier than it sounded, as the oversized crustaceans were nearly as aggressive as their gigantic cousins the four encountered in the Dead Strand. In addition to the crabs, Jack spent some time using his shadow arms to spearfish, with only moderate success. The shadow tentacles seemed to be somewhat lackluster in direct sunlight. It was either that or that Jack had little to no experience spearfishing.

After letting the fire die down and cleaning the crabs, Jack went about cooking the crustaceans and the few fish he’d caught, wrapping them in the shore palmetto’s fronds soaked in seawater and letting the beasties slowly steam to perfection. His Cooking skill obviated the need for a timer, allowing him to sense when they were perfectly done. Once he revealed the steaming hot invertebrate and piscine feast, there was some dissension in the ranks over their lack of butter to go with dinner. At least, there was until Rory opened his Arcane Storage and produced a block of butter the size of Jack’s head.

Layla and Erin both began to prostrate themselves at Rory’s feet and yell, “We’re not worthy,” repeatedly for almost a solid minute, until he threatened to put the butter away and make them eat the loot from the Writhing Wood instead of steamed seafood. 

“You’ve outdone yourself this time, mate,” Rory smiled contentedly from where he lounged against a log in the fading rays of sunset.
“Good job with the butter. I thought the girls were gonna lynch me for a second there,” he laughed.
“Ungrateful is what it was. You spent all morning catching bloody crabs and fish and chopping down trees and drying out… whatever this mess is… It’s delicious, by the by,” Rory grumbled.
“If the worst thing that comes from that hellhole is the girls being… crabby… about some-” he was cut off as Rory groaned and threw a piece of the dried fruit at him.
“Off-sides. In the penalty box with you,” Rory scowled.

The girls returned from their impromptu trip to the tree line. Layla sat down next to Rory and put her head on his shoulder, while Erin sat down between Jack’s legs and laid against him.

“I love you, Rory,” Layla said.
“What do you want, tart?” he gave her a scowl that had all the force of a wet paper towel.
“More butter,” she smiled and fluttered her eyelashes at him.
“You do realize I’m immune to your vaginamancy, yeah?” he laughed.
“But not to my fabulousness, dumpling,” she replied.
“Dumpling is slang for people from Norfolk, El,” he bumped her.
“Where are you from again?” she turned and looked up at him.
“Ely. Little place in Cambridge. Lovely cathedral. Cromwell lived there. You know, before they buried him at Westminster, then dug him up and beheaded his corpse,” Rory waggled his eyebrows at her.
“Scandalous. The English seem to have been big on beheading back in the day. So, what do they call boys from Cambridge?” she asked.
“Rory,” he deadpanned. “Also, my mum and dad moved to the States when I was eight or so. I don’t remember much about Ely. Also, to be fair, everyone was big on beheading back in the day.”
“You been back?” Jack asked him.
“Yeah. We used to visit my nan every year, but she lives in Cambridge proper, so we only drove up to see the old place a couple of times,” he smiled. “What about you, harridan? Where are you originally from?”
“Seattle, but I was born on the ferry in Victoria,” she stuck her tongue out at him.
“Do you have the dual citizen-y thingy?” Erin asked as she munched on a fourth helping of the palmetto heart.
“Not that it matters anymore, but yeah,” she smiled. “My mom was born there, and they’re pretty generous with the ‘dual citizen-y thingy’.”
“We know Jackson’s from everything’s-bigger-ville, so that just leaves you, legs,” Layla grinned.
“I’m from Aust-” she started.
“She’s from Ducktown, Tennessee,” Jack grinned.
“You son-of-a-bitch. I told you that in confidence,” Erin’s horrified expression was a rictus of betrayal. “We moved to Austin when I was three. I move to strike any reference to Ducktown from the record.”
“Duck. Town. You’re from… duck... town? Like, a town for ducks? Or full of ducks? Like, regular sized ducks?” Layla’s comedic bloodlust was painted on her face.
“It’s just a really small town in Tennessee, okay? I don’t even remember anything about it,” she groused. “Thanks, Jackson.”
“Oh yes. Thank you, Jackson. Ok, so, legs, does being from Duck-Town give you any supernatural powers? Are you the duck whisperer? Is duck rape a big problem there?” the succubus continued.
“Layla!” Rory scolded her.
“What? Rape? Ducks are rapey. Look it up,” she blithely continued.
“Inappropriate,” Jack sighed at her.
“No, seriously. Ducks have weird corkscrew-shaped-” she started again.
“Enough, Layla. Seriously,” Jack glared at her.
“This has gone to a weird place,” Erin seemed bemused.
“For the record though, ducks are really rapey,” Jack side-eyed the others.

Rory and Erin’s heads slowly rotated to look at him while Layla tried and failed to stifle a giggle.

“My dad used to make a point of shooting the drakes that were chasing hens around,” he shrugged. “When the hens are DTF, they don’t run away. Also, in a lot of ducks, the good males stick around through the season.”
“So, your traditional back-woods southern father purposely stalked and murdered duck rapists?” Layla’s expression was filled with childlike glee.
“Said, and I quote, ‘Girl outghta be able ta choose who she takes ta the hay, even if she got feathers’,” his voice dropped and took on a gravelly, two-pack-a-day rasp.
“That’s… so amazing,” Layla mooned at him.
“He hated weasels and cats too, cause sometimes they kill for fun,” Jack smiled.
“Past tense?” Rory asked.
“Yeah, he died when I was nineteen. Massive coronary, probably from smoking for thirty years,” Jack dusted his hands off and fetched another football-sized crab claw.
“Didn’t he hunt a lot though?” Layla asked.
“Yeah, but we ate everything we killed. And I mean everything,” Jack grinned.
“That seems… gross,” Rory wrinkled his nose.
“Not if you don’t kill things you don’t want to eat,” Jack laughed.

Rory eventually produced the butter, and they continued to relax and talk through the evening until the last fading rays of sunset disappeared. Layla and Erin bedded down after helping Jack clean up dinner, and he and Rory spent some time organizing their gains from the Writhing Wood before the salesman finally gave up and passed out. It was mostly a lot of something called “Chimeric Essence”, which manifested as marble-sized bits that changed shape periodically and shifted disconcertingly from stone to amorphous solid with no notice. They’d put the essence into Rory’s storage in the hopes that it wouldn’t roll away or glom together into some kind of shapeshifting monster, and so far, the loot remained stable, if somewhat disturbing.

Other than a few curious critters and a handful of aggressive crabs, the night passed quietly. 

-----

In the morning, the four packed up and decamped, heading north with vigor. The Writhing Wood had been an ordeal, but finding another shrine had energized them. Each summoned one of the First Fruit for breakfast, finding the melon-sized divine food tasted different for each of them. For Jack, it was a dead ringer for the pears that grew in his backyard as a child. For Erin, it was the apples she’d picked with her parents every year. For Rory, the First Fruit tasted exactly like the apple jam his grandmother made back in England. Finally, the succubus insisted the divine gift tasted like watermelon jolly ranchers. She ate the whole thing in under thirty seconds.

“Can I try yours?” she eyed Rory’s half-finished fruit.
“I wonder if we can plant the seeds,” Rory ignored her.
“I ate my seeds,” Layla scowled. “They were soft and tasted sorta chocolatey.”
“Worth a try,” Jack smiled and began to pick his seeds out, collecting them in a kerchief.

He poked a hole in the gritty earth beneath them and placed one of the seeds within, then covered it and poured a splash of water from his canteen into the soil. 

“We could plant a few each day as we head north. Maybe leave a line of… huh, that’s… unexpected,” he looked down, where a sapling had pushed its way out of the ground next to his foot. The bark was a deep midnight blue with a smattering of tiny silver leaves unfurling as they watched.

“I’d say we can plant the seeds, Rory,” Jack smiled at the tiny tree.

The diminutive plant sparkled ever so slightly, a play of faint blue bioluminescence across its bark.

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