Chapter 6: The Garden's Teeth
The heavy oak door groaned shut behind them, muffling the garden's furious thuds against the shutter. The sudden silence in the hallway felt thick, oppressive, charged with the leftover adrenaline and the coppery scent of Mare’s blood soaking through the handkerchief. Cold stone walls pressed close, lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to track them in the gloom. The air smelled of dust, beeswax, and something faintly medicinal.
Alistair strode ahead without looking back, his boots echoing sharply on the flagstones. "Keep up," he commanded, the words clipped. He didn't slow, turning a corner into a wider corridor lined with suits of armor, their empty visors like skulls in the dim light cast by sporadic wall sconces.
Mare hurried, the torn velvet of her dress whispering against her legs, her forearm throbbing where the thorn had bitten deep. The antiseptic sting felt distant compared to the memory of those questing, thorned vines. "That garden…" she started, her voice shaky. "It tried to… consume me. Those vines moved."
He didn’t break stride. "It has preferences." His tone was flat, matter-of-fact. "Particularly for trespassers with poor navigational skills."
"It was hunting me!"
"Noted." He stopped abruptly before a heavy, dark wood door banded with iron. He produced another key, fitting it silently into the lock. "The kind that remembers," he said, his voice dropping, taking on that chilling, dark resonance again as the lock clunked open. He pushed the door inward.
Warm, humid air, thick with the scent of rich earth, exotic blooms, and something faintly chemical, washed over them. They stepped into a vast conservatory. Not the decaying jungle of the old glasshouse, but a meticulously controlled environment. Sleek steel and glass formed the structure, housing lush ferns, orchids dripping from hanging baskets, citrus trees heavy with fruit, and banks of flowers Mare recognized – vibrant birds of paradise, delicate stephanotis, and, unnervingly, rows of sleek, carnivorous pitcher plants glistening with viscous liquid. Modern halogen lights hummed overhead, banishing shadows. The contrast to the primordial savagery outside was jarring.
Alistair gestured sharply to a long, stainless-steel workbench cluttered with pruning shears, pots, and scientific-looking equipment. "Sit." He moved to a glass-fronted cabinet and pulled out a white first-aid kit.
Mare perched on a metal stool, the cold seeping through her thin dress. She kept pressure on her arm, the linen now stained a deep red. She watched him move with efficient, economical grace – opening the kit, assembling antiseptic swabs, gauze, and a suture kit with unsettling familiarity. The mask obscured his expression, but the line of his jaw was tense.
He returned, pulling on disposable nitrile gloves with a sharp snap. "Arm." It wasn't a request. He pulled another stool close and sat facing her, his knees almost brushing hers.
Hesitantly, Mare lifted her injured arm from where she’d cradled it against her chest. He took her wrist again, his gloved fingers surprisingly gentle as he peeled back the blood-soaked handkerchief. The air hit the wound – a ragged, two-inch gash welling fresh blood. Mare flinched.
"Deep," he murmured, more to himself. He picked up an antiseptic wipe. "This will sting." He didn't wait for acknowledgment. The cold liquid hit the raw flesh. Mare hissed, biting her lip hard, her free hand gripping the edge of the steel bench until her knuckles turned white. The sharp, medicinal smell filled her nostrils.
His touch remained clinical, precise. He dabbed, clearing the blood, examining the wound under the bright lights. She could see the faint reflection of her own pained expression in the dark lenses of his mask. "You said it remembers," she gasped out, trying to focus past the sting. "The garden. Remembers what?"
His hands stilled for a fraction of a second. Then he continued cleaning, his focus intense on the wound. "Blood," he said, his voice low and devoid of inflection. "Every drop of Blackwood blood spilled on that soil doesn't water the roses. It feeds the roots of… something else." He glanced up, the mask tilting slightly. The candlelight from the annex was gone, replaced by the sterile halogen gleam, but the scar beneath the lower edge of the leather mask caught the light – a jagged, pale line disappearing into shadow. "It grows teeth. And an appetite."
Mare’s breath caught. The image was grotesque, visceral. The predatory intelligence in those vines suddenly made a horrifying kind of sense. "Your family…?"
"Died." The word was a stone dropped into water. He picked up a curved needle and suture thread. "One after another. Unexpectedly. Violently. Conveniently." He threaded the needle with unnerving dexterity. "Always within the manor grounds. Often near the old gardens." He looked directly at her through the mask’s slits. "This needs closing. Hold still."
Panic flared. "Can't you just bandage it?"
"Not if you want to keep using the arm properly. Infection is… enthusiastic here." He positioned the needle. "Don't move."
The first stitch pierced her skin. Mare cried out, a strangled sound. It wasn't just the sharp bite of the needle; it was the intimacy of it, the vulnerability, him bent over her arm, his masked face inches away, performing this necessary brutality. Tears pricked at her eyes. She focused on his hands – strong, steady, the knuckles still bearing the scrapes from hacking through the vines. Hands that had held a knife to her throat hours ago. Hands that were now stitching her back together.
"Your blood," she whispered, her voice trembling. "On the vines… when you cut them. The dark sap… was that…?"
He didn't pause in his work. Tiny, precise stitches pulled the ragged edges together. "It liked it," he said, his tone chillingly conversational. "Stimulated it. Made it… hungrier." He tied off a stitch, snipped the thread. "Holding remarkably still, little mouse. Impressive." Was that a thread of dark approval?
"Why?" The question burst out. "Why live here? With that?" She gestured vaguely towards the direction of the old gardens, the movement making him grunt in warning. "Why not burn it? Salt the earth?"
He paused, the needle poised. For a long moment, he was utterly still. She could feel the heat radiating from him, hear the soft sound of his breath behind the mask. The intensity of his focus shifted from her wound to her face. "Because it is the Blackwoods," he said, his voice dropping to a gravelly rasp. "Every root, every thorn, every drop of poisoned sap. It is the consequence. It is the inheritance." He leaned in fractionally, the mask glinting. "It's the only family heirloom worth keeping. A reminder that some legacies are curses. And curses," he pierced her skin again, making her gasp, "demand witnesses."
He finished the last stitch, tied it off, and snipped the thread. The neat line of sutures stood out starkly against her pale, blood-streaked skin. He applied antibiotic ointment with the same clinical detachment, then covered the wound with a sterile gauze pad and deftly wrapped it with a bandage. His gloved fingers brushed her inner arm as he secured the end, sending an unwelcome shiver through her that had nothing to do with pain.
He sat back, peeling off the gloves with a snap, tossing them onto the steel bench. "Don't get it wet. Change the dressing tomorrow." He stood, turning away to put the first-aid kit back in the cabinet, his broad shoulders blocking the light for a moment.
Mare stared at her bandaged arm, then at his back. The fire in her chest had banked, replaced by a deep, chilling comprehension and a tangled mess of fear, pity, and that relentless, dangerous curiosity. He lived with a monster because he was part of it. A witness to his own family's ghoulish legacy.
He turned back, his mask unreadable. "Come. I'll show you out. The main entrance this time." He moved towards another door on the far side of the conservatory.
"Wait." Mare slid off the stool, wincing as her weight settled. She took a step towards him, stopping just out of reach. The scent of soil, antiseptic, and his cologne was overwhelming. "At the fair… you said you wanted to see if the spark in me was real." She met the dark slits in the mask. "After tonight… the garden… this…" She gestured around the sterile, plant-filled room, then back towards the shadowed hallway leading to the old, hungry darkness. "Do you still wonder?"
Alistair went very still. The hum of the halogen lights was the only sound. He seemed to be studying her, absorbing the defiance in her eyes, the tremor she couldn’t quite hide, the bandage stark on her arm. Slowly, deliberately, he reached up. Not to remove the mask, but to adjust it, his fingers brushing the edge where the scar met leather. A gesture that seemed both protective and self-conscious.
"The spark," he said finally, his voice low and rough, like stones grinding together, "is either the most fascinating thing in this mausoleum, Marie Donovan…" He paused, taking a single step closer. The air crackled. "Or the most tragically short-lived." He turned abruptly, hand on the door handle. "Now move. Before my hospitality expires, and I decide feeding you to the azaleas is less trouble."
The sterile scent of antiseptic still clung to Mare’s bandaged arm as Alistair’s threat hung between them – feeding you to the azaleas. It wasn’t just the words, cold and sharp like his knife had been. It was the dismissal, the way he turned towards the door, already moving on, relegating her near-death experience to just another inconvenience in his cursed existence. The conservatory’s humid air felt suddenly thick, suffocating. Her wounded arm throbbed, a dull counterpoint to the frantic drumming in her chest. The fire he’d spoken of, the spark he’d found fascinating mere hours ago, flared white-hot, burning away the lingering terror and the chilling numbness of his revelation about the garden’s hunger.
His hand was on the polished brass door handle. He was leaving. Shutting her out. Again. Just like the mask shut out the world. Mare’s feet moved before her mind fully caught up. She crossed the cool tiles, the rustle of her torn velvet dress loud in the sudden tension. He paused, sensing her movement, his broad shoulders tensing beneath the dark fabric of his sweater. He didn’t turn.
Mare stopped directly in front of him, forcing him to look down. The height difference felt immense, intimidating, but she tilted her chin up, meeting the dark voids of his mask’s eye slits. Her brows furrowed, etching deep lines of frustration and a fierce, stubborn resolve onto her face. The halogen lights glinted off the sleek black leather obscuring him.
"Then don’t let the spark fizzle out," she said, her voice firm, cutting through the conservatory’s artificial hum. It held no tremor, only a raw challenge. Before he could react, before he could snarl or retreat, she reached up. Her fingers, trembling slightly despite her resolve, brushed the cool, smooth edge of his mask where it met the skin of his cheekbone, grazing the very top of the jagged scar she knew lay beneath.
His breath hitched, sharp and audible in the humming stillness. Every muscle in his body locked rigid, a statue carved from shock and burgeoning fury. Mare felt the subtle tremor beneath her fingertips, the faint warmth of his skin against the mask's cool edge.
Then he moved.
His hand snapped up, iron fingers closing around her wrist like a manacle, wrenching her hand violently away from his face. The force spun her sideways. "Don’t," he snarled, the word ripped from him, raw and guttural. His other hand flew to the mask, pressing it hard against his cheek as if she’d tried to rip it off. Dark eyes blazed pure, unadulterated rage through the slits. "You reckless, meddling fool!"
"Reckless?" Mare shot back, her own fear momentarily drowned by the adrenaline surge, her wrist burning in his grip. "You threatened me with a knife, shoved me into a carnivorous garden, then stitched me up like a torn shirt! Forgive me if your personal space seems… negotiable!" She yanked uselessly against his hold. The bandage on her arm pulled tight.
He loomed over her, the mask inches from her face. She could see the faint stubble beneath its lower edge, the rapid pulse jumping in his throat. His cologne, woodsy and expensive, warred with the lingering antiseptic and the coppery tang of her blood. "Negotiable?" His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You think this," he gestured violently with his free hand towards the mask, towards himself, "is some kind of parlor game? A mystery for the bored little bookseller?"
"I think," Mare breathed, refusing to drop her gaze despite the terror coiling in her stomach, "you wanted to see a spark. You poked it. Now you’re mad it burned you." She deliberately glanced down at his white-knuckled grip on her wrist. "Let go. Unless you enjoy manhandling the help."
For a heartbeat, she thought he might actually shake her. His grip tightened painfully. His jaw worked beneath the leather. Then, with a sound like tearing cloth, he released her so abruptly she stumbled back a step. He turned away, shoulders hunched, one hand still pressed fiercely to the mask. His back radiated contained violence. "Get out," he rasped, the command thick with something beyond anger. Shame? Raw pain?
The sterile calm of the conservatory felt like a mockery. Orchids dripped, pitcher plants gleamed, utterly indifferent. Mare rubbed her bruised wrist. The spark he’d ignited hadn’t fizzled; it had turned into a wildfire. "Fine. Show me the door. The real one this time, preferably not guarded by the local shrubbery."
He didn't turn. His hand slowly lowered from the mask. Silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then he spoke, his voice stripped bare, devoid of its usual dark resonance, terrifying in its flatness. "The scar." He paused, the word hanging heavy. "It wasn’t the garden. Or a duel at dawn." Another pause, longer this time. He finally turned.
He wasn't looking at her. His gaze fixed on a cluster of white chrysanthemums, unnervingly perfect under the lights, a stark echo of the crushed one in the wild glasshouse. "It was a letter opener. My father’s." A harsh, mirthless sound escaped him. "Sterling silver. Monogrammed. Very tasteful." He finally looked at her, his dark eyes bleak. "Administered by my then-fiancée. During a discussion about prenuptial agreements." He tapped the mask near his temple. "She aimed for the artery. Missed by millimeters."
Mare’s breath caught. The sterile smell of the sutures on her own arm seemed suddenly sharp. The image was horrifically mundane, devastatingly personal. Not a monster’s mark, but a betrayal’s brand. "Why?" The word was barely a whisper.
Alistair’s expression behind the mask was unreadable, but his posture radiated a bone-deep weariness. "Her family needed the Blackwood fortune secured. Permanently. I proved… resistant to coercion." He gave a small, sharp shrug. "She preferred the direct approach." The flat delivery made it worse. "The gardens… they absorbed the blood. Liked it. Developed a taste. Started remembering." He gestured vaguely towards the manor's depths. "Now they get restless. Hungry. Especially when they smell fresh blood, like yours. Or fresh betrayal."
He moved then, not towards the exit door, but to the cluttered steel workbench. He picked up the small, wickedly sharp silver knife he’d used to hack through the vines. The one he’d pressed to her throat. He examined its flawless edge in the halogen light.
Mare watched, frozen. The air hummed with tension. Was this another threat? A reminder?
He flipped the knife in his hand, catching the handle with practiced ease. Then, without ceremony, he stepped forward and pressed the cool metal into her uninjured palm, folding her fingers roughly around the leather-wrapped hilt. His touch was brief, impersonal.
"Here," he said, his voice regaining a sliver of its remote control, though the bleakness remained. "Consider it… hazard pay. Or a souvenir. Eleanor gave you a key to get in." His masked face tilted towards the exit door. "This might help you get out. Next time." He turned his back on her completely. "The exit’s that way. Don’t linger. The azaleas near the front drive are peckish."
The cold weight of the silver knife settled into Mare’s palm, its leather grip still faintly warm from his touch. Hazard pay. Or a souvenir. His words, a bleak counterpoint to Eleanor’s key, hung in the sterile air thick with the scent of soil and betrayal. He’d turned his back, a dark silhouette against the vibrant, treacherous orchids, his dismissal as final as the slam of a tomb. The azaleas near the front drive are peckish.
Mare stared at the knife. Clean lines, perfect balance, the edge that had kissed her throat and hacked through sentient vines. A weapon. A warning. Her souvenir from the Shadow. Her arm throbbed beneath the bandage, a sharp reminder of teeth in the soil, roots remembering blood. Alistair hadn’t moved. His stillness radiated an impenetrable wall, the mask an unyielding barrier against any further intrusion. Her reckless spark, the one he’d called fascinating, felt guttered, drowned in the chilling reality of the Blackwood curse and a fiancée’s monogrammed letter opener.
Maire frowned, shaking her head. The smell of antiseptic suddenly felt acrid. She wanted to say more about what he had shared with her – the raw horror of that betrayal, the monstrous legacy he embraced – but it was achingly clear he was done. Words would bounce off that mask, that monumental, self-inflicted isolation. Taking off her necklace, the simple silver chain holding a single polished moonstone she always wore, she set it down with a soft clink on a nearby end table cluttered with pruning shears. His own "souvenir".
"The spark wasn't dying by my hand," she said softly, her voice barely disturbing the humid conservatory air. The words were aimed at his rigid back. "You tried to snuff it out yourself." She traced the edge of the silver knife’s blade with a fingertip, not quite touching the sharpness. It was cold. Final. "Goodbye, Mr. Blackwood."
She reluctantly whispered the name, turning away from the scent of his cologne, the oppressive weight of his secrets, the glimpse of unimaginable pain beneath the leather. Her fingers found the cold brass handle of the exit door he’d indicated. The knife felt heavy, dangerous, necessary in her pocket as she pulled the door open. She stepped through without looking back, the humid warmth of the conservatory giving way to the cool, dusty stillness of the manor hallway. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing Alistair Blackwood and his hungry gardens away.
The door clicked shut behind her, sealing Alistair Blackwood and his hungry gardens away. The hallway’s cool, dusty silence pressed in, thick and sudden after the conservatory’s humid tension. Mare leaned back against the heavy wood, breathing hard, the silver knife cold and heavy in her pocket, its weight a stark counterpoint to the throbbing ache beneath the bandage on her arm. Hazard pay. Or a souvenir. His bleak words echoed. The scent of sterile antiseptic and his expensive cologne still clung to her skin, mixing unpleasantly with the damp stone and dust.
She pushed off the door, her torn velvet skirt whispering against her legs. The hallway stretched, dimly lit by sparse sconces, lined with grim portraits whose eyes seemed to track her progress. It felt like walking through a museum of the damned. She needed to get out. Now. Every rustle of her own clothing made her flinch, imagining thorned vines snaking across the flagstones. The azaleas near the front drive are peckish. He wasn't joking. Not about that.
Finding the grand staircase was easier than she expected; it descended into a cavernous, cold entrance hall dominated by a massive, dark wood front door. It looked like it hadn't been opened in years. Heavy bolts, thick as her wrist, secured it. Panic fluttered – trapped? Then she spotted a smaller, more modern keypad beside an inconspicuous side exit. Relief washed over her, shaky and weak. She pushed the bar. Cold night air, smelling of pine and damp earth, hit her face like a blessing.
She stumbled outside onto a gravel drive, the manor looming monstrous behind her, its windows mostly dark, watching eyes. The night was vast and quiet, stars sharp pinpricks in the black velvet sky. Her little hatchback, parked far down the drive near the main gates miles back, felt like the only safe place on earth. She started walking, gravel crunching loudly under her thin shoes. The knife in her pocket bumped against her thigh with each step, a constant, metallic reminder. Administered by my then-fiancée. During a discussion about prenuptial agreements. The flat horror of his confession clung to her, colder than the night air. Betrayal that fed literal monsters.
Halfway down the endless drive, headlights sliced through the darkness, approaching fast from the direction of the main gate. Mare froze, heart hammering. Alistair changing his mind? Some garden-keeper? The sleek, silent black town car that had brought her glided to a stop beside her. The rear window hummed down.
"Miss Donovan?" The driver’s voice was the same, calm and devoid of inflection. "Mr. Blackwood instructed me to ensure you reached your vehicle safely." He paused. "Given the… terrain."
Mare stared. After the knife, the stitches, the vines, the soul-scarring confession? A ride? It felt absurd. Cruel, almost. She almost refused on principle. But her arm throbbed, her legs felt like lead, and the walk back to her car stretched impossibly long and dark. The memory of unnatural rustling in the hedges near the hidden door surged back. "Fine," she muttered, her voice raw. She yanked open the door and slid into the cool leather interior, slamming it shut. The lock clicked, a sound of finality.
The drive was silent. The driver didn't speak. Mare stared out at the passing night, the manicured grounds giving way to dense, wild-looking woods pressing close to the road. Moonlight dappled the asphalt. Every shadow seemed to writhe. Was that a thicker patch of darkness shifting near that massive oak? A vine uncoiling? She dug her fingernails into her palm, the knife a solid, dangerous weight against her leg. Every drop of Blackwood blood spilled here grows teeth. The silence inside the car was absolute, pressing in. She fumbled for her phone. Dead. Of course. She felt utterly disconnected, adrift.
Her hatchback looked incredibly small and vulnerable parked near the imposing main gates. The town car stopped smoothly beside it. The driver didn't get out. "Good evening, Miss Donovan," he said, the window already rising.
Mare scrambled out, the gravel biting through her thin soles. The town car purred away into the night, vanishing around a bend as silently as it had arrived. Alone. Finally alone. She fumbled her keys, fingers trembling, the simple act of unlocking her car feeling monumental. She threw herself into the driver's seat, slamming the door, hitting the locks. Safe. Sort of. She rested her forehead on the cool steering wheel, taking deep, shuddering breaths. The scent of Alistair’s cologne, antiseptic, and her own fear still lingered. She needed Eleanor. Now.
The ancient rotary phone in Eleanor Ainsworth’s cluttered cottage kitchen rang for a long time. Mare paced the tiny linoleum floor, the bandage on her arm itchy, the silver knife lying heavy on the chipped Formica table beside a half-eaten stale biscuit. Finally, a breathless voice answered. "Ainsworth residence?"
"Eleanor!" Mare’s voice cracked. "It’s Mare. I… I used the key."
A pause. Then Eleanor’s tone shifted, sharpening. "Marie Donovan. You sound like you’ve seen a ghost. Or something worse. Out with it. What happened?"
Where to even start? The knife at her throat? The moving vines? The stitches? The fiancée with the monogrammed letter opener? "The garden," Mare began, her voice trembling despite herself. "It’s… alive, Eleanor. Hungry. It tried to…" She touched her bandaged arm. "He pulled me out. Then stitched me up." She picked up the knife, its cold weight anchoring her. "Gave me this. Called it hazard pay."
Eleanor sighed, a long, weary sound down the line. "Ah. So he showed you his pet monstrosity. And his bedside manner remains spectacularly awful, I see. Hazard pay. Cheeky bastard." There was no real surprise in her voice. "And the mask? Still firmly in place, I presume?"
"He took it off in the conservatory when he stitched my arm. Well, not off off. A different one. Leather." Mare’s hand unconsciously went to her own neck where the knife had pressed. "He told me, Eleanor. About the scar. How he got it."
Silence. Thick and heavy. Mare could almost hear the old woman processing, the creak of a chair as she sat down. "Did he now?" Eleanor’s voice was softer, almost sad. "That’s… unexpected. He keeps that particular wound buried deeper than most. What did he say?"
"His fiancée. A prenup discussion. A letter opener." The words felt inadequate for the horror. "He said the garden… liked the blood. Remembers it. Grew teeth."
"Monica Vale," Eleanor spat the name like poison. "Viper in designer silk. Her family bled dry by her father’s gambling, saw Alistair as a vault with legs. He balked at signing everything over blindly. She didn’t take rejection well." A bitter chuckle. "The gardens always did have peculiar tastes. After… that night… things changed. Became more… aware. Attuned to him. To the darkness." She paused. "And you touched his face."
Mare froze. "How—?"
"Marie, dear, who else would be daft enough? The knife at your throat didn’t scare you off, the carnivorous garden didn’t scare you off… reaching for the mask was practically inevitable." Eleanor sounded almost resigned. "His reaction?"
"Like I’d set him on fire. Grabbed my wrist hard enough to bruise." Mare rubbed the tender spot. "Screamed at me. Called me reckless. A meddling fool."
"Sounds about right," Eleanor snorted. "He guards that mask like it’s the last shield between him and utter annihilation. Which, in his mind, it probably is." Her voice softened again. "But he let you go. Gave you the knife. Had his driver take you back. That’s… significant. From him."
"Significant?" Mare’s voice rose. "He threatened to feed me to azaleas! He lives with a garden that eats people!"
"The old gardens," Eleanor corrected firmly. "The conservatory is safe. Mostly. And the threat was empty. Mostly. He’s dramatic, not homicidal. Mostly." She sighed again. "Look, the man’s a fortress built on quicksand and bad memories. You rattled the portcullis. Impressively. Now, what are you going to do?"
Mare looked down at the silver knife on the table. Hazard pay. A dangerous souvenir. A connection. Her hand went to her throat, an unconscious gesture. Her fingers brushed bare skin.
Her necklace. The simple silver chain. The moonstone pendant.
It was gone.
A cold jolt shot through her, different from fear. She’d taken it off. Placed it deliberately on that end table in the conservatory, cluttered with pruning shears. Her own impulsive gesture. Her own souvenir left behind.
The spark wasn't dying by my hand… You tried to snuff it out yourself.
"Eleanor," Mare whispered, her voice suddenly hoarse. "My necklace. I left it. On the table. Where he stitched me."
A beat of silence. Then a low chuckle, rich with dark amusement, came down the line. "Oh, Marie. You absolute fool. You traded a moonstone for a knife? Did you leave a note too?" Eleanor’s chuckle faded. "He’ll find it. He notices things in that sterile jungle of his. Especially things left behind."
Mare’s gaze snapped to the window, towards the distant hills where Blackwood Manor brooded. The knife felt suddenly heavier, colder. He had her necklace. The intimate weight of it, resting where she’d traced the scar beneath his mask. It wasn't just a trinket; it was a piece of her quiet self, left behind in his world of hungry shadows and sterile light.
"What will he do with it?" Mare breathed, dread and something else, something perilously close to anticipation, twisting in her gut.
Eleanor’s voice was dry. "Knowing Alistair? Probably stare at it for hours. Brood magnificently. Maybe use it to poke his carnivorous plants. Who knows?" A pause. "The real question, Marie Donovan, is what are you going to do about him now?"
The line went dead. Mare stared at the phone, then at the silver knife gleaming under the fluorescent kitchen light. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the windowpane. Somewhere, in a sterile room filled with unnatural blooms, Alistair Blackwood held a smooth, cool moonstone in his scarred hand. The game, it seemed, had just taken another sharp, unexpected turn. The garden might remember blood, but now he held a piece of her light. What would grow from that?