I kneel down with a cruel smile, kiss my first two fingers and place them over his lips in a final farewell. “Sleep well, little rabbit.”
34Azalea
When she steps into the café, she seems to absorb all the light. My heart speeds up in my chest, and it must show on my face, because Regis slowly lowers his coffee cup and twists to look over his shoulder.
She is radiant in a Barbie-pink trench coat, low-rise cargo pants, and patent leather combat boots that lace up to her knees. A devilish smile coils across her raspberry lips as she sees me, tucking her wild blond hair behind an ear. “I came dressed for the occasion,” she says, approaching the bar I am positioned behind, a forgotten ladle of waffle batter in one unmanicured hand. “Oh,” she adds, slapping a fistful of foxgloves wrapped in brown paper on the counter. “And I brought these.” She looks down at Regis where he sits on the stool beside her and smiles coolly. “Hello.”
I am tempted to reach over and close his mouth. “Sheriff Brooks,” I say instead. “This is my cousin Azalea. You remember I told you I’d have some family coming in for the holiday?” Halloween is just days away.
His eyes slide to mine, and he suddenly regains his composure. “Ah, yes, that’s right.” He clears his throat and smooths the shirt of his uniform. “How is Myrtle doing?” he asks casually, like I taught him.
Azalea beams a killer smile at him. “Wonderfully, or so I’m told. She’s living with our aunt in Boca Raton, soaking up the sun and mai tai after mai tai on the beach.”
His expression falters—likely the uncanny image of MyrtleCorbin in a bathing suit on the beach—but he manages to get his bearings. Donning his hat, he smiles at me. “Well, I best be going. Got a vandal at the local high school I need to see about,” he says easily, but his eyes relay the fear he feels at her nearness, the proximity of her power not just to him but to me.
“See you around, Sheriff,” I reply, hoping he picks up on my coded reassurance.
He tips his hat brim to us and saunters out, but I notice he sits in his patrol car a beat too long, backing up slowly and rolling down the road below the speed limit. He won’t go far, of that I’m sure. Not that there’s anything he could do to save me. The thought sends a nip of alarm coursing down my spine. It was the same with Emil—he wanted to protect me from Henry, but in the end, I had to save myself. And send the handsome investigator back to Charleston with my blessing. “Hunt well,” I told him before watching him drive off.
I drop my ladle and gather plates from the tables, ushering Terry and Amos out the front door until lunch, much to their consternation.
When the café is finally empty, I turn to her. “Are you ready for this?”
“Are you?” she asks.
I nod briskly. “As I’ll ever be.”
The woods are shadowy as we walk, leaving the café, the crescent of kitschy cabins, and the illusion of safety behind. Despite the sun and snow, they are haunted and deep, full of secrets, but the cold feels fitting, a reminder that life is fleeting, precarious, only a breath away from being snuffed out entirely.
I’m glad they sent her, out of everyone. I liked her from the beginning, I realize. For someone who doles out death like a bartender slings cocktails, she’s so full of life, more vivid than anyone I’ve ever met. And it’s not just her clothes. It’s something nestled inside her—the magic, sparking like live wires.
“I hear you met someone from the venery in Barcelona,” she says, making unnecessary small talk.
“Emilia,” I tell her with a smile. “She was…”
“Magnificent?” Azalea asks like some kind of vigilante fangirl.
I laugh. “Yes, and terrifying. I understand now how the ancient Greeks must have felt in the presence of one of their goddesses. Too beautiful to be real, too capricious to be trusted.”
She bumps my arm. “Oh, don’t give her too much credit. She’s still just a woman.”
“None of us are just women,” I reply as Bart bounds toward us from whatever hole he was digging in the forest, lips and ears flapping. He regards Azalea with the dazzled awe for a movie star and the healthy respect for an adder, prancing around her with excitement but careful not to get too close. I watch him, curious. “Are you feeding already?”
“Of course,” she’s quick to answer. “I wanted to get an early start.”
I breathe deeply in through my nose and steady my nerves. I knew this day was coming, but somehow I still don’t feel prepared. After several long minutes in silence, I tell her, “It’s just a bit farther.”
She nods but doesn’t speak.
At last, we come to stand before a colony of zealous ferns, thicker here than I’ve seen them anywhere in these mountains. Among them, clusters of mushrooms in every variety surge from the earth, like a garden of fungal delights, the last vestiges of Myrtle’s magic. Somehow, it all seems more fitting than a churchyard cemetery or an urn on someone’s mantel. “Here we are,” I tell her.
She takes a quiet step forward and kneels, laying the foxgloves among the ferns as she bows her head. After a moment, I realize she’s crying.
“I’m so sorry,” I tell her, squatting beside her on the ground. “She was special, and she deserved a better ending than what she got. I miss her every day.”
Azalea wipes at her tears. “She was the best of us. Truly.” She gets to her feet, and I rise beside her. “She would love this, you know,” she tells me. “It’s exactly where she would want to be.”
It’s my turn to wipe away a stray tear. “I can’t say I feel good about it—not yet—but it does feel right, in a way.”
