Most flower shop owners lock their greenhouses, but sometimes… the owners havereallybad days and accidentally end up on the store floor with a bottle of wine, leading them to forget. And when they forget, the enchantment hiding the greenhouse from creatures fades. And when that happens…
“Do you think it’s in there?” Maggie aggressively whispered, gripping the empty trash can and lid she held to capture the creature.
“I don’t know, why don’t you look?” Sweat poured from my body. Stress sweat.The worst sweat.
Maggie pinched her nose. “Didn’t you grow up at a magical sanctuary for animals?”
“Yes,” I argued in a hushed voice, “and there is a reason why I’mhere.”
Right?There must be a reason. A reason I left my home, my father, and his magical sanctuary behind me. A reason I ran a flower shop with my best friend instead. A reason I never looked back. Maybe not a “good” reason but…
The shattering of a pot yanked my attention off of my past. Time ticked. I gripped the pitchfork and locked eyes with Maggie, signaling with two wiggling fingers the plan: I’d enter, throw the pitchfork, and when the creature ran out, she’d capture it in the trash can.
Somehow, she understood.
Being the only child of a mostly absent father and deceased mother, I became used to doing things myself—whether it was getting groceries, fixing broken bookshelves, running errands, or cooking dinner. And I felt glad for it, because currently Maggie resembled a stray puppy frozen with fear. I wasn’t the parent friend, but more accurately the “Fuck it; I’ll do it myself” friend. With a last blow of breath, I turned over my shoulder and crossed the threshold.
Scents of lavender and roses filled my nose. Two middle aisles separated the room and limited my field of vision. Walls were edged with troughs of greenery, succulents, andoverhanging vines. On our middle shelves, our few magical plants grew. We kept three in our inventory: dancing lilies, luck-me-nots, and snapping dragons.
The lilies wave in the sunlight, wiggling and dancing, which is why we put them in the window of the shop. Luck-me-nots are more for fun; you pick a petal then ask it a yes-or-no question. If the petal grows back, it’s a yes. If not, it’s a no. Snapping dragons are nearly identical to snapdragons, but they make snapping noises with golden sparks when touched.
Most magical plants and flowers are too high maintenance for demand. Ones used for cures are kept by medics. Ones used for cooking are kept at taverns or sold at markets. We’d had singing irises, but they had a problem of singing whenever they wanted—until I took clippers to their stems one night.
Edging down the right, I checked each new inch of visibility. The little bastard hid somewhere. Raxxens are hellish creatures—large rats with six legs instead of four and a nasty set of razored teeth. Their appetite led them to our plants; hence, the enchantment.
One more corner remained to be checked, and my bones were trembling like a damned scared-shitless deer stuck on the path of a speeding carriage.I hate this job. Maggie owes me so much for this, she’d better—
I turned the corner and there it stood, nibbling on leaves. Gray wired hair rose along its spine as its stomp-able little head snapped toward me. Hellfire eyes poured into mine andI didn’t take another moment to look at its six legs. I launched the pitchfork to frighten it, turned, and hauled ass.
In those few seconds, time slowed. Ceramic fractured behind me, but I didn’t look. I locked my sight on Maggie and ran as if it’d latched on to my ankles.
Vaguely, I heard Maggie chanting I’m-scared-for-my-own-life phrases and run-for-your-life phrases. And when my feet reached the door, I hurdled over her trash can as if I’d been a horse in another life, putting every muscle in my body to work because I’d be damned if that thing touched me.
I landed in the cold, cobblestone alley directly beside the trash can, only to turn back around at my friend’s hollering. Already, the alley’s smell of rotten garbage slammed my senses—the bowels of our beloved town.
“Oh my Gods, oh my Gods, what do I do? What the fuck do I do?” Maggie slammed the lid shut and parted her mouth as if torn between bawling her eyes out and puking all over the place.
Rushing to her, I pressed down on the top. “Go, go, go!” I nodded to the wooden fence bordering the woods. We waddled over, carefully holding the trash can between our shaking arms and legs. Sweat formed along Maggie’s hairline; her wide eyes focused on the lid.
I didn’t blame her; stress sweat soaked my clothes and even the butterflies in my stomach were having panic attacks. My hands grew clammy during our stagger, and I half wanted to launch the entire damned thing. But we didn’t; we made it to the fence.
“Okay, lift it carefully,” my voice trembled.
“Okay… okay… okay,” Maggie repeated.
Unfortunately, as with the shelf inside, we came up several inches short. The raxxen shifted, and a chill shocked my spine.
“Throw it! Throw it over!”
I yelled.
Maggie yelled.
We bent down, jumped, and chucked our trash can into the woods.
I ran.
Maggie ran.
