Page 13 of Hellebore

What the hell? I turn my WI-FI on and off.

“This action can not be completed.”

This stupid phone. Why isn’t it posting?

The hell with it, I’ll post it tomorrow. Or maybe I take some selfies with Lucille and we post it later.

I grab my bag, wallet, phone, and the long warm coat hanging by the door. It’s cold as hell outside and still raining. I pull the hood up to cover my hair, lock the apartment, and head down the stairs. Each step echoes in the empty stairwell. I take a deep breath at the bottom, letting the chill settle in my lungs.

Tonight is going to be all about me and what I want. I’m tired but I refuse to let it win.

The building door is shut. Actually shut. For two years it’s been broken, I can’t believe they finally fixed it…Maybe it’s because of the flowers.

“That’s new.” I whisper, testing the handle. It clicks perfectly. I fish out my old key from the keychain just to be sure. It slides smoothly and turns. “Great.”

Outside the rain is steady but the wind has finally calmed. I walk across the lot to my car, boots splashing through puddles. Halfway to the car I feel something crunch under my sole. I freeze.

A flower.

Black. Crushed. Petals splayed like broken wings on the wet asphalt, and it looks exactly like the one that was lying on my doorstep yesterday.

I look around fast. The parking lot is empty. Streetlights flicker overhead, throwing weak yellow pools that the fog is already swallowing.

It’s creepy to keep seeing these flowers, right?

I shake my head hard, refusing to let the weirdness crawl under my skin. I pick up the flower and slide into the driver’s seat, slam the door, and crank the heat. I grab my phone, and snap a quick picture of the mangled bloom.

Image search.

“Hellebore” Google tells me. Winter-blooming evergreen perennial. Poisonous and medicinal. Black hellebore.

Poisonous. Great.

I open the window and flick the ruined flower out onto the sidewalk. It lands with a soft wet sound. I dig out the baby wipes I keep in the glove compartment, scrub my hands and then finish with a generous squirt of alcohol gel. The smell fills the car.

Who the hell is leaving this hazard around?

I stare at it for one last second through the rain-streaked window. The petals are already drifting apart under the downpour, beautiful in a haunting, wrong way. Second one in twenty-four hours. There’s something uneasy about it⁠—

No. I’m not letting this ruin my night.

I turn the key. The little engine coughs to life and I pull out of the lot onto the main street, windshield wipers slapping steadily.

The club is only a twenty-minute drive. Lucille already texted that she’s arriving in five minutes.

When the beam of the neon sign finally cuts through the fog I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach, half excitement, half “what the fuck am I doing.” I park near the trees at the edge of the lot, kill the engine, and sit for a second. My hands are ice cold on the wheel. At home I feel amazing but out here, right before I walk in, the doubt always creeps up. Maybe I should just go home, crawl under the sheets, and read until I pass out.

I shove the thought away, pull my coat tighter around my face, and step out into the rain.

“Shit, it’s cold!” I mutter, teeth already trying to chatter.

“Briar!”

I turn. Lucille is waving from the club door, tall and impossible to miss. Five-ten of pure gothic goddess. She calls me her keychain bestie because I’m five-three on a good day. Tonight she’s wearing a long black skirt with two high slits that flash her legs every time she moves, a black leather corset that looks painted on, and her dark cherry hair falling straight down her back. Long open coat, Lolita-style shoes clicking on the wet pavement.

“Lu.” I hug her tight, breathing in her familiar perfume. “You look hot.”

“How are you not freezing?” I ask, half laughing.