Page 22 of Hellebore

When the hole reaches deep enough that the edge comes to my chest, I stop and climb out. I drag Jacke’s body to the rim and roll him in. He lands at the bottom with a wet, heavy sound, half-submerged in the muddy water already pooling there.

I reach into the leather pouch I brought with me and pull out the thick glass bottle I prepared weeks ago. Inside swirls a black, viscous liquid I distilled from the strongest roots and petals in this garden, hellebore, nightshade, and a few other poisons I grew just for nights like this. It does not simply kill. It returns things to the soil. It feeds the flowers.

I uncork the bottle and pour.

The liquid splashes over his face, his chest, his ruined hands. It hisses faintly as it touches skin and open wounds, thick and dark, eating into him with a low, chemical sound. The mixture begins working immediately, softening flesh and breaking it down, pulling him slowly back into the earth itself. By morning there will be nothing left but bones and memory.

I watch for a long moment, rain running in cold streams down my face, the mask still in place. The garden drinks him in.

Then I start shoveling the dirt back in. Wet earth lands on his body with heavy, final thuds. Layer after layer until the hole is filled and the ground lies level once more. I pat it down firmly with the flat of the shovel until the surface looks untouched, as if nothing ever disturbed this patch of black soil.

Finally I kneel and plant fresh hellebore bulbs across the new grave, seven of them, spaced perfectly. By the time they bloom, no one will ever know what lies beneath them.

I stand back and look at my work.

The garden is quiet again. Rain falls softly on the new plants now.

I wipe my hands on my hoodie and whisper to the dark soil, voice low and almost tender.

“You fed the garden, Jacke. Just like you were always meant to.”

I leave the shovel leaning against the wall and walk back through the rows of black hellebore. The mansion waits ahead, stone and shadow and the purple silk waiting upstairs in the bedroom I made for her.

Briar is still three hours away, safe for one more night, but soon.

Soon the only garden she will ever know is this one, and the only hands that will ever touch her again will be mine.

Chapter Eight

BRIAR

Oh God, my head is killing me.

I turn slowly beneath the sheets, the blanket twisting around my legs like it wants to hold me down. A heavy, fuzzy throb pulses at the back of my skull, worse than any hangover I have ever known. I know I drank too much last night, but this feels wrong. Deeper. Like my body is trying to warn me of something I cannot remember.

I push the blanket down and freeze. I am still fully dressed with the same black top and shorts from the club clinging to my skin, damp with nervous sweat. My boots lie kicked off near the foot of the bed. No ache between my thighs. No sticky warmth. No soreness. Nothing.

My breath catches.

I sit up carefully, the room tilting for a long second before it steadies. The light filters through the half-drawn curtains, casting soft gray shadows across the walls. The other side of the bed is untouched, sheets smooth and cold. No indent from another body. No jacket draped over the chair. No trace that anyone stayed.

So… he brought me home and I simply passed out? He left?

I stand on shaky legs, one hand braced against the nightstand as the floor seems to tilt beneath my bare feet. The apartment feels too quiet, too still. The air carries a faint, earthy scent I cannot quite place, something that makes the fine hairs on my arms rise. I shake it off and pad into the open kitchen-living space. My bag sits neatly on the table. My coat is folded carefully over the arm of the couch. No glasses. No empty bottles. No evidence the night continued here at all.

My fingers tremble as I grab my phone and dial Lucille. It is after two in the afternoon—she will be awake.

“Hey, girl!” she purrs, voice warm and teasing.

“Hey—” I start, switching to speaker as I wander toward the bathroom. The cool tiles send a shiver racing up my bare feet.

“I saw you leave with that leather-jacket guy!” she coos before I can ask.

“How? You left way before me.”

“I was in the parking lot. In his SUV.” She says it so casually I can almost see her smirk.

“Oh. Car sex. Nice.” I try to laugh, but it comes out thin and shaky. I peel off my clothes, the fabric suddenly too tight against my skin, and stand naked in front of the bathroom mirror.