It’s rare for the Grim Botanical Gardens to be so quiet in the morning. Despite the name, the gardens typically burst with birdsong and color as the day breaks, lush purple petals stretching against waxy green leaves and sunlight, the smell of dew-dusted soil rising from the ground.
Victor loves Grim Gardens in the morning, but this morning is different.
This morning is quiet.
No cooing of pigeons, no soft rustling of leaves. No calls from the fish crows and no low drone of the toads in the pond, just by the willow tree in the distance.
Victor takes in a deep breath and tests the air on his tongue. Nothing amiss, he thinks. He can taste smoke in the air, of course, which would be unusual if he were to compare the scents of the garden to say, two weeks ago. But the garden’s curator has since acquired a rare plant that lends its fire-spent scent to the garden’s sharp green and dew smells.
Under normal circumstances, a rose is only as dangerous as its thorns. However, the Ashheim Rose, named after the magibotanist who discovered it, is not a typical rose. Indeed, Victor isn’t really certain it should be called a rose, as the flowers that spring forth from the prickly tendrils of the bush are made entirely of fire.
The plant is so dangerous, the guard who delivered it wore a special suit spelled to protect against exposure. Victor is a guard himself and probably would have been in charge of the plant’s arrival that day, but he called out at the last minute. All the better, he thinks. The guard, Billy, had slipped, exposing a thin line of his wrist to one of the flaming buds. Needless to say, Billy will be out for the foreseeable future.
As a guard for the Grim Gardens, Victor is in charge of general day-to-day upkeep of the Garden’s inhabitants. Much like Ashheim Rose, the plants that call Grim Gardens home are not as docile as normal plants. They cry and whisper. They poison and taunt. Some have been known to wander at night if their enclosures are not locked properly.
They are, in essence, magical, much like the employees and visitors of the Gardens, and Victor himself too, whose demon heritage is seen in his black eyes and two short horns poking up on either side of his forehead.
Victor approaches the north-east quadrant, where the Ashheim Rose resides and the smoky flavor in the air seems to increase—but there is something else in the air, too. Something foul and rotting that catches in the back of his throat.
He turns the corner, and then stops short.
The area around the rose bush had originally been cleared out, leaving the plant on its own in a circular patch of soil. It had been quite annoying to clear, to be honest. The original plants were delicate enough that each one had to be transported by hand, one-by-one, to a new plot of land by the entrance. Victor had to carry each plant himself, taking careful, slow steps all the way back through the Tropical Travesties exhibit, along the winding path through the Fae Herb Garden, and back to the Poison Garden—and repeat. For three days.
This morning, however, the area around the Ashheim Rose is not clear anymore.
Instead, resting right next to the plant is a dark, misshapen form. It takes his brain some moments to realize that the form used to be a person.
The birds in the trees above are startled when he screams. Or at least, he thinks he screams. Why else would the blackbirds suddenly take flight?
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It’s taken four months for the Council to get their act together. Quinn was starting to think they had forgotten him. Perhaps his slip-up had been insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Something that could get pushed to the bottom of a list.
It didn’t feel insignificant to him, though. He still thinks about it, the sound of Rowena’s voice in his head, the look in her eyes, the ease with which her neck snapped in his grip. It’s a feeling he knows well. At one time, before the Bureau and before Harvest, that power was intoxicating. He drank it up, unfeeling in the face of consequences.
The carelessness didn’t last long, though. Like a drunk sobering up, the regret settled into his chest, made a home there in between his ribs and his heart. Although quite adept at maintaining a facade of indifference, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel things anymore. He feels. Daily. Hourly. Harvest would tell him that he shouldn’t hold onto negative emotions like regret though. That they build up and become physical things weighing him down.
He doesn’t know how to explain that he needs to keep them, regardless of their weight. He doesn’t know how to explain that the heaviness is good for him, that emotions like these are human and he wants to stay as close to his humanity as he can. He’s seen too many of his kind succumb to the flames of madness and the type of hunger that calls for spilled blood. It’s a constant threat for vampires, no matter how old or young, and, in general, he feels that he has done a rather commendable job at not giving into the baser instincts his fangs have given him.
There are some notable exceptions, of course. His current employment was forced upon him after one such act. It was sloppy to get caught in the first place, though it took him a hundred years before he could finally admit his mistake. Of course, he did technically have a choice; it wasn’t entirely forced. But if the choice is to work for two-hundred years solving murders or death—true death, the thing he’s been running away from for centuries, ever since he and his brother stumbled upon a woman in the middle of the desert—is it really much of a choice?
Since then, he’s had only a few violations on his record, but his most recent slip-up is why he is here now. The Sunny Blackwood case began straightforwardly enough, with a werewolf found dead in her home. It was a few days before Christmas and the Bureau offices were almost empty, most agents and employees having requested off for the holiday. On the surface, Sunny Blackwood’s death was the result of natural causes, a heart attack most likely, and he took it on mainly because no one else was around to do it.
He didn’t know that Sunny Blackwood’s death was linked to several others—that her death was just one in a chain reaction that claimed four lives by the end of it all.
The last victim, Rowena, is why he’s standing here, now.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
By the time he and Harvest found her, the curse had already awakened, her body distorted in agony. He felt every wave of her pain, reaching into her mind in the same way he would if he were to compel her. Rowena begged him to end her suffering, and he did, in the only way he knew.
A simple twist of his wrists, and Rowena Little was gone.
In the end, he stands by his choice. The curse would have claimed Rowena regardless. There was no stopping it, and all he could do was spare her the worst of it. Of course, the Council doesn’t see it that way, as he knew they would, but, in truth, he expected the consequences of his actions to arrive much sooner.
He received the summons that morning as he drank his Bureau-rationed vial of blood. The envelope was simple, cream-colored, textured linen embossed with the Bureau crest—the same image that is stamped into the gold ring he wears, unwillingly, on his pinky finger. The ring is designed to track his violent tendencies, increasing in temperature until even his healing powers can’t keep up.
Now, Quinn twists the ring as he looks at the building where the meeting will be held. The Council doesn’t have a main office or headquarters, but still, the location is a bit of a surprise.
Tabitha’s Diner is just one of the many properties in Valkaria that the Rosenbloom family owns but it is, by far, the one Quinn has visited most often. It shares a building with a bookstore and a dentist’s office, and it’s where his friendship with Harvest Rosenbloom truly began, in the back booth with tears in her eyes as she asked him to help look for her estranged sister. He wonders where Harvest is now. Is she inside the diner, having breakfast with her best friend and roommate, Ronan? She’s a morning person, he knows, but she’s also a workaholic. She’s probably catching the bus into work.
With one last twist of his ring, he stop delaying the inevitable. He straightens his tie and then his spine and enters the diner confidently. As the door swings open, he’s overwhelmed, momentarily, with the scent of fresh coffee and fryer grease. He spies Kipp in the corner, her greenish skin and pointy ears at odds with the task she is doing, refilling salt and pepper shakers.
She smiles up at him and angles her head toward the back of the diner. “Last booth.”
His shoes click against the scuffed linoleum floor and the portraits of Rosenbloom ancestors that dot the walls seem to watch as he approaches the booth in question.
He’s not surprised to see Commissioner Rosenbloom has been assigned the task of censuring him—he wouldn’t be surprised if she had volunteered for the position—but what really puts Quinn on edge is the presence of Valentina Smyth.
Although the Council is made of seven seats of equal authority, as the longest sitting member, Valentina is often considered the de facto leader. She’s held her seat for at least twenty years, though she hasn’t aged a day. She’s not a vampire, nor is she fae. In fact, no one really quite knows what her background is. But she holds power in her slim body. Even Quinn, who, as a vampire, can’t see the mischief of witches, can tell. There’s an undercurrent of hunger behind her presence and it puts him on edge.
“Agent Quinn,” says Commissioner Rosenbloom. “Please, have a seat.”
“Hello, Julian.” Valentina’s smile is razor thin. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in a severe bun, highlighting her sharp cheekbones. “It’s lovely to see you.”
“Val, always a pleasure,” he says as warmly as possible, tossing in his most charming smile at the end.
“This isn’t a social meeting,” interrupts Commissioner Rosenbloom. “Can we dispense with the pretense?”
Quinn schools his expression, straightening his tie against his chest, before folding his hands on the table in front of him. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sure you know what this is about,” Commissioner Rosenbloom continues. She extracts an envelope from the inside pocket of her jacket and slides it across the table with one finger. “You are officially being served a citation in regards to your actions on December twenty-fifth. This will serve as your reminder as to the terms of your Bureau contract, namely that you will not engage in any violence against those you are sworn to protect. Rowena Little falls under that category.”
“And yet it took you four months to get around to telling me,” he points out, trying to keep the mocking tone out of his voice but failing. “Why are we really here?”
It’s Valentina who answers him. “It takes time to gather all of the Council members.” She traces a finger around the rim of her coffee mug. “There was a lot to discuss. But you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve come to an agreement.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Am I being let go?”
Commissioner Rosenbloom’s mouth ticks up into an almost-smile. “Your contract stands.”
“The terms, however,” interjects Valentina, “are going to be extended by fifty years.”
His eyebrows go up in alarm. “Your mother said—”
“My mother was too generous with the terms of your contract in the first place.” Valentina pauses to take a sip of her coffee. “Which is why we’re also going to tighten that noose around your little finger.”
Really, he should have realized the moment he saw her. Her ancestors created the spell in the ring he wears. Her mother was the one who infused the metal two hundred years ago (long life runs in the family, it seems). Valentina is the only one who knows the secret of the spell. She’s also the only one who can physically remove it from his finger.
“What will it do now?” He smiles icily. “Take away my fangs? Turn me invisible?”
“The former, I suppose.”
His smile falls down to the table.
Commissioner Rosenbloom rolls her eyes. “Valentina is exaggerating. She’s formulated a slightly enhanced version of the spell that’s already there. You probably won’t even notice a change.” She waves a hand around. “Unless, of course, you try to hurt someone.”
“And then what?”
Valentina shrugs. “You lose a finger?”
Quinn laughs humorlessly. “I’m only marginally attached to it, I suppose.”
“Compulsion will be weaker, too.”
“As if it isn’t already.”
Valentina smiles and motions for Quinn’s hand. He obliges, and her skin like ice as her fingers wrap around his. Her grip is stronger and he’s sure it’s meant to be. It’s a reminder of the power she holds, as if he could forget.
His fingers itch to move, but he keeps his hand steady as Valentina’s eyes close. Her voice is low, a mere murmur, but Quinn’s hearing picks up the twisted vowels of the Witch’s tongue, an amalgamation of ancient languages that Quinn will never quite understand.
Her lips turn blue with her words. His ring grows hot, almost burning. She is speaking electricity, words crackling between her teeth. The lights above flicker and a piercing ringing begins to grow in Quinn’s ears.
He clenches his teeth, fighting against the instinct to snatch his hand away. The electricity travels from her words to her hands, from her skin to the metal of the ring, which grows hotter, almost unbearably so, until, suddenly, it’s gone.
Valentina drops his hand, and her eyes fly open. Her lips are still blue-tinged, electrical residue still sparking silently down her chin. Her appearance is still flawless, of course. Not a hair out of place.
“Well, that’s done,” she says. “I’m off.” She slides out of the booth. He hears the clicking of her heels, followed swiftly by the bell on the diner door as it opens.
There is a pause and he feels more than hears the presence of someone else walking into the diner. A fast heartbeat accompanied by light footsteps. He thinks little of it, assuming it’s one of the regulars. The ghoul, Stuart, perhaps, here for his slightly-raw hamburger and diet Coke.
But the footsteps don’t stop at one of the many open booths. They move past the bar, as well, with its metallic black swivel chairs. Commissioner Rosenbloom looks past Quinn as the footsteps approach the last booth. “I do want to apologize in advance for what is about to happen.”