Tansy, Belladonna, Purple Hyacinth

Three of my stories that are interconnected, "Tansy," "Belladonna," and "Purple Hyacinth" were published in Horror Tree's Unholy Trinity. The link is below.

Tansy, Belladonna, Purple Hyacinth

Beautiful Damnation

Another story from the same series as "Mock Orange Blossoms" and "Chocolate and Honey" this time from the perspective of a different character. It was something new for me to try.

This was virgin territory and he was flying blind. It wasn’t just his favorite pastime of sex. This was different. She. Made. Him. Feel. The press of those curves, and the swing of her hips, combined with ripe cherry lips and dark sultry eyes. He was temptation dripping with sin, and she made him seem saintly. A paragon of virtue by day, no one saw the truth behind her kind smile. He’d seduced whores and nuns alike, but she made eternal damnation a delicious reward.

 Her hips swayed to the music, slowly grinding against the warm body pressed to her back. The feeling returned, stronger, and he rubbed a hand against his aching chest. She tipped her head back exposing her neck. Licks, bites, she purred. Chest constricted, throat closed, clenched fingers bruising, he quivered in agony. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.

It should be him.

Across the dingy bar Cecily St. Ange, instigator of the feeling, was with another man. He watched as the man smoothed a hand down her thigh; touching, teasing, tasting. He didn’t know the taste of that skin, but he wanted to. Oh, he wanted to. But the man on the dance floor; the ignorant, scum-sucking, jerk off, felt every sweet part. It was unacceptable.

She rocked her rear against the man, and his eyes couldn’t help but follow. Bitable. Her ass was bitable and delicious, even with that redneck’s beer gut pressing into her. She was a little misguided. Had to be since she was with a guy wearing a baseball cap, a straining, stained t-shirt, and ratty blue jeans. She wanted that instead of him. It was insulting. His jeans made his ass look bitable and the t-shirt showed his abs were firmed not gelatinous. And yet. The beautiful girl with blue eyes and honeyed curls, in a strapless dress snug on the breasts and smooth on the curves was with that slack-jawed knuckle dragger.

She must have seemed like a sign from God, he mused, leaning against the sticky counter as Beer-gut whispered dirty nothings in her ear. It had to be dirty because nothing clean could ever come out of a mouth as disease ridden as that. It didn’t help that she flashed a smile and put a hand on his ass. Beer-gut was rubbing against her as she whispered back. Honestly, there wasn’t enough scotch in the world to make that okay. Of course, this bar only served scotch that left an after taste paint thinner would envy. Not that it mattered as he downed another glass and paid his tab. She was leaving with Beer-gut and judging from the friendly squeeze of his hand it wasn’t for a handshake at the door.

Time to follow her home and kill the fucker. If he wasn’t allowed to touch her in deliciously naughty ways, Beer-gut wasn’t. She would live, of course, the inspiration for the feeling. That suffocating ache in his chest that made him burn with anticipation for murder. Bloody, sadistic murder.  It must be love for him to feel this way.

He kept a sedate block and a half behind Beer-gut’s rusty Chevy, reading fluorescent yellow bumper stickers that proudly proclaimed “Girls wanna ride in this truck, better know how to suck” and other charming sayings that further convinced him Beer-gut’s demise would be a blessing to the gene pool of humanity. They pulled to the side of the road and Beer-gut got out, pissing in the bushes. At three-thirty in the morning the roads were deserted and he kept driving. He knew they were headed for her house. It was the same every time she brought a man home. He wasn’t worried. It would be better if he came after they started.

Forty minutes later he broke into her dark suburban home. She’d be upset that he’d made copies of her key, but it was worth a little anger to see Beer-gut perish in a grisly fashion. He walked through the basement to a windowless room of brick and stone. Carefully, he removed the thirteenth brick from the left, reached out and pulled on a hidden handle. A concealed doorway pulled open revealing an insulated, sound proof, bomb shelter. Her playroom.

Beer-gut was lying down, arms and legs strapped in place, in nothing but yellowing formerly white briefs. She stood to the side, brown hair pulled back, wearing a tank top and jeans, poised above Beer-gut with a bloodied exacto knife held expertly in her hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’ve gotta help me! This bitch is insane,” Beer-gut hollered. Well, he assumed it’s what was said since she’d already removed the offensive redneck’s tongue. Terrified moans were so hard to translate.

“Did I say you could watch?”  She asked, irritated, cinnamon eyes meeting his gaze with a glare.

He preferred her like this, free from her façades, candid, deadly, and poised. Although, it could be fun to get her back in the bar outfit for an hour or two. He’d leave out the contacts to see her real eyes. Speaking of which, he noticed her glare became a look of amusement at his lengthy lapse. With a careless grin he closed the door and walked towards her.

 “You’ve been driving me crazy all night, lover, that’s not very nice,” he answered, voice husky. “The least you could do is let me watch. I’ll even sit in the corner like the good little boy I’m not.”

“It’s not my fault you’re a masochist,” she purred, closing the distance until their bodies almost brushed.

Neither moved as their warmth mingled and they breathed each other in. His body was thrumming, sizzling with heat as her tongue swept out and licked her lips. He leaned closer, fixated, and she stepped away.

“There’s a chair by the shelves, don’t touch my things,” a staggering arrangement of blades, toxins, and instruments of torture, “and you can tell me about your day while I work on our friend here.”

It was endearing, he decided, lighting up a cigarette, to see her so happy. There was a warm flush of life in her face as she lovingly pierced hot needles through Beer-gut’s finger tips. Her delighted laugh, as the man keened, brought an ache to his chest that could only be love. She was radiant, humming contently, an echo of lost childhood harbored in her eyes. He adored every monstrous beat of her heart. To the rest of the world she was a quiet, almost fragile woman. But he knew the truth. And she would kill him one day. He didn’t share her hobby and she didn’t love him, but they were irrevocably connected. He knew, as he watched her peel back strips of Beer-gut’s skin, that they’d never make it to Heaven. Eternal salvation couldn’t compare to seeing her like this.

Chocolate and Honey

A short story with the same female lead as "Mock Orange Blossoms" I do adore her.

“Scream and I’ll kill you.”

Bent over a row of violets a woman pauses. The sharp threat comes from a man just behind her, pressing a gun into her head. Minutes earlier he abandoned his car after a shot burst a back tire. He’d ducked into the flower shop as the sirens drew closer, luck on his side that the sole occupant was distracted.

“Slowly stand and turn around,” he commands, stepping back as she does.

He studies her, mid-twenties, body language timid. Hands raised in surrender she waits, silently submissive, but something about her makes his skin crawl.

“Move to the register,” he orders, following her. “Hands flat on the counter.”

Standing behind her, barrel touching her spine, he scans the street through the front window.

“If a cop comes in looking for me tell him you’re alone, understand?”

 She nods.

“Good girl. Keep it up and you might live.”

Fingers drumming on the counter he surveys the shop, eyes stopping on a pouch next to the register tied with a perfect white ribbon.

“S’that?” He asks, tapping the pouch.

“Candy,” her voice is soft, calm. The hair rises on his neck.

Opening the pouch he pops a chocolate into his mouth, pleased by the unexpected honey center.

“Pretty good,” he mutters eating three more.

“The police are here,” she says with a nod towards the window.

Startled, he spots the cruiser parked across the street. Ducking under the counter he presses the gun against her stomach in warning, holding his breath as bells chime above the door.

“Can I help you?” She asks, as footsteps draw closer.

“Ms. St. Ange we’ve reason to believe there’s a criminal in the area. There was a shooting at the courthouse and the perpetrator’s car was found several blocks from here.”

“How terrible,” she says, concerned. “Is everyone alright?”

“Only a minor injury was sustained. Have you seen anyone in the last thirty minutes?”

“Just you.”

“Then for your safety close your shop and stay inside until an officer tells you it’s safe.”

“Of course, Officer. Good luck.”

Retreating steps followed by the chime of bells. A heartbeat. Two. Ten.

“He’s gone now.”

“Your name’s St. Ange?” He asks her, standing close enough her arm brushes his chest.

“Yes.”

“Any relation to Cedric St. Ange the district attorney?”

“My brother,” she replies coolly.

With a whooping laugh he grabs her face forcing her to look at him.

“That’s the bastard I just tried to kill,” he leers, “but this is better. He puts my brother away and I get to take it out on his sister. Once I’m through with you sweetie pie he’ll wish I’d shot him.”

Another guttural laugh as he looks into her eyes, wanting to relish in her fear. A chill races down his spine, slithering through his veins. Her eyes are empty. No fear, no panic, just flat pools of cinnamon. Raising the gun he presses it into her temple hard enough to bruise.

“Maybe you don’t understand the situation you’re in, but it’s time to be afraid you stupid bitch,” he snarls.

Quirking an eyebrow, she remains stoic. Another shiver wracks his body. Her expression doesn’t change but the air around her seeps malice. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, as fire erupts in his stomach and the world grows dim.

Heady fuzzy, mouth feeling like cotton, blurred eyes open. He tries lifting a hand but it won’t move. Struggling, he finds his body immobile, crying hoarsely when he can’t lift his head.

“You’re awake,” a pleased voice says. “I wasn’t sure you’d rouse after eating so much candy. Chocolate and honey cover the taste of henbane, which is what’s caused your muscles to go into a state of paralysis. Of course, if you aren’t properly treated it will eventually spread to your heart and lungs, killing you. But we’ll have plenty of time before that.”

Cecily St. Ange fills his vision, leaning over the table he’s prone on. Eyes alight with bloodlust she purrs darkly, “Now then, shall we start with needles or the blow torch?” 

Mock Orange Blossoms

I love this story. It's got a special place in my heart.

Behind the darkness of my eyelids I see flashing lights. The red and blue strobe of police cruisers parked in front of my house disturbs the quiet neighborhood as I wait patiently across the street. Officers search my home as the local district attorney, my brother, waits impatiently. Silently leaning against the hood of his black BMW I watch as he paces. He is agitated. It shows in the tension of his shoulders and the sharpness of his steps. Three to the left. Quick turn. Three to the right. Hard stop. Repeat. His world is askew because my home is being violated. How odd that he’s taking it worse than I am.

“Sir, we’re almost done searching,” a patrolman says to my brother, casting a fleeting glance in my direction.

“You’re almost done? Search it again. I don’t want any mistakes when you’re looking through my sister’s house. I want this mess straightened out.”

The patrolman’s face hardens as my brother yells, his mouth thinning into a tight line. I give him a small apologetic smile as he storms across the street. Thanks brother, you’re overprotective zeal is going to have every cop in town out for my blood.

“They’re trying their best Cedric,” I rebuke softly.

“Don’t say that. They’re digging through you’re house, Cecily, and for what?”

“For evidence of a crime.”

I had gotten home around six-thirty in the evening after finishing some last minute floral arrangements at my flower shop. My constant companion Ritter, a well-tempered german shepherd, entered the house first while I collected the mail. A low whine caught my attention as I sifted absentmindedly through bills, and I looked inside the house. Ears flat against his skull and hair rising on the scruff of his neck, Ritter had taken a firm stance in front of the door. Perplexed, I looked behind me at an empty street.

“What?” I asked, turning back to him.

He gave a growling bark in response, fixated on something within the house.

“Oh.”

Putting my mail back into the mailbox I pulled out my cell phone and typed in 911, my finger hovering over the call button just in case. I cautiously entered my house, leaving the front door open behind me for a hasty exit. Ritter gave another low growl, slowly padding towards the kitchen as I crept behind him. Peering around the doorway, I was greeted by an empty room. Another sharp bark and I knew the cause of his distress was somewhere in the kitchen. Nothing was open, there weren’t any mysterious packages, and my laundry was neatly folded on the kitchen table where I had left unfolded this morning.

Wait.

 Body tensing, I turned back to my laundry. Atop the table, sitting innocently, was my clean laundry folded into neat little piles. I stared at the clothes, unsure of what I was supposed to do. I mean, who breaks into your house to fold your laundry, an out of work maid? Ritter whined again, butting against my leg. I didn’t know how to relieve his distress when I wasn’t even sure of what happened myself. The only other person with a key to my house was my older brother Cedric, and he hardly folded his own laundry. It was then I noticed the absence of my green nightgown. A feeling of dread grew as I carefully picked through my laundry and the nightgown did not appear. I began to inspect the kitchen more closely, finally noticing the hole in the window of my kitchen door, just above the deadbolt. Ritter and I beat a hasty retreat from the house as I pressed the call button for 911.

“He gained entry through your kitchen door by breaking the window with this.” An officer explains holding up an evidence bag containing a flower pot from my back yard and the mangled remains of what had been pansies. The interloper not only violated my house but murdered my flowers. What had happened to common courtesy?

“I understand that you’ll need the flower pot for evidence, officer, but would it be possible for me to have the pansies back?”

“I’m sorry, but the flowers are evidence too. We need to check them for clothing fibers and hair,” he says with soft sympathy.

The thought of flowers I had lovingly grown for years being picked apart makes my chest tight with misery. It is said that in some cases people under severe emotional distress fixate on something small and give it a much greater meaning. His pity was victimizing.

“Thank you, officer,” Cedric says, shaking his hand before the officer walks away.

“Are they done?”

“Yeah, Cecily, they’re done for now.”

“Good. All I want right now is to have a cup of sweet tea and go to bed.”

“I bet. I guess we’d better go then.”

“Go?”

“Yeah, to my apartment so you can get some sleep,” he answers slowly, as if I were brain dead. “Y’know, the place where I live.”

“I have no intention of going with you when my house is right there.”

Leave me in peace so I can deal with this on my own without you pecking me to death like some nosey mother hen.

“You idiot! Someone broke into your house, went through your laundry, stole your clothes and you want to stay. Do you want to be murdered in your sleep?”

No, I want you to leave me alone so I can put my life back in order.

“I’m sorry Cedric, you’re right.” I keep my tone apologetic and drop my head, looking like a scolded child.

My brother sighs heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose, guilt already eating away at him.

“I shouldn’t have yelled. It’s just…I forget sometimes that you’re still naïve about how the world works.”

That’s very true Cedric, I don’t see the world the way you do.

“To your apartment?”

“That’s right little sister,” Cedric says, throwing an arm around my shoulders. “And I’m not going to leave your side until this thing is resolved.”

Isn’t that just lovely.

The next morning I sit in silent suffering as Cedric lectures me on the proper rules of safety while he drives me to work. If I see anyone suspicious call the police. If anything is missing at work call the police. If anything strange appears at work call the police. If anyone is harassing me call the police. I wonder if that includes bothersome older brothers.

“And another thing Cecily, if any—“

“That is enough Cedric,” I interrupt, “nothing is going to happen. Besides, I’ve got Ritter to protect me.”

“Yeah, right. As if that mutt was any help yesterday when someone was breaking into your house.”

A snort was the dog’s only response to my brother’s glare in the rearview mirror.

“It’s rather difficult for Ritter to protect the house if he’s across town in the flower shop with me.”

“I’m just saying, a real guard dog would have protected you.”

“Yes, I see your point. How dare Ritter not know how to be in two places at once.”

I decided not to tell Cedric that my dog was leaving a sizeable puddle of drool on the backseat cushions.

Tucked away in the back of my flower shop, safe from my brother for a few hours, I finally begin to feel a sense of peace return. I prefer to live quietly under the radar of society, and the thoughtless actions of the interloper who vandalized my home has dragged me into the spotlight. With my home a crime scene and my brother underfoot, my solitude is shattered. But among the flowers of my shop there is nothing but tranquility.

“Hello? Miss. St. Ange, are you here?”

I listen to the sound of the front door close as Ritter enters the main shop to investigate. If the person is safe he’ll be a lovable puddle; if not, he’ll eat them. The click of his nails against the tile and a tentative warning bark as he spots the person. Thump. Thump. Thump. Ritter’s tail beats a rhythm onto the floor. I’m safe to come out.

“Nice dog. Just a big softy, huh?” says a uniformed officer crouching on the floor, rubbing Ritter’s stomach.

“If you think he’s nice now, give him a treat and he’ll be your friend forever,” I say with a mock sigh. The officer looks up as I enter, a semi-embarrassed smile on his face.

“Bark worse than his bite?”

“Exactly. I’m much more dangerous than Ritter.”

The officer laughs as he stands, and I smile in pleasure at his humor.

“Is there something I can help you with, Officer?”

“As part of the investigation following the recent incident at your home, I’ve been sent to ask you for a list of your customers while my partner canvases the neighborhood for anyone who’s witnessed any strange activity lately.”

“I can’t give you a complete list, but I’m happy to provide you with the names of anyone who paid with credit card or check.”

“That would be perfect Miss. St. Ange, also if you could provide a list of everyone who frequents your shop often that would be a big help.”

 “Of course, if you’ll just wait a few minutes.”

I take my time in the back of the shop, easily finding the information in my meticulous records. The police think the interloper is probably one of my customers. That makes sense, considering it would be an easy excuse for a stalker to target their prey. While the police start to question people, I’ll make my own list of likely suspects. Collecting the information, I return to the front of the shop and give it to the officer, hiding my thoughts behind a perfect mask of polite kindness.

Mid-afternoon I stand in the back of the shop, heating water for tea, enjoying the lull in business. It gives me time to focus on the possible suspects that could be the interloper, and I’m happy for the opportunity. There is one candidate that stands out among the rest, but without solid evidence there isn’t anything I can do. The strong stench of cheap cologne overpowers the heady scent of flowers as Ritter growls. Sal Anders, a timid man in his mid to late thirties, is one of my best customers. He comes every week to buy a new bouquet of flowers.

“Good morning Mr. Anders,” I say entering the main shop. “How may I be of service today?”

“Oh! Miss. St. Ange, how are you? I’m here for my weekly flowers.”

He fidgets nervously in front of the counter and I give him a gentle smile.

“You bought flowers for this week three days ago Mr. Anders.”

“Did…did I? Well, you see, there was um, a different type of flower that I considered at the time, and uh, well, I’d like to get it now.”

He flushed and looked away.

“Of course, what did you have in mind?”

“I’d like this,” he says removing a small bush covered in white blossoms from its place on a table. “These are orange blossoms aren’t they?”

“Orange blossoms? Actually—“

“Orange blossoms mean eternal love and marriage,” he interrupts, “don’t they?”

“Yes, that’s what orange blossoms mean.”

“Then this is what I want.”

As I ring up the plant I notice his timid stare fixates on me every time my attention is drawn away from him. Glancing out of the corner of my eye, I notice a harshness to his expression that I’d never seen before.

“And who is it you are pledging eternal love to Mr. Anders?”

“I think it should be obvious by now Miss St. Ange. Cecily.” Reaching out he takes my hand in his, drawing it towards him. “Surely you’ve noticed.”

“I knew you were not indifferent to me, but to what extent I had no idea.”

Another disruption to the tranquility of my life. Dreadful little man. Just how much do you love me? Would it be enough to enter my house and draw attention to my life?

“I love you! I have for some time but have never had the courage to tell you. I really love you,” he rambles anxiously, “Some nights I follow you home and park in front of your house just so I can be near you. And yesterday I, I, I couldn’t help myself any longer! I went into your house.”

“Yes, I noticed. Thank you for folding my laundry, it was very thoughtful.”

It was you. How could you? I was nothing but kind to you. Well, that was the problem wasn’t it.

“I knew you’d understand Cecily. You’re so different from most people. So serene and thoughtful.”

I’m being punished for being a polite person. Aren’t people supposed to fixate on glamorous celebrities, not quiet florists?

“I understand all to well Mr. Anders. Uh, Sal.”

“Now that everything’s out in the open you and I can finally being our life together.”

“But that’s impossible,” I say, wrapping my other hand around his. “Because of what happened yesterday my brother is watching me very carefully. There’s no way we could be together without him growing suspicious.”

Face darkening; Mr. Anders tightens his grip on my hand. If I don’t take control of the situation something very unfortunate is going to happen.

“I doubt we’ll have to worry about your brother, Cecily, darling.”

“What do you mean?”

I’m pleased when my voice and expression stay neutral, but my body betrays me by going perfectly still. He doesn’t seem to notice, fortunately, the cold detachment spreading through me.

“He went with the police to my apartment, but I’m smarter than they are. I knew they would find me eventually, so I had the entire place set up with bombs. I had a home made bomb rigged to the door. If it was opened the pressure on the bomb would shift and it would explode. They set it off just before I came here,” his face is triumphant as he presents the news like a child looking for a parent’s recognition.

I must have heard him wrong because he obviously didn’t say…Why would he say…Blink. Unclench your jaw and breath. Now isn’t the time to perfect the art of becoming a statue. It’s time to shut down; to take my emotions and lock them away inside until I have time to deal with them. Once I’m safely free from Sal Anders. Rage and sorrow will not help me now. Cedric. Cedric, you cannot be dead. Lock away this feeling. Lock it away because Sal Anders is waiting.

“How terribly clever,” I say softly, giving him my most charming smile, “if we don’t have to worry about my brother, then why don’t we have some tea, and discuss the next step of our new lives.” Our new lives which consists of you going away forever and me finding my brother. “You’ll need to lay low for a while, of course, while I get some things, but I have the perfect place for you to stay hidden. Then we can go somewhere secret where the authorities won’t be able to find us, making everything perfect. Don’t you agree?”

“Somewhere secret for just the two of us.” A pause. “It sounds perfect.”

Thirty minutes outside of town, leaving behind the beat up truck I use for transporting supplies, Mr. Anders and I walk along an overgrown path through the woods. Ritter stays close to my side, occasionally giving a low growl. Mr. Anders wraps an arm around my waist, because he insists it’s what couples do, as I lead him deeper into the trees where people rarely go. The woods become denser and darker as old Cedar trees blot out the sun. But Sal Anders pays doesn’t seem to notice as he chatters without pause about the life we will have together, while I smile and make non-committal sounds of agreement. Of course you can move into my house. Who doesn’t want to honeymoon at the world’s biggest ball of yarn? Certainly we’ll get rid of Ritter once we’re married. I agree, he doesn’t seem to like you.

“How much farther do we have to go, dearest? I’m anxious to show you just how strong my feelings for you are,” he says with a suggestive squeeze of my hip.

“Not much farther at all,” I say forcing an inviting smile on my face as my internal organs shrivel. Pausing, I point to green stalks covered in purple flowers. “It might interest you to know that particular plant is what I use to make the tea you drank earlier.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes.”

I watch, humming in satisfaction, as he grabs several large handfuls and inspects them with interest. His face becomes a palate of emotion as curiosity turns to surprise followed by dread. Quickly dropping the flowers he grinds his palm against his thigh trying to rub his hand clean. I hide my grin behind a mask of concern, but it is difficult to keep the delight from my eyes.

“Is something the matter?”

“I don’t, I don’t feel good,” he wheezes.

“Oh dear, what’s the matter?”

“That plant. Do you—huckgh—do you know what it is?” he gags breaking into a sweat.

Panicked confusion colors my voice, drowning out the mockery, as I shake my head. “Is that important? Are you allergic?”

“Allergic,” he snarls, rounding on me with a stumble, “it’s poison! Can’t you recognize fucking monkshood?”

“Of course I can. It’s so toxic that just touching it is dangerous.”

His body trembles with every labored breath as anger gives way to suffering.

“Then why would you make—glaugh— Why make tea with it?”

“Because,” I say in a satisfied purr, “it’s much easier to kill someone when they willingly take the poison.”

 “What? What do you heaugugh—” he cuts off with a round of violent retching.

“Since you ingested the plant, Mr. Anders, fatality is assured and as it works through your system you will asphyxiate to death. Considering you are so fond of me, rest assured that the police will never find your body. This marshy area is known as a cedar bog, which happens to be highly acidic, and can decompose a human corpse within six months if it’s buried, easily disposing of your wretched little body.”

I sit several feet away watching while he writhes upon the ground, vomiting and moaning, as the toxins slowly shut down the circulation of his blood. Ritter curls against my side and I bury my fingers in his fur, petting contently. This is punishment for violating my home. The final judgment for his unmitigated gall. I wait until the convulsions start to slow and the moaning grows soft before speaking to him again.

“I was willing to ignore your crush, and I may have been convinced to overlook your invasion of my home, but how dare you, a rank amateur, even think of harming my brother,” voice shaking in low venomous fury I clench Ritter’s fur in a white knuckled grip. “This death is a mercy you don’t deserve. If there had been more time I would have made it last for days, and you would’ve screamed apologies. Sadly, this will have to do.”

He doesn’t respond and I don’t expect him to. Patting Ritter’s head I make my way back through the woods to get my shovel.

Forty minutes later Ritter and I enter my shop through the back door. My answering machine is flashing with sixty new messages and the phone is ringing shrilly, but it doesn’t matter. There was little satisfaction in the death of Sal Anders, a quick revenge lacking precision and style. Poison tea and hatred for the murder of my brother. It is weak in comparison to the things I can do, the things I have done, but it hardly matters. Abandoned even by my cold detachment, knowing it is the police calling to inform me of my brother’s death, I answer the phone feeling absolutely empty.

“CECILY! Thank God I’ve finally got you. I’ve been going out of my mind with worry. Where the hell are you? There’s a maniac named Sal Anders who goes to your shop that tried to blow me to mars and back, and you aren’t answering your phone, so I’m going out of my mind with worry. I told you to stay at the shop. Can’t you listen to the simplest of ord—”

“Cedric?” I interrupt my brother’s tirade, unable to keep the bewilderment out of my voice.

“Of course, Cedric, who else would talk to you like this? Does somebody else talk to you like this? Because if they do, so help me God, I’ll—”

“Cedric!” I clutch the counter for support as my legs go weak with happiness. “I’m fine. Really. I was just out with Ritter, we’re completely safe. But what’s this about you almost getting blown up?”

“Out with Ritter? I told you that dog was bad news. And getting blown up. Christ, Cecily, this Anders guy had his whole apartment rigged to blow the moment you open the door. We got really lucky because the bombs went off before anyone managed to get into the apartment. Some of the cops that were with me are pretty beat up, but nothing too serious. And where the hell are you?”

“Calm down, Cedric, you’re talking a mile a minute. I’m in the back of my shop.”

“Well let me in, damn it. I’ve been waiting out front going out of my mind for half an hour. And don’t think I’m going to let you off the hook for leaving.”

I don’t care brother; even your blustering can’t ruin my good mood. Entering the front of my shop, I unlock the front door and hang up the phone. Without a word, Cedric enters and pulls me into a tight hug. It doesn’t matter that he smells like smoke or that my face is being crushed next to his armpit, order has been restored to my world.

“Would you like some lemonade?” I ask as we walk into the main area of the shop.

“Sure, why not,” he answers leaning against the counter. “Hey, this is pretty. What is it?”

On the counter next to him is the abandoned plant that Sal Anders bought this afternoon. He wanted orange blossoms to symbolize eternal love, but that isn’t what he bought.

“Mock orange blossoms, they mean deceit.”