All for a Rose

by Jennifer Blackstream

  “Who… Who’s there?” the old man gasped finally. He swiveled his head in all directions, gaze scanning his surroundings.

  It won’t help to look, Daman mused. You’ll never guess.

  “I’m here!” came the same voice.

  “What…?”

  Daman waited for the man’s eyes to follow the voice down. A small purple bloom bounced its petals, tiny green leaves along its stem waving merrily in greeting.

  “Hi!” it said excitedly.

  The old man blinked. Daman settled closer to the ground, his amusement tempered by sympathy. It was hard to stay confident in one’s sanity when first confronted by a talking plant.

  “You… You’re a talking…flower?”

  “Yes!”

  Daman rolled his eyes. Of course it would be the violet. The seedling was always shouting.

  “But…how?”

  “I don’t know!” The plant tilted its head, its leaves stilling for a moment. “Are you going to stay here? Are there others?”

  “No, I… It’s only me.” The old man paused. “Is there anyone else here?”

  The flower swiveled its petals in a complete circle, slowly surveying the garden. “No.”

  Daman snorted. The stranger should have asked the petal if anyone lived here. The loud weed wasn’t the brightest color in the garden, and it tended to take questions rather literally.

  “Oh.”

  The violet fell silent and for a few long moments, it and the old man just stared at one another. Suddenly the old man brightened.

  “Hey, perhaps you could help me.”

  “I’d love to!”

  The old man’s face creased in amusement as he hunkered down next to the plant, old leather boots creaking with the movement. “I’m searching for a certain flower. A rose.”

  “The roses are closer to the manor, on the trellis,” the violet supplied graciously.

  The man glanced back at the house. “No, I’m talking about a special rose. A Rose of the Mist.”

  Daman’s muscles seized, shock singing through his body in crackling waves, followed by a hot flood of rage as realization dawned. Fool! Idiot! He threw the cuelebre through the air, the need for secrecy forgotten as he shot over the stone path. He slammed into the intruder, knocking him to the ground with enough force to make the beggar’s body bounce off the cobblestones of the path.

  The beggar choked on a scream, the sound heavily laced with pain. He rolled to a stop and groaned, raising a hand to the bloody gash on his head where it had struck the stones. Swaying slightly, he pushed himself to his hands and knees, struggling to roll over. A violent trembling seized him as his gaze fell on Daman.

  “How dare you!” Daman bellowed. “I let you into my home, I fed you, and thiss iss how you repay me?”

  “I-I-I-I-I d-didn’t m-mean any h-harm!” the beggar stuttered. “I-I-I only—”

  “You thought to ssteal the Rosse of the Misst?” Sibilance drew out his syllables. “My hosspitality issn’t enough for you, you would ssteal from me to increasse your own power?” He stared at the man’s poor clothing, seeing it now for the disguise it was. I’ve been fooled again! His tongue flicked out as he struggled to keep from rending the man to bloody shreds. A familiar taste was in the air. Something sweet, smoky…

  The witch. Daman went deathly still. His tongue flicked into the air, tasting it again, needing to be absolutely sure. Straw, aged wood, smoke, and old silk. The man smelled of the witch.

  Tender human flesh gave easily under Daman’s claws as he gripped the terrified man by the neck and hauled him upward until his feet left the ground. Wet gasping sounds came from the intruder’s throat and his hands scrabbled at Daman’s fingers as he struggled not to be strangled by the unforgiving hold. Eyes bulging like soap bubbles about to burst, face painted a dangerous shade of red, the man floundered in Daman’s grasp like a fish in its death throes.

  It was so hard not to squeeze, so hard not to give in to that urge to end the miserable thief’s life. He could send his body back to the witch as a warning.

  “If you want to sspare your life,” Daman said softly, struggling to get the words out past the burn of his own anger, “you will tell me why the witch needss the rosse. What is sshe planning now?”

  The man gurgled, eyes bulging from his skull. Daman gritted his teeth and relaxed his grip enough so the man could speak.

  “I-I d-don’t know w-what y-you’re talking about!” the miserable creature rasped, his words grating past his damaged throat. “I-it is only a r-rose!”

  “It iss not a mere rosse, as well I ssuspect you know.” He tightened his grip again in small increments, the blood under the man’s skin turning his flesh purple. “You will tell me what your mistress is planning. Or you will die here in great agony.” He released the pathetic intruder, letting him crash to the stones. Part of him wanted the man to try and run, wanted the thrill of the chase he hadn’t experienced in far too long, a release for his perpetual rage.

  “I didn’t know it was magic!” the man gasped, body curling in on itself in pain. “I swear! I have no mistress! I know no witch!” Tears streamed down the false beggar’s face and he scrambled to kneel at the base of Daman’s body, his entire frame trembling as his knees left a smear of blood on the stone through his thin clothing. “My daughter asked for the rose, she showed me a picture. I only wanted to bring this gift back to her—she asked for so little.”

  His voice was hoarse, every other word nearly lost as it was forced past the bruising of his throat, but he continued to ramble. He pressed his forehead to the ground, abasing himself in front of Daman. “I thought my fortune had returned and even though she said she needed nothing, I demanded that she ask for something—anything. I’ve been such a failure, I only wanted to prove that I could still give her the life she deserves.”

  “She has given you a pathetic story that will seal your fate if you do not abandon it.” Daman slid back a few paces, giving the man some space to collect himself. His story was a bald-faced lie—the Rose of the Mist was as well-known among magic users as it was rare. The potential in its delicate blossom was enough to make even the most moral of witches salivate and think thieving thoughts.

  He cursed himself. He should have known something was amiss after the man had left through the back door to leave through the gardens instead of leaving out the way he’d come. He should have scented the witch on him sooner. He should have known she would try something again. His temper rose higher, choking him until it was all he could do not to crush the thief where he lay.

  “I thought one of my ships had escaped the misfortune of the others—that perhaps the pirates hadn’t taken everything from me,” the man rambled. “We lost our house, our home. I was such a wealthy man, a provider. Now I am too poor to buy nice dresses for my daughters, to offer a proper dowry. I’ve failed at so much.” He sobbed. “It was only a rose.”

  Every word out of the man’s mouth confirmed Daman’s suspicions and he leaned over the man, claws tingling. He’d heard that story before, listened to a woman give him that same sorry recounting of her fate. He eyed the old man. Yes…now he remembered. This fool was the witch’s father. He’d seen him when he’d gone to investigate her tale of woe, the day he’d discovered her lies.

  His tail lashed from side to side and he pushed himself higher into the air, towering over the simpering beggar. His forked tongue flicked out of his mouth.

  What color the man had left drained from his face and left him white as a ghost. A tiny voice of doubt whispered through his mind. Perhaps… Perhaps the fool truly hadn’t known about the rose. Considering who his daughter was, the poor man could be an innocent patsy, someone to take the fall for the theft if caught. His fear was real enough.

  Daman clenched his clawed hands into fists, concentrating on the bite of his own talons as they dug into his flesh. He didn’t want her father. He wanted the witch. For the thousandth time, he wished he could go after her himself. If only he could t
ake his human form one more time, just long enough to pass through the town without frightening innocent villagers. He wanted to see her face before he stained his hands with her blood.

  But she would never come back here, never risk his wrath. Daman paused, gaze sliding to the man groveling on the ground. Unless…

  Daman coiled his lower body tighter, bringing his chest closer to the ground so he didn’t tower quite so high about the terrified man. “You tried to steal something very valuable from me after I was kind enough to offer you hospitality. I would be within my rights to keep you here as my prisoner to punish you for your crime.” He took a deep breath, holding on to his temper as best he could. “But I am willing to make you a deal.”

  “A d-deal?” the terrified man stammered.

  “Yes. A deal.” Daman gripped the stones beneath him, trying to keep his voice calm. “Go home. Tell your daughter what has transpired. If she will agree to return here with you—and stay here for as long as I so desire—I will reward you with riches and allow you to go home and begin rebuilding all that you lost.”

  Daman remembered the witch, remembered how badly she’d wanted money, wanted the life she’d lost after her father’s money had been taken. “Understand me, I will make you a rich man. Rich enough to climb even higher in society than you were. Tell your daughter that and tell her that her time here will not be forever and no harm will come to her.”

  Those last words tasted foul on his tongue, but he forced them out. More than the witch’s death, he wanted her to lift the curse. If she would agree to do so, he would spare her life. “Make it clear to her that if she refuses my offer, then you must come back here alone and remain here as my prisoner.”

  The trembling of the old man’s body grew worse, until it was a wonder the flesh didn’t fly from his very bones. “What do you want with my daughter?”

  She doesn’t deserve your protection. Daman tried to keep his voice level. “That is my concern.”

  “I… I understand.” The old man half-collapsed on the ground, his head apparently having grown too heavy to hold up anymore.

  “Good.”

  Excitement swirled in Daman’s veins, anticipation of finally having the leverage to force the witch to break her curse filling him with hope. A deep satisfaction curled inside of him. She’d once begged to stay here, claimed she wanted to be with him more than anything. Well, she would get her wish.

  She would stay here all right—but it would not be in the lap of luxury that she’d wanted so badly. She would lift her curse on him or he would make her suffer. There were things far worse than death—especially for witches who pined for the finer things in life. “Go to the front of the house and wait there. I’ll send a horse and carriage to take you home.”

  Without waiting for a response, Daman shot down the path through the garden, riding a wave of adrenaline, feeling light enough to fly. Birds flew screaming into the air, and dirt scattered in all directions from the savage thrusting of his tail as he hurtled over the field in the direction of the stable.

  He’d had no need for horses in some time, but he’d never been able to part with the last one. The ebony stallion had been the jewel of his stable, completely fearless—an attribute that had never been more clear than when it had been the only animal in his stable not to shriek in terror the day Daman had come to release them after the curse had taken his legs. Even now, with his heart pounding and what he knew must be a wild light in his eyes, the beast blinked at him, not bothering to stop chewing its hay as Daman entered its stall. Its velvety nose quivered as it snorted at Daman—unimpressed.

  The equine was reluctant to leave his lunch, but he amiably allowed Daman to lead it out of the stall and over to a carriage covered in a year’s worth of dust. An undeniable feeling of indignation radiated from the beast as Daman hitched it to the carriage without cleaning it off first, but after a few tosses of its head, it snorted in resignation.

  It took mere minutes for Daman to drag the heavy carriage from the confines of its dusty shelter and get the straps fastened snugly around the mild-mannered beast. He had to be particularly careful in his work, determined not to injure his noble companion with the sickle-shaped claws curling from his fingertips. When the final strap was secure, Daman breathed a little easier, patting the animal on the rump.

  Cool scales slid over Daman’s shoulder, followed by the flicker of a slim pink tongue.

  “That wasssn’t very niccce.”

  The horse’s ears pressed flat against its head, but that was the only indication it gave that it registered the cuelebre’s presence. Daman gave it a swat on its silky hindquarters. The stallion shook out its mane and rolled one eye at the cuelebre as it trotted off down the path. The beast was well-trained, it would go to the front of the main house where it had once waited for Daman in his human form on those occasions he’d seen fit to go into town. The carriage, while unused for some time, was solidly built and barely swayed as it was jostled down the path.

  “You know nothing of this situation. I have reasons for what I’ve done.”

  “You want the witch.”

  Daman faced the cuelebre with renewed interest, flexing his hands until his claws clicked against one another. “What do you know of it?”

  “I know what a naga isss. You aren’t in thisss form by choiccce.”

  The door to the stable creaked in protest as Daman’s hand tightened on the handle. He inhaled slowly, closing his eyes and counting to ten before closing the door with as much restraint as he could manage. “What is your purpose here?”

  “I am here to help.” The cuelebre tapped its chin with the tip of its tail, contemplating Daman for several long seconds. “You have a plan,” it said finally.

  Daman waited, but the cuelebre said no more. Its black eyes were reflective black pearls, offering Daman no hint of its thoughts, only shining his own image back at him. “I do have a plan. But I will not require your help.”

  The cuelebre bobbed its head. “That’sss how it goesss. The bessst laid plansss…”

  Chapter Three

  “Everything is about to get better. I can’t believe this nightmare is almost over.”

  Maribel remained silent as she stood stirring the pot over the fire, adding a dash of dried spices now and then. The aroma of salty chicken broth, fragrant onion, and tender carrots and celery fresh from the garden wafted up to envelope her in a pleasant, steamy embrace. Chicken soup was one of her father’s favorites, a simple, but comforting recipe. It would be exactly what he needed after his long journey, especially if he’d had to travel at night. Nothing chased the chill from one’s bones like a good soup.

  “We’ll have a real roof over our heads, not this miserable patchwork,” Corrine continued. “There will be people all around us all the time. We’ll have true friends this time, not people who will abandon us at the first sign of shifting fortune. Our clothes will fit properly and we’ll never be hungry again.”

  Maribel forced herself to relax her death grip on the wooden spoon she held before she snapped it into useless twigs. She doesn’t mean to be insulting. She’s just used to a certain lifestyle. She needs a different lifestyle to feel secure. It’s no reflection on how hard Father and I work to make her comfortable.

  Squaring her shoulders, Maribel forced a smile to her face as she glanced over to where Corrine sat huddled under a thick quilt beside the fire. The chair had been pushed farther back, a testament to caution after Corrine’s last episode. “If you’re hungry, I can fix you a bowl of soup? It’s already done, I’m just letting it cook longer to make the flavor richer.”

  “Do you remember our first winter here? How cold it was, how fast our food ran out?” Corrine rubbed the corner of the quilt against her cheek, the way she’d cuddled her coverlet when she was a child. Tendrils of fraying threads stuck out from the corners, betraying the blanket for the second-hand charity it was. Nothing like the silks and furs Corrine and Maribel had snuggled into when they were kids. She tugg
ed at it, pulling it tighter around her, the damaged skin of her injured hand stretching with each movement.

  “I remember.” Maribel stopped stirring, lost in the dancing flames of her cooking fire. Cold touched her back, the memory of that winter still fresh in her mind despite the cozy atmosphere in the cottage.

  “Strange that the winters never seemed quite so cold before. Back at home there was always a roaring fire, plenty of hot tea and warm meals. I remember we used to sit at the windowsill wrapped up in furs and blankets, holding hot chocolate and watching the snow fall. It was always so beautiful, and those are some of my best memories. But here…”

  Corrine pulled the quilt up over her head until she peered out of it through an opening the size of her palm, her voice muffled by the worn fabric when she spoke. “I thought I was going to die, Maribel. The wind came through a thousand cracks in this miserable shack and each one was a knife cutting into my skin. For a moment I was the same pathetic creature I was as a child. At Death’s door. Not strong enough to live.”

  “A lot different then now, isn’t it?” Maribel broke in, trying to snap Corrine out of her depressing reverie. She winced at her tone and focused on the soup, stirring faster as if her body was trying to keep up with her racing thoughts. She hadn’t meant for her voice to be so sharp, but she’d heard Corrine say the same words so many times. Her sister was forever trapped in the memory of that one winter, a victim no matter how good her life became. Corrine, I love you, but, demons take it, things aren’t that bad!

  Corrine’s silence was so thick and sudden that it sucked the ambient noise right out of the room. Maribel yanked the spoon from the soup and rapped it violently on the edge of the pot. The loud clanging made her nerves spasm, the sound like a voice in her head shouting at her that she was losing her temper and she’d regret it.

  Get a hold of yourself, Maribel.

  Slowly, she put the spoon on the table beside her, careful to lay it down gently. She concentrated on the warmth sizzling against her face, the almost-burn that came from standing this close to the fire. The steam from the soup wafted over her, chasing back the memories Corrine was trying so hard to drag out of her.