The retiree should have smiled. Men always smiled when she turned her charm on them, but this OP barely glanced in her direction as he mumbled, “Garden shop’s closed.”
“Oh, thank you, sir, but I don’t want to shop. Well, not at this moment I don’t,” she added automatically. “I was just wondering what’s going on with the roses. Isn’t it weird that they’re blooming right now?”
“It is, young lady. But it’s weirder even than that. Apparently we are the victims of a rose thief.”
“Rose thief? I don’t understand.” I didn’t even know there could be such a thing, she added silently.
He did look at her then, and his annoyed expression lightened. “We don’t understand either. But someone stole all of the roses from the beds bordering Woodward Park, and replaced them with these. They’re not even a true rose.” He pointed with disgust at a bush not far from them. Aphrodite followed his finger, and felt a jolt of shock when she realized what she was seeing.
All of the rose bushes that framed this side of Woodward Park were in full bloom, even though their leaves were shriveled and their stalks twisted and spindly.
Each rose was completely black.
These roses had an almost liquid look that made them glisten in the wan streetlight.
Aphrodite felt a sharp spear of fear. “When did this happen?”
“That’s the strangest part of all of this. It had to have happened this afternoon—only a few hours ago. But no one saw anything until it was too late.”
“What did you mean when you said they aren’t even true roses?”
“There is no such thing as a true black rose. A rose doesn’t have the correct genes for the color black.”
While the old man talked, Aphrodite moved closer to the rose bushes, really looking at them. She put out a tentative finger, barely brushing one of the blooms.
And jerked her hand back fast.
Aphrodite stared at the roses. The blossoms were all wrong—they felt slick and cold—like no rose she’d ever known, but it was the bushes themselves that caused her breath to catch in fear. The stalks of the bushes—every one of the bushes—weren’t actually twisted like they’d looked from a distance. Closer up it was obvious that they were bent, curling sinuously toward the ground in a snakelike fashion, giving the appearance of tendrils made of darkness and thorns …
“So, though they can be manipulated—watered with ink, sprayed with paint, etcetera, a black rose is genetically impossible to create at this time,” finished the old gardener.
“Were these watered with ink or sprayed?” Aphrodite asked, the sickness in her gut already answering her question.
“Neither. We’re completely befuddled about what’s gone on here, but we are sure a crime has been committed.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope you find your rose thief.” She hastily turned away, hurrying back to her friends.
“Well? What’s going on?” Z asked.
“It’s bad. Come on, let’s get into the park away from all these Garden Center people. They do not need to overhear this.”
Aphrodite led the way up the wedding cake–tiered Rose Garden levels to the pebbled path that emptied into Woodward Park. Vintage-looking street lights illuminated soft yellow bubbles that the four of them passed quickly through, moving into the heart of the park that used to be filled with old-growth oaks and huge mazes of azaleas.
Last year’s fire in the park had destroyed much of that, but the city—with the financial backing of Zoey Redbird’s new North American High Council—had replanted vigorously all during the past year. Now the park had a fresh-faced look, even in the winter.
“Hey, no one’s around. Tell us what was going on back there,” Z said.
“Not yet. We’re not there yet.” Aphrodite kept walking. She had to. She was compelled to. As soon as she understood that she was being led, her palms started to get sweaty and her stomach roiled as her headache began to build. I don’t want it to happen out here in the middle of the park! Her mind shrieked, but Aphrodite didn’t give voice to her internal misery. She was used to it.
It was all part of being a Prophetess of Nyx.
Finally, they came to the stony ridge that looked down on the pool and grotto where Aurox’s sacrifice had entombed Nyx.
Everything appeared deceptively normal.
The wall had been finished in the middle of the summer. Made of the same rock as the ridge and the grotto, it looked more like a natural formation than a barricade to keep out stupid humans who thought leaving tokens and lighting candles around the sealed cave was a good idea.
Good idea?
Just the thought of anyone worshipping Neferet made Aphrodite sick.
If Neferet ever managed to escape, those same humans—the ones who considered it romantic and tragic what had happened to the “Goddess of Tulsa,” which is what a cult following on the Internet had dubbed Neferet—those worshippers would be the first to be eaten by the Tsi Sgili and her tendrils of Darkness. Morons and idiots, the lot of them.
So, with the help of the House of Night, a wall had been built around the grotto. It began at one end of the rocky ridge, grew to a height of ten feet, and formed a sinuous half-moon shape, which curved back toward the ridge, attaching beside the stone stairway.
The landscape architect had added a pergola topping it, and covered it with fast-growing, tenacious wisteria. Now, even in the winter, the vines, interspersed with thick cedar planks, almost completely obscured the view of the sealed grotto. In another year or so, it would be impossible to glimpse the tomb that rested silently beneath it.
Aphrodite looked around for the iron bench she remembered, and went to it. She sat and then gazed up at her confused friends.
“First, the roses. The OP at the garden believe someone ripped off their normal rose bushes and traded them for super weird, twisted roses that are in full bloom right now. In the middle of winter. Um, and the thief did all of that this afternoon at roughly the same time Z was being warned by Kalona that something bad was in the works. But no one saw a thing.”
“Wait, they think someone ripped off a bunch of rose bushes? This afternoon? Why would anyone do that?” Z asked.
“Anyone didn’t. If the OP actually thought about it they’d realize that it’s impossible for someone to dig up hundreds of rose bushes, in daylight, and replace them with crazy roses—all without being seen. But they’re distracted because of the color of the blooms—a color that is genetically impossible for a rose to produce.”
“What color? It was hard to tell from a distance,” Z said.
“Black. Each bloom was completely black.”
“Magick. Someone has to be using magick,” Stark said. “But why?”
“Sadly, I think I know why. The roses aren’t just black. They’re slick and cold. I touched one. It was like you’d imagine touching a snake would be—except snakes aren’t cold and wet and disgusting.”
“I don’t like where this is heading,” Z said, looking as pale as Aphrodite felt.