“… he said I had to ingratiate myself.” Tor sits on a couch in the far corner of the room. The place appears to be an abandoned library of sorts.
“What does that mean?” His nymph girlfriend curls herself in his lap.
Rows of shelves muffle their voices, and I strain to hear.
“It means I have to be nice to her.”
The nymph huffs. I figure Tor must be talking about me, but then I imagine I can’t be the only person he’s rude to.
“Sirocco,” Tor admonishes. “If we’re going to get anything accomplished, we have to do this.”
“Fine.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t enjoy it.”
She laughs. “Better not. I’m your girlfriend.”
They kiss, and I wrinkle my nose. I wave to Riddle and whisper, “Get up here.”
He drops down onto the floor. He might as well have lowered himself into the pit of despair. Good thing I’m a dryad and have plenty of practice not making a sound in the forest. I slide down the stairs, quiet, without a creak.
Riddle skitters around the bookshelves and peeks through the slots. Like an owl on the wing, I swoop him up, covering his mouth before he can give us away.
“So is he still giving the necromancer trouble?” Sirocco says.
That stops me in my tracks. The necromancer.
“Yes. Which is why we have to get the nightshade.”
Nightshade is a poison. Most any creature all the way from Dread to the ends of the Enclave could die from a small dose, or at least would want to die. We usually discourage the beautiful flowered plants from growing near our trees, but with a blight around, nightshade could be prevalent.
That familiar whisper in my ear sounds more awake. Daylight wanes, and the count’s presence grows stronger. Nightshade doesn’t kill a vampire, but it…
While Tor and Sirocco talk, I feel a tugging from within, as if the count is having an inner conflict. Or a mental fight. His reach diminishes, then stretches, as though he fights to stay with me. His warning rings clear in my head, Stay away…
Then Jean-Claude is pulled back, and finally, he’s gone. And I feel alone again. Goddess, I wish Harlow were here with me. I haven’t seen him since earlier, when he waved to me down the hall during my morning class. We don’t have any subjects together since he’s older.
Emptiness stabs my insides.
Jean-Claude was about to say something. He was about to tell me something about the nightshade. But he’d been cut off. And of course I wonder why.
It has to be the necromancer.
Panic floods my heart. The count is in trouble. But I know, deep down, that even if I go to Jean-Claude, it won’t be him. Not really. The necromancer is, little by little, taking over Jean-Claude and I have to do something about it.
Tor and Sirocco know what’s going on, or at least they know more than I do. And whatever they do know, I intend to find out.
EIGHTEEN♀♥♂♂♂♂EVERLY
One of the count’s rules repeats in my head as I follow Tor and Sirocco.
Stay away from the city of EverDark.
Yet, here we are, skittering through the forest, hiding behind tree after tree, cutting a path to the city.
Riddle clings to me like a backpack as I stalk the two. They follow a wide, worn trail that travels through the forest while we weave through the thicker foliage. I know how to keep from making noise and hide from prying eyes, and the sleeping timber trucks are a means of cover. There are no needles on the redwood branches, and the smattering of green is poisonous plants. But the deadly bushes are all that seems to grow here. All other trees, bushes and shrubbery have died or are under a deep winter.
EverDark forest is famous for being called The Dead Forest, as in “anything living doesn’t last long.” Some say these woodlands are haunted. As I stalk the couple, preventing my feet from making noise, I can see how people might get that impression.
Dead-looking trees. Gray sky. No chirping of birds. No scrambling of foraging animals. It looks like a graveyard of redwoods.
When I press my fingers into the grooves of bark, there’s a low humming current of life. The forest isn’t dead. It’s sleeping. But it’s the deepest sleep I’ve ever felt. Underneath the roots is a long scar of pain. It speaks of ancient battles. A vein of power ripped from its source. These trees don’t sleep from a normal winter, they’re recovering from war. If I listen, I can hear their whispers, their warnings.
“Here it is.” Sirocco’s voice brings me out of the trance.
Shit.
They’ve walked down further along the path, almost to the place where they could see me.
The trees are large enough to consume my silhouette, but at certain angles, my purple dress would stand out from the gray desolation.
Branches dip down, grasping my hair.
Sirocco drops down to a beautiful green bush with bulbous flowers and black berries.
Nightshade.
She pulls on some latex gloves and picks the berries, laying them carefully in a container. When she’s finished, she closes the box and stands.
“You found them,” Tor says.
She nods. “He’ll know what to do with them.”
“Did you get enough?” Tor raises the opaque container and peers at it.
“Yeah, for sure. Just a few will do damage. Even a vampire won’t wake up if given too many.”
Cold fear shoots through my chest. They’re talking about Jean-Claude. They must be. Anger burns inside me as I realize they’re working with the necromancer.
“Maybe I’ll keep a few, then.”
