All for a Rose (6 page)

A split second later, Daman had snatched the teapot from the hook, and stood blinking at it through a red haze.

“Another word,” he said hoarsely, “and I will shatter you into dust.”

The teapot was silent, completely still. As always, Daman had a moment where reality wavered, where he wondered if he’d gone insane. Perhaps the teapot hadn’t been talking. Perhaps it had never talked. Perhaps his mind had grown addled in his isolation and talking crockery was merely a symptom of his growing madness.

Footsteps echoed on the stairs leading down to the kitchen. Daman hastily put the teapot down on the table and rushed to hide in the hallway beyond the small eating area. His temper died as he held his breath, waiting for the first glimpse he’d have of another person in over a year.

From his shadowed position behind the partial wall, he watched as the beggar wandered in, led by a flicker of light that must have been the
cuelebre
moving too quickly for his eyes to follow. The man’s knitted brows parted as he spotted the meal, his pupils dilating and an audible rumble coming from his stomach. A small prayer of thanks fell from his lips as he practically collapsed into the chair at the table.

A pleasant warmth spread over Daman as the man consumed the meager feast with the gusto of someone who hadn’t eaten in days. It had been a long time since he’d brought happiness to someone else, and he allowed himself to cherish the feeling, holding the moment to him so he could use it in meditations later.

“I don’t know who set this meal out,” the man said aloud after he’d finally slowed down. He pulled his tattered hat from his head. “If truth be told, I can’t even be certain it was for me. But whoever you are, wherever you are, please know that I am grateful.”

Daman leaned against the wall, allowing himself a flare of pride. Hope rose like a rare bird inside of him, delicate, but welcome.

Perhaps…

“Go out and ssspeak with him.”

Daman snatched the
cuelebre
from the air beside him and held him solidly against his chest, using his other hand to cover its mouth. Given the disparity in their sizes, his hand practically encased the
cuelebre
’s entire head and he held the miserable creature still, holding his own breath as he waited to see if the old man had heard.

Blessedly unaware that he wasn’t alone, the beggar stood from the table and wandered out of the kitchen. Shoulders sagging in relief, Daman followed at a safe distance, keeping the squirming
cuelebre
firmly in his grip. Every once in a while the man would call out, asking if anyone was home, and the
cuelebre
would renew his struggles, but Daman remained silent. It was a strange feeling, having someone in his home again. A living thing that wasn’t…well, a thing.

“All right,” the man finally called out. “Whoever you are, it seems you prefer to remain anonymous. Please know that you will forever have my gratitude.”

Something in Daman’s chest eased, and he took a deeper breath than he had in a long time. The
cuelebre
renewed its struggle in his grip and Daman glanced down. The
cuelebre
stared hard at him and Daman could feel the creature willing him to talk to his visitor. Daman hesitated, but shook his head. He would rather keep the pleasant memory he had than risk poisoning it with the man’s fear should he see exactly who—or what—he was thanking.

Remaining silent, Daman stayed with him as the man meandered through the garden. He trailed a hand over some of the new buds, green leaves barely parting to reveal the brilliant pinks, yellows, and blues that would soon light up the garden. The air was already perfumed with the promise of new life and Daman couldn’t help but draw in the spring air, filling his lungs. He’d been spending so much time inside, so much time meditating, trying to slow the progress of the curse, that he hadn’t appreciated nature’s fresh bounty. He sketched a mental note to start practicing his meditation outdoors.

“Hello!” a voice called out.

The man shouted, one hand flying to his chest as if to stop his heart from escaping. Daman winced in sympathy. He’d had a similar reaction the first time he’d wandered through this garden after the witch’s curse. The amount of raw magic the foolish magic user had poured over the land had not only affected things like crockery. It had also seeped into the soil of the garden—with similarly odd results.

“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 take 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.”