Goddess of the Rose (5 page)

Sevillana's amazing blue eyes pierced her. “You are wise for one who is so young. For me, it took many years to understand that there is no negative connotation in what you say. Roses and blood do share many of the same traits, which is, truly, a wondrous thing.”

Mikki took a deep breath.

“How do you know about roses and blood?” she blurted.

The old woman's answering smile was wise.

“Here we are!” The nurse hurried into the room carrying a tray filled with sterile instruments. She was followed by a female doctor Mikki recognized as being one of the new residents. “Doctor Mason is going to get you fixed right up.”

The doctor glanced at Mikki. “Are you a relative?”

“No, I'm Jill Carter's assistant.”

“You'll have to leave.”

Mikki nodded and looked apologetically at Sevillana. “I have to go. It was really nice to meet you, signora.”

“Wait a moment, my dear.” Sevillana reached for her purse, which was lying next to her on the examination bed.

“Ma'am, if she's not a relative, she really must leave,” Dr. Mason said.

“I understand that, young woman. I am not asking that she stay. I simply have something I must give her,” Sevillana said in a tone a mother would use to admonish an errant child.

Without waiting for a response from the doctor, the old woman's uninjured hand disappeared into the bowels of her huge, baglike purse, and when it emerged, it was holding a small glass bottle. The bottle was no longer than Mikki's little finger, and it was shaped like a slender tube. There were knobby protrusions up and down the length of it. Mikki thought the design looked vaguely familiar.

“Here, my dear. I want you to have this.”

Sevillana placed the vial in her hand, and when she touched it, Mikki realized why it looked familiar. It was a perfect glass replica of the stem of a rose, complete with tiny thorns.

“It is a perfume I had made for me when I last visited the island of Crete off the coast of the always lovely Greece. In the past, it has brought me good luck and more than a little magick. My wish is that it may do the same for you.”

Mikki's hand closed over the bottle. “Thank you, Sevillana,” she called as the nurse ushered her toward the door.

“Remember . . .”
The old woman whispered after Mikado.

The door closed with a soft click.

CHAPTER FOUR

M
IKKI'S apartment was a sanctuary. She'd signed the long-term lease five years before and hadn't been sorry once. She lived on the top floor of the small complex. It was a spacious, quiet place, but she hadn't decided on it because of its interior. She'd chosen it because of its location. The view from her wrought iron balcony, which wrapped from her living room past her bedroom, looked directly out on Woodward Park. Woodward Park adjoined her favorite place in the world—the Tulsa Municipal Rose Gardens.

Mikki checked her watch as she stepped onto the balcony. Almost six thirty. She had just enough time. She drank in the wonderful view of Woodward Park and noted that nothing wavered or shifted in the air. The park was simply the park. Briefly, Mikki strained to catch even an echo of a lonely roar, but except for the occasional car that whizzed past on 21st Street and the workers who were putting finishing touches on the stage for the play scheduled to open in a couple nights, everything was silent and ordinary. The October evening was pleasantly cool. The sun had just set, but the sky seemed reluctant to relinquish the remnants of its light. Slate blended with mauve and coral in the fading day. Mikki knew the colors would wane quickly, though. Tonight there would be a new moon, which meant the only light afforded by the night sky would be from its stars.

She mentally shook herself. She'd better stop daydreaming and hurry if she was going to get to the restaurant before her date.

The breeze stirred and Mikki breathed deeply, savoring the sweet scent of roses—her roses. The balcony held five large clay pots in which lived five exquisite examples of expertly tended rosebushes. All five were the same type of rose. Mikki had long ago given up mixing her roses at home; she knew what worked best for her—consistency and meticulous care. Her success surrounded her. All five bushes were in full bloom, and the blooms were more than just the typical last-minute blossoming show before winter called them to dormancy. Her Mikado Roses were miraculous.

The outer petals of the fat blooms were red, but not just any red. The scarlet of Mikki's roses had been compared to rubies, fire, and blood. As the blooms unfurled, the brilliant red merged with gold until the base of the rose appeared to have been dipped in a glass of expensive sherry.

Mikki had been winning the amateur category of the annual All-American Rose Selections Garden Show for the past five years. Her co-volunteers at the Tulsa Rose Gardens liked to joke that no one could beat her because she had some kind of magic potion she poured on her roses. Each year they would make a big production of begging her to share her secret.

Mikki smiled and accepted their praise—but she never joked about having a secret rose potion.

Mikki put down the watering bucket and the little toolbox that held her various pruning sheers and other rose gardening implements. She approached the first bush. Frowning, she pinched off a small leaf that to the untrained eye looked healthy, but to Mikki's experienced gaze spelled a potential problem.

“Powdery mildew,” she said with disgust. “I knew the last couple nights had been unseasonably cool, but I thought the temperatures during the day would offset any negative effects.” She caressed one of the blooms lightly, speaking to the bush as if it were a child. “It's too early in the season. You won't want me to bring you inside yet. I guess I'll have to start covering you at night.”

Moving from plant to plant, Mikki inspected her charges. She found no more offending leaves, but she made a mental note to check the forecast before she went to bed. If the temperature was going to drop to anywhere around forty degrees, she would cover the roses.

Returning to the toolbox, she selected a medium-size pair of shears. Quickly making her choice, she moved to the rosebush that sat closest to the sliding glass doors leading to her bedroom. With sure, experienced motions, she held the stem of a delicate, just opening bloom, and in one quick motion made a vertical cut in the straight, green stem. She lifted the bloom to her nose and drank in its intoxicating fragrance.

“I will love wearing you in my hair tonight,” she told it.

Once more she returned to her toolbox. Gently, she placed the cut rose on the balcony beside it. Then she put away the pair of shears and searched through the box for the final tool she would need that evening.

She found the pocketknife quickly. It was small, but her toolbox was familiar and well ordered. Nothing could hide within it for long. Mikki opened the knife. The little blade was honed to a razorlike edge, which glinted dangerously in the fading light. Methodically, Mikki opened the bottom drawer of the box. Extracting a small packet, she tore open the alcohol wipe. First she swabbed the palm of her left hand, and then she cleaned the already-sterile-looking blade.

She could hear her mother's familiar voice speak from her memory,
You can never be too careful, Mikado. There's no need to get an infection.

Satisfied that both surfaces were clean, Mikki discarded the alcohol pad. She glanced around her. Even though her balcony faced a busy street, the apartment's height and the thick foliage of her rosebushes coupled to prevent any passersby from catching much more than a glimpse of her. But on the evening of the new moon, Mikki wanted to avoid even the possibility of being glimpsed.

Nothing was stirring around her except the breeze.

Mikki held her left hand in front of her. The skin of her palm was mottled with slender white scars. She glanced at the palm of her right hand. Yes, she had remembered correctly. Amidst the little bone-colored lines on that palm was a more recent mark, still pink and newly healed, which assured her that this month it was her left palm she must use.

Without further hesitation, Mikki pressed the sharp blade against her left palm, and with a practiced, precise movement, cut herself.

Blood welled instantly, and Mikki was suddenly reminded of Sevillana's injury. It had been in exactly the same place, only deeper and wider. And then with a jolt, she realized what else she had seen on the old woman's palm. Bone-colored scars, slender, well healed, and familiar. Mikki felt a wave of dizziness and closed her eyes quickly on the spinning balcony.

How could the old woman have the same cutting scars as she? It was only the women in Mikki's family who practiced this ritual, and they had done so in strict secrecy for generations. And since her mother had died the year before, Mikki had thought she was the last of her kind, the only person left in the world who knew the secret of blood roses. Mikki had to find out more about her. First thing Monday morning she would pull Sevillana's patient record and get her address. She must see the old woman again.

The vertigo-like feeling faded, and Mikki opened her eyes. Blood was pooling in her palm. Before it could drip onto the balcony, Mikki plunged her hand into the watering bucket. At first the cut stung, but the coolness of the water quickly turned soothing. Mikki swished her hand around, watching the water blush with her blood.

After a few minutes she pulled her hand from the water, shook it and wrapped it tightly in a strip of gauze she pulled from the open bottom drawer of the toolbox. She knew the bleeding would stop soon, leaving a narrow, unobtrusive scab she would cover for the next couple days with a flesh-colored Band-Aid. If the other volunteers at the Rose Gardens noticed it, Mikki would simply smile her way through their admonishments about being more careful when she pruned and making sure she always wore her thick leather gloves.

But few people ever noticed such a small, insignificant cut.

Carrying the bucket with her uninjured hand, she carefully divided the water among the five plants. She poured the blood-tinged liquid slowly over each plant's roots, whispering endearments to them and praising them for their beauty. As always, Mikki thought she could actually see the roses responding to the ritual. The cool breeze filtered through their thick leaves, causing the heavy blooms to nod their heads as if they were saying,
Yes, we are part of you . . . blood of your blood . . .

And to Mikki, they were more than just plants. They were her legacy and the last vestige of her mother and her family. Without them, she would be alone in the world.

When the water was gone she smiled happily at her charges.

“I'd like nothing more than to pull my rocking chair out here, pour myself a glass of that new red I bought yesterday and spend the evening reading a good book.” But she had a date, she reminded herself, with a man who had a nice voice and a charming laugh. Mikki checked the time; it was 6:45. It would take her at least ten minutes to walk to the restaurant.

“Damn!”

Mikki grabbed the empty bucket and the toolbox and tossed them inside the balcony door. She'd clean up the mess when she got home. Rushing to her bathroom, she gave her makeup and hair one last check. She looked good—the black leather skirt was one of her favorites, and the rust color of the cashmere sweater was a lovely compliment to her red-gold hair. Quickly, she chose a long, slender strand of antique black glass beads to hang around her neck and dug through her earring drawer until she found a pair of matching chandeliers.

She rushed from the bathroom, grabbed a sweater for her shoulders and was struggling to zip up her sassy new boots when she remembered the rose for her hair. She'd left it on the balcony. Grumbling to herself about being absentminded, she retrieved the cut flower, trimmed the leaves and the stem, and used the little decorative mirror in the living room to check herself as she positioned it snuggly within the curls over her left ear. Breathing deeply, Mikki smiled at her reflection. What better perfume could she choose?

Perfume . . .

Mikki narrowed her eyes thoughtfully and glanced at her purse. Deciding quickly, she unzipped the little side pocket that usually held only her lipstick, a compact and her keys. The glass stem was there, nestled among the more familiar items.

“Well, why not?” Mikki asked herself. “Sevillana said it brought her luck. Maybe if I wear it tonight I'll be lucky enough to have a decent date for a change.”

Mikki pulled open the tiny cork and raised the vial to her nose. She inhaled and blinked in delighted surprise. The perfume was an earthy mixture of roses and spices. Mikki inhaled again. She'd never smelled any perfume like it. Along with the familiar scent of traditional roses, she thought she recognized cinnamon, ginger and clove, all blended together in a rich, sweet oil. She dabbed the perfume on the pulse points of her neck, throat and wrists before placing the vial back in her purse.

Humming softly to herself, she locked the door behind her and hurried to the sidewalk, loving how the evening breeze mingled the sweetness of her namesake rose and the earthiness of her new perfume. She certainly smelled good.

And suddenly she realized that she really was feeling very lucky.

CHAPTER FIVE

T
HE Wild Fork was located in the heart of Tulsa's Utica Square—a beautiful area filled with lovely landscaping, mature trees, trendy shops and fine restaurants. As usual, it was a busy Friday night and all the outside tables were already filled with hungry patrons. Mikki glanced surreptitiously around her. No, she didn't see any solitary men. He was probably seated inside. She checked her watch again. It was 7:10. She hated being late. Sighing, she entered the restaurant.