Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
The sky has split open like a bloodshot eye by the time Evander limps back inside the mansion.
Already birdsong chirps behind him, the wind’s fingers playing with the hedgerows and teasing petals open.
The air is thick with magnolia and the hum of honeybees as dawn dyes the hedgerows a verdant green.
It seems impossible that the garden is anything but a vibrant paradise.
Evander slams the back door behind him so hard the entire house seems to clench its teeth at the aftershock.
He leans his forehead against the door, sobs curdling in his throat.
Part of him wants to scream. Most of him wants to curl in a ball on the cool kitchen flagstones and cover his ears and just stop.
He needs this all to stop. Water sluices from his clothes and puddles beneath his bare, bloody feet.
His pajamas are beyond ruined, plastered to his body and smeared with pond scum and mud and frog spawn, and the foul taint of stagnant water has settled into his skin.
Limp lily roots wrap his throat, his wrists.
When he peels one off his cheek, it comes away with a sucking sound, as if it was a tentacle lined with hungry mouths.
At least most of the blood has washed out and gore no longer clings to his hands. But he still looks wrecked. Dull agony throbs through his ribs and he isn’t sure if it’s from being thrown around by Carrington or swallowing half the pond, or from the fact he keeps forgetting to breathe.
He is not okay.
The garden wants him dead—except maybe it doesn’t. Had it ever been dragging him down to drown, or had it been trying to pull him out the whole time? He is so goddamn confused.
It takes him a full minute to peel himself out of the kitchen.
Even though Oleander’s staff are busy with breakfast, the room filled with the smell of fried eggs and plum preserves and cinnamon apple muffins, not a single person looks at him or asks if he’s okay.
Begging for help seems futile since he doesn’t know if they’ll report whatever he blurts out to Oleander.
What would he say, anyway? If he starts talking about gardens with bloody appetites and monsters held together by brambles and rubies dug out of flower beds, he’ll sound insane.
He could run away, but he has no idea which way is the nearest town or if he could even walk there.
Inheriting billions seems like a meaningless fairy tale when he has no idea how to access a single dollar.
And the idea of leaving Hazelthorn sends panic fissuring through his chest with such velocity that he feels sick. He can’t just go.
It has hooks in him, he can feel it.
He is too far grown into Hazelthorn, and it into him.
Cold digs into his bones as he stumbles deeper into the mansion, leaving a trail of slick mud and duckweed in his wake. He is a drowned spectral creature pulled from the depths, equal parts pathetic and terrible to behold.
He is not thinking, not thinking, about Laurie. What happened to him. How badly he was hurt. If he made it back inside. Was it Carrington’s attack or fear that had him curled up on the ground? Either way, all Evander should feel is seething hate.
Laurie tried to sacrifice him. For—for a goddamn gemstone.
He is every inch a Lennox-Hall, wearing his family legacy with pride.
Although a small needling image flashes through Evander’s mind of Oleander and Azalea flaunting ruby-studded jewelry …
but he can’t ever remember Laurie doing the same.
Even that first night’s dinner with Oleander, there had been rubies inlaid into the wineglasses, and Laurie, who had seemed keen about alcohol previously, had instead been hitting his glass with a knife, not drinking it, not wanting anything to do with it.
It’s a mess, all of it, and Evander doesn’t know what to think, but hurting over this is a waste of time.
It’s lore between them now—he will always be a bloodied plaything and Laurie will always leave him to die because this is what they are to each other: two boys forever trying to sink their teeth into the other’s throat.
Salt stains Evander’s tongue. He hates being like this, a sad, yearning thing. Hates how everyone walks over him. Hates how he can’t make them stop.
He needs to find Dawes and beg for help, since the attorney is supposed to be working for him. If he could just kick the Lennox-Halls out, that would be a start.
One aching step at a time, Evander hauls himself through the manor to Byron’s office.
He’s shivering hard as he fumbles for the knob and it takes him a second to realize the door has been left ajar.
Nothing in his head is working in straight lines—he isn’t thinking of the early hour or how he looks or what he will say—but he hesitates as he hears the smooth, comfortable voice of Benedict Dawes on the phone.
Evander fits himself closer to the crack to watch a sliver of Dawes moving through the dim gloom of the office, unable to make out the words. Morning light does weak battle with the shrubbery clawing up the window, and it leaves the office feeling tight and smothered.
The office door swings open and Evander stumbles inside with a slight yelp. He’d been so distracted that he hadn’t noticed the call had ended.
Dawes reaches out to steady him with his free hand, the other still holding his phone, but his disapproval morphs into dismayed surprise. “My god. What happened to you?”
“I—I—I need to talk to you.” Evander can’t stop his teeth chattering, though he isn’t sure if it’s cold or shock. Black sludge slides down his face and splatters on the floor. The blood staining his pajama shirt must look enough like soggy mud now that it doesn’t raise immediate concern.
In comparison, Dawes looks well rested and neat, his hair combed back and his suit a mixture of tweed and deep mahogany tones, his tortoiseshell glasses making him look even more like he just stepped out of a college class.
That heavy, expensive watch on his wrist glimmers before he twists his hand and his cuff covers it.
Maybe he’s imagining it, but Evander is almost sure he sees rubies inlaid into the watch face.
“I’ve got an important call incoming with your shareholders.” Dawes winces. “I can’t delay this. But I’m … Let’s see. Er, can you…” He’s struggling, eyeing Evander as if he’s going to melt into sludge.
“I need you to-to-to get r-rid of the Lennox-Halls.” Evander can barely get the words out through his chattering teeth. “I—I don’t want any of them as m-my guardian.”
“Ah.” Dawes slips his phone into his pocket and then leans on the edge of the huge desk.
Papers throttle every inch of the surface, which seems odd for someone who is supposedly putting affairs “in order,” and when he attempts a smile, there’s a measure of unease to it that wasn’t there before.
“I’m afraid you don’t really get a choice there when it comes to next of kin. ”
“But they’re not my kin,” Evander says. “What about—”
“I’m not sure you should be wandering around outside,” Dawes cuts in. “Look, what if you get cleaned up and we talk later? This call I need to take is really important. Just trust that everything I’m working on is in your best interest as your lawyer.”
Evander stares at him with flat fury while Dawes backs up and puts the desk between them under the guise of tidying a pile of disemboweled manila folders.
Trust? Evander can’t trust anyone. He doesn’t know why he’s never pushed for more about his past, his own family. Why doesn’t he ask goddamn questions?
Because they told you not to.
Because you get punished when you do.
stop blocking it out out out out—
Dawes flicks a glance at his watch. “Just stay in your room for now, all right? Rest. We don’t want to trigger any episodes.”
Evander’s eyes snap up to Dawes’s and he thinks he sees a momentary flash of regret, as if Dawes hadn’t meant to let slip he knows about the episodes. He shouldn’t. He’s just some lawyer.
No one is meant to know about the episodes.
“I’m not safe here,” Evander hisses. “Do-do-do you know about the garden?”
Dawes gives a confused glance at the window where branches scratch at the grass with eerie shrieks. “Know what about it? That it needs work? Because, absolutely. Hiring gardeners is something we can look into.”
There’s a guilelessness to how he says it and Evander wants to believe him, but all he can think of is sending clueless workers out there to be eaten.
“No gardeners,” he snaps. “No.”
He is fitting anger atop fear, he knows this, but he can’t rein it in. He is seconds away from clawing fingernails down his own face as he screams, I have done something terrible out there in the garden. I don’t know what to do, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m—
There’s a light rap on the door and a delicate cough that makes him whirl around with his heart punching into his throat.
Azalea Lennox-Hall lingers in the open office doorway, holding a delicate teapot and wearing a strapless dress, the skirt curved like black rose petals. She gives an insipid little finger-wave.
“Could I be of help?” Her expression is brushed with the appropriate amount of genteel concern.
Dawes looks relieved someone else has stepped in to scrape the mess of Evander off the floor.
“Actually, that’s perfect. Evander, see if Ms. Lennox-Hall can help you out.
I’ll grab you to finish our discussion later, all right?
” He ushers Evander out the door before he can argue, as if he wants nothing more than to put distance between them, then he gives a stilted wave and shuts it.
A lock clicks.
Evander’s stammered protest dies in his mouth.
“Darling, you look positively distraught.” Azalea’s hand flutters to her throat. “I’m about to breakfast. Come tell Auntie Aza all your woes and I will fix everything.” She holds out a hand to him, wriggling her fingers as if he is a small child who will rush to her and be consoled.