Chapter 25 THE APOTHECARY’S BLOOM
“Can you not talk, or is this a choice?”
Ren shuts the car door behind me without answering. He’s in his usual super spy, deadly assassin getup: black leather jacket, black jeans, black boots—everything black. Aside from his wool gloves, the man seems impervious to the winter elements.
Tattoos snake up his throat, thorned vines I spotted on Elias’s arms. His mask hides half of his face, but those brown eyes are sharp enough to cut glass.
“Do you have a last name? Why don’t you take off your mask?”
He presses a hand to my back, urging me along. An icy December gust flutters my thick wool skirt. The sun peeks from behind the clouds, scattering shards of cool light across the snow-covered cobblestones of Waverly Street, barely ten minutes uphill from Elias’s house.
Or, I guess, my gilded cage now.
To the east, Ashbourne Heights gleams with old-money mansions with front-row views of Lake Michigan. To the west, darkness fades into Saints Hollow and its cracked bricks, flickering streetlights, and lingering ghosts.
The mysterious room on the third floor remains locked. I’ve stopped trying for now. I should just buy a hacksaw, but I’m sure the Shadow King won’t let me.
Elias Kent is a conundrum I can’t solve. He’s violent, a cold-blooded murderer who seems to have some sort of moral code. He’s cold one minute and hot the next.
He’s someone who’d say, “I hate you,” but would give me his coat and umbrella amid strong winds and heavy snow.
And that drunken incident in the library? My skin heats at the spotty memories. I can’t believe I came onto him. It was definitely the alcohol and not me.
Absolutely not me, the rational me, that is.
Elias has made himself scarce these days.
Aside from the crude diagram of The Association’s org structure, I have found no more dirt on him or the Berishas. No mysterious phone calls or shadowy visitors.
His office? Always locked.
I want to scream at the top of my lungs. Not that anyone would care.
But at least my family is doing well at home. Maxwell has fully recovered, and he and Rex check in on me weekly. They promise me they’re looking into the Berishas and The Association. The girls still think I’m jetting across the world.
I want more than anything to go back. Away from this lonely house and its shadowy owner, away from the threat of violence and the uncertainty of my future.
So, to keep myself from going mad, I’ve started exploring the border of Saints Hollow and Ashbourne Heights.
“My tough, silent bodyguard,” I needle Ren. “Do you like chocolate? What’s your favorite food? Color? If we’re spending so much time together, we should get to know each other, don’t you think?”
He snorts and shakes his head, his lips moving silently.
“What are you mouthing? I can’t read lips. Are you saying I’m your ray of sunshine? That you’re overcome with a need to tell me everything so I can get out of your hair?”
A smile tugs at my lips as I watch him heave an exasperated sigh, his pace quickening as we weave through the crowds toward our destination.
I take in the quaint storefronts, their awnings thick with snow. Construction noise from the next block over interrupts the quiet.
It’s bittersweet, being back here so many years later after Kian disappeared.
Some things have changed—the new shops, the hip condos popping up—but a lot has stayed the same. There’s still an air of melancholy, a vibe of historic decay in the neighborhood, like it has seen too many losses.
Twenty years ago, a devastating fire burned down half of Saints Hollow.
It was also when my relationship with Kian abruptly ended.
I had returned to New York because Dad had come down with pneumonia. Kian and I were long distance, but I planned to go to college in Chicago to be near him.
Panic seized my chest when I saw the news about the fire. I emailed Kian because he didn’t have a cell phone. He never replied. I scoured newspapers online for weeks afterward, pored over obituaries, called hospitals after cheer practice, desperate for news of him and his family.
Then I finally saw, among the list of casualties, his parents’ and baby sister’s names.
My heart shattered. I was inconsolable. Dad and my brothers even asked their contacts in the city to locate Kian or Sofia.
Nothing.
Those were dark times—tears were my constant companion at night after I played the role of a dutiful daughter during the day.
I missed the boy with a beautiful face, bleached blond hair, and warm green eyes.
Until one day, I got an emerald pendant in the mail.
The emerald pendant.
He was alive.
But there was no note, no explanation. It was a farewell.
Over the years, the same questions haunted me.
What happened to him? Why did he disappear without a trace?
I thought he loved me.
Eventually, I tried to move on. I dated guys here and there, but those relationships never lasted more than a few months.
Tanner, the guy I was with the longest—four whopping long months—ghosted me the summer of my junior year in college.
Everyone else was more or less the same.
Excuses about being too busy. About being intimidated by my brothers.
No one would stay. They’d all vanish. Sometimes, late at night, when the city sounds quieted and my apartment felt all too lonely, I’d wonder.
Is it me? Am I not good enough to make them stay?
A car swerves in my direction, shocking me out of my thoughts.
Tires screech and burning rubber permeates the air. A scream shoots up my throat.
Ren curses. He grabs my waist and shoves me against the brick wall. The impact jolts the air out of my lungs. Pain explodes across my back. Daylight swirls in my vision.
A black car speeds away, gawking onlookers pointing at it.
“You okay?” Ren rasps, his dark brows furrowed.
My pulse bellows in my ears as I strain a breath, disoriented.
A pistol glints in his hand, hidden under his jacket. I didn’t even see him pull it.
“Some people can’t drive, huh?” I quip.
He narrows his eyes at the street, a muscle ticcing in his jaw.
Something in his expression gets my hackles up, and ice slithers over my skin.
It’s an accident, right? I’m from New York. Things like this happen all the time.
“Hey! You can talk!” I nudge him and waggle my eyebrows. “Does this mean you’re warming up to me? Yeah? You like me, don’t you?”
Ren lets out an exasperated sigh and stays silent, ignoring the quizzical stares from onlookers.
He walks toward the café I passed by a few times last week.
The storefront of Arcana & Bloom beckons me like a box of gourmet truffles. I can never resist good chocolate, after all.
Pastel green double doors are adorned with brass handles. Faux white roses, hydrangeas, and wisteria frame its windows and archways. Little bistro tables sit on the curb, enclosed in clear, heated tents, reminding me of people-watching in Paris as I sip my lattes.
Ren holds the door open with one hand, his phone in the other.
Ren
Well? You going in?
I ignore his question. “So, now that you’ve talked in my presence and saved my life, how about those questions? How old are you? Do you work for Elias or with him? Are you a dealer of secrets too?”
The infuriating man remains silent. He twitches his nose and leans against the brick wall, trying to disappear into it, but that’s impossible. He radiates danger, standing out like a shark in a school of clownfish.
I tap my foot.
Ren
Not going in?
He rolls his eyes.
I mirror his pose and blink at him. Too bad for him, I have all the time in the world.
He sighs, fingers flying over his phone screen.
Ren
I don’t like to talk. People talk too much. Silence tells you more.
Seeing I haven’t moved, he sends another text.
Ren
I have a last name, but that’s none of your business. The mask protects us both. And I work with Elias, not for him. Understood, Your Majesty?
I snort. “Your Majesty should be reserved for the Shadow King himself. I’m just his lowly prisoner.”
Before he responds, I rise on my tiptoes and brush a quick kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Ren.”
The grumpy man freezes, his eyes widening as I sweep past him and enter the café.
Immediately, I feel at home.
Warmth and spice welcome me like a hug.
Sage-green walls adorned with twinkling Christmas lights and worn wooden counters make this place seem like a cozy countryside escape.
But then, I see its quirks—brass jars lining multiple shelves, vintage teacups and pots, sunken seating areas with mismatched furniture, multi-color cushions that look like a unicorn crossed with a seventies hippie threw up and this decor is the result.
Bookshelves stretch floor to ceiling, filled with novels and knickknacks.
Then there are the flowers, the glorious flowers. Lush purple wisteria drips from the ceiling, orange roses climb lattices, and ivy curls along the walls. I don’t even know how they keep them alive in the middle of winter.
I breathe in the nutty scent of coffee and spice mixing with the sweetness of the bouquets.
A memory stirs.
“So you’re an Anderson—you can have anything. What do you want that you don’t already have? Have you decided on a dream?” Kian asks.
We’re in his backyard, my feet resting against the beat-up tire we used as a chair. Sofia chats with a friend, laughing in the background. His mom, a petite woman, watches me with narrowed eyes and a tight smile.
“Well,” I say, “I don’t really care about the money. I guess I want what my parents had. Love. People say it killed her, but from her journal entries, she was happy. I’d risk it all for a love like that too.”
He’s contemplative. “What about something tangible?”
Inhaling the sweet air, I climb onto a makeshift swing, kick out my legs, and feel the breeze flutter my hair.
“Other than that music box, which I’m not getting until my birthday because I want the anticipation…I suppose I want a place of my own. Something I can decorate.”