Chapter 2 Briar
brIAR
Acrack of lightning rattles the windowpane, waking me with its neon branches. It splits the clouds, the roll of thunder echoing through the apartment. Those Storms doing what they do best, wrecking all our hard work and making me lose sleep.
I hate summer.
Mid-huff, I startle at the beady eyes watching me from the darkened corner of our pen. Jessica’s nose wriggles, sniffing me from as far away as possible. She knows I’m not meant to be here. That I’m not one of her kind. Not truly.
But here I am, stuck in bunny form for the past sixty-three days.
Sixty-three days.
At first, being in this tiny apartment was like a prison. I was trapped. My injury left me weak and wounded after helping a frantic Bloom caught in a fence, only to get stuck in its metal web myself.
Some Rescue Rider I turned out to be.
They’d made it back beyond the veil unscathed. I, on the other hand, ended up prodded by the stick of a toddler who screamed that I was dead. He wasn’t completely wrong…
Luckily, a woman with golden hair and green eyes untangled me. She took me to the nearest healer, who prodded me and stuck me with needles, my leg got stitched up, and then I was reduced to wearing a fucking plastic collar around my neck.
The collar’s been removed a few weeks, and I’m much less miserable, but I’m still ready to get my tail out of here. If only it were that simple to get back home.
I missed my transport window, and now I’m forced to survive among the mortals until a fellow Rescue Rider finds me.
With the way things have been heating up between the Blooms and the Storms, whoever they send from our small team will have to be stealthy.
Who knows how long that will take. What I do know is that I won’t find a way home stuck in this woman’s apartment.
She sighs and I crane my neck to see her better from across the room. Her shoulders lower when she spots me from the dimly lit kitchen.
“Sorry to wake you, Sir Thumps-A-Lot.”
I groan, but of course it comes out as a cute huff.
That’s the best name this mortal could come up with?
She shuffles over, bending to scratch behind my ear. It’s almost enough to forgive her for her horrible naming skills. “Had to help a client tonight, but no worries, they’re okay now.”
The woman settles on her knees, and I move closer, eager for more scratches. Instead, she lifts me enough to nuzzle her cold human nose against mine.
“Get some good sleep, little guy.” She sets me back within the pen and sits on her heels, emerald irises sparkling from behind tortoise shell spectacles.
I puff up my chest. If she only knew.
The truth would terrify her. It’s why we work in secret and don’t live among the mortals. Their fragile minds can’t handle the knowledge that the natural beauty in their world comes from harbingers. Each season and its majesty is made possible by us.
And what sort of gratitude do we get for our work?
Trash that’s spread over the lawns we spend hours tending and manicuring.
Chemicals pumped into our masterpieces or sprayed to kill the insects that assist in their thriving.
Clipped flowers that end up shriveled in vases, like the ones wilting atop the woman’s kitchen table.
Season after season, I watch our work get torn asunder. If not by the mortals, then by the aggressive antics of the Storms.
I should be focused on getting back home.
This place—Earth—it’s never been mine. I’ve never been drawn to linger here, to watch the humans I surround with spring.
There’s nothing for me in the mortal world beyond work, and my work is done.
I have Blooms waiting for me, four sweet sprouts who rely on me.
Thankfully, I’m almost fully healed, though suffering from seasonal sickness is prolonging the process.
Our earthside forms aren’t meant to be utilized for long periods, and I’ve never been in mine for this long.
Usually we are quick healers as immortals, but I’d already pushed past spring’s timeline ensuring a few straggling Bloom students got back at the end of the season with no issues.
Each day that passes, I weaken. Of course, the mortal healer didn’t know the signs when the woman brought me to him. He attributed my constant shaking to anxiety. When he couldn’t find my heartbeat, he pretended as though he could, trying to impress Doctor Tanner.
Such an unusual name.
A buzzing echoes through the small apartment. My ears prick up, following the vibration until it lands on the bedroom. Its double doors are open, and I barely make out the shifting mountainous comforter.
Not again.
My unhappy penmate nestles into her corner, tucking her furry white chin into her chest and shutting her eyes. Like anyone could sleep through this. Jessica can, though, because she’s starting to snore.
I already had to listen to the fictional characters going at it earlier, now this?
It’s worse than making it through an open mic night at Novel Nibbles.
At least then I could leave anytime I want.
Go find some privacy or another frisky Bloom and scamper wherever we please.
I’m far from angelic, but this… It’s just too much for one trapped bunny to bear.
The woman’s whimpers and heavy breaths sift out from the bedroom as the comforter quakes.
Though I can’t see her, I imagine those long tan legs, her pouty pink lips, the furrow of her brows, her blonde waves fanned across her pillow.
I huff with indignation. This could be the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed, despite most of it being in my imagination, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Every time she does this—not that it’s often, but it’s often enough to mess with my composure—I try blocking it out. Every time, it becomes more futile. While I know it’s wrong, I can’t stop myself. I blame this tiny apartment and the fact that I haven’t spoken to another soul in weeks.
That’s the only explanation I can come up with for why I wonder where she is when she’s away, and when the door unlocks with a click, I spring up to see her. It’s idiotic.
I’m probably suffering from that Stockholm Syndrome I’ve read about.
I doubt she’d be doing this if she understood what I truly was. She doesn’t know I’m not a regular ol’ bunny, but she’s nibbling away at my sanity. Her moans carry over the buzzing, and those sounds—those sounds— I’ll be thinking about them once I’m home and hard and fucking my fist.
The first opportunity I get.
This train of thought can’t be healthy. No wonder we’re not meant to stay among the mortals. It screws with our psyche.
I need to get out of here. Pronto.
I curl up, close my eyes, and try to ignore when she goes for round two, and three, cursing myself for the images she conjures.
Pocketing them, nonetheless.
The next morning, the woman is in a chipper mood.
I wonder why.
She practically hops around the apartment, moving between her coffee maker and her counter. When she opens the pen, Jessica shuffles past me, eagerly roaming the living room. I stare up at the mug clutched in the woman’s hands, the scent of fresh-roast filling my nostrils.
“Does somebunny like the smell of coffee as much as I do?” She kneels down and holds the cup out. “Come on, Sir Thumps-A-Lot.” Inside, I’m groaning, but I really do miss my morning latte, so I take greedy sniffs. My chest warms as she giggles, commenting how adorable I am.
Fuck this form.
It’s utilitarian for my work but way too cute and cuddly for these mortals, though the chin and ear scratches are pretty nice. My foot thumps uncontrollably against the floor.
“Hopefully, you’ll be well by your appointment,” she says and stands.
“I’m going to miss having you around—Jessica will too.
” I glance over at my unimpressed penmate, knowing how much of a lie that is.
“No matter what, you’ll always be Sir Thumps-A-Lot to me.
Maybe I’ll suggest it to your new owner. ”
I huff at that.
New owner? No one owns this bunny.
Enough’s enough. The next time that door opens, I’m running. I glance at the stitches in my leg. Just need these gone and to stop this constant shivering.
The woman strides to the corner of the living room where an easel towers over me, a long canvas set atop it. I follow, curious to get a better view than from inside the pen. Jessica is busy stuffing her face with more bok choy leaves. I suppose it’s an improvement from her usual death glare.
Picking up a thick paintbrush, the woman dips it into a heap of sage green and drags it across the canvas in long, methodical strokes.
She goes to work, sweeping paint in an array of hues from dusky pinks to mustard yellows until she’s created a bouquet atop the letter-filled clippings.
Then she dips the brush in water, swiping a murky black that runs down the canvas—tears streaming from a green-eyed stare.
I bumble closer, swaying a bit with each step until I find my footing. Seasonal sickness continues taking its toll, throwing me off balance with its pounding headaches and chills. The exhaustion is the worst. I can’t even salvage the few dead plants entombed in her apartment.
Squinting beneath her purple spectacles, she leans toward the canvas, homed in on a section she highlights with pale green. It’s as if she’s hypnotized. She doesn’t notice me sitting by her feet until she takes a step back to see her painting better and almost trips over me.
“Want to make some art with me?” she asks, her brows bunching as she scans over the paints.
She goes behind the canvas and grabs a smaller one, laying it on the floor, then kneels down with the palette and paintbrush beside her.
Holding out her hand, she strokes my paw a few times.
When I don’t retreat, she lifts it gently, painting the underside lavender, then presses it to the canvas.
She repeats the process three more times with different colors.
With a thinner paintbrush, she slices some dark green in four quick motions and sets it down.
I stare at the bouquet of bunny prints and something fragile cracks within my rib cage.
“A masterpiece, don’t you think?”
A smile pulls across her pink lips, and I can’t help but think the real masterpiece isn’t covering this canvas but radiating from within the strange mortal whose company I’m enjoying too much.
Dread pricks at me, a thorn I can’t be rid of. I need to keep my distance from this mortal because regardless of how much I’ve enjoyed our morning together, the moment an opportunity to escape appears—I’m gone.