7. Drystan #2
“I will leave you to think about your choices, Jacke,” I say softly as I dry my hands. “Try not to bleed out too fast. I still have plans for the rest of you later.”
I turn away from the table, boots scraping against the stone floor, and climb the narrow stairs without looking back. His screams follow me upward, growing fainter and wetter with every step until the heavy basement door seals them away behind thick wood and stone.
The mansion is silent when I reach the main floor. Rain drums steadily against the old windows. Long shadows stretch across the stone walls and the paintings of bleeding flowers and watching crows.
I walk straight to the office.
The laptop waits on the console, screens already glowing soft blue. I drop into the leather chair, pull the mask down from my face, and open the feeds.
There she is.
Twelve perfect angles of her small apartment, five long hours away. Briar lies asleep in her bed, exactly where I left her—black hair fanned across the pillow, purple lips slightly parted, the blanket rising and falling with each slow, peaceful breath. Untouched by anyone but me.
I lean back and exhale, letting the sight of her wash over me like cool water on raw skin.
I watch her sleep for a long minute, the hunger and the yearning twisting together deep in my chest.
Soon, my love.
Soon I will not have to watch you through a screen.
Soon the only place you will sleep is in the bed I made for you here, wrapped in purple silk and the scent of hellebore, with my hands on you whenever I want.
I glance once at the feed showing the basement. He is not moving anymore.
What a weak piece of shit.
I walk back down the narrow stone stairs, spread a heavy plastic sheet on the floor, and roll his limp body onto it.
I lift him, one arm hooked under his knees, the other wrapped around his bloody torso, and carry him up the stairs.
His blood soaks warm through my shirt and drips down my arms with every step.
The mansion is quiet, but the wind whistles through the old stones outside. I push through the side door into the hellebore garden.
The night air hits cold and wet against my skin. Black petals gleam wetly in the thousands, stretching out in perfect rows under the rain. The huge stone walls rise at the far end, ivy crawling over them like fingers trying to pull the whole world inside.
I walk to the very back of the garden, boots sinking into the soft, rain-soaked earth with every step, and set his body down. Then I pick up the shovel I left leaning against the stone wall earlier tonight and begin to dig.
Each strike of the blade bites deep into the ground.
Mud flies in heavy clumps, splattering my boots and pants.
The hole grows fast, wide and deep, large enough that nothing will ever surface again.
Rain fills the bottom almost as quickly as I dig, turning the soil into thick black sludge that clings to the shovel.
My arms burn. My back burns. I welcome the pain.
This is honest work. This is what it means to protect what is mine.
When the hole reaches deep enough that the edge comes to my chest, I stop and climb out. I drag Jacke’s body to the rim and roll him in. He lands at the bottom with a wet, heavy sound, half-submerged in the muddy water already pooling there.
I reach into the leather pouch I brought with me and pull out the thick glass bottle I prepared weeks ago.
Inside swirls a black, viscous liquid I distilled from the strongest roots and petals in this garden, hellebore, nightshade, and a few other poisons I grew just for nights like this.
It does not simply kill. It returns things to the soil. It feeds the flowers.
I uncork the bottle and pour.
The liquid splashes over his face, his chest, his ruined hands.
It hisses faintly as it touches skin and open wounds, thick and dark, eating into him with a low, chemical sound.
The mixture begins working immediately, softening flesh and breaking it down, pulling him slowly back into the earth itself.
By morning there will be nothing left but bones and memory.
I watch for a long moment, rain running in cold streams down my face, the mask still in place. The garden drinks him in.
Then I start shoveling the dirt back in.
Wet earth lands on his body with heavy, final thuds.
Layer after layer until the hole is filled and the ground lies level once more.
I pat it down firmly with the flat of the shovel until the surface looks untouched, as if nothing ever disturbed this patch of black soil.
Finally I kneel and plant fresh hellebore bulbs across the new grave, seven of them, spaced perfectly. By the time they bloom, no one will ever know what lies beneath them.
I stand back and look at my work.
The garden is quiet again. Rain falls softly on the new plants now.
I wipe my hands on my hoodie and whisper to the dark soil, voice low and almost tender.
“You fed the garden, Jacke. Just like you were always meant to.”
I leave the shovel leaning against the wall and walk back through the rows of black hellebore. The mansion waits ahead, stone and shadow and the purple silk waiting upstairs in the bedroom I made for her.
Briar is still three hours away, safe for one more night, but soon.
Soon the only garden she will ever know is this one, and the only hands that will ever touch her again will be mine.