Goddess of the Rose (9 page)

Nelly had been right. Again. Her recent dreams were probably nothing more than a reflection of her obsession with roses and all that surrounded them. And the rest of her hallucinations were nothing more than daydreams from a sleepy, daydreaming (and clearly horny) mind.

A mind that had no one else to fantasize about, she reminded herself. She'd faced the truth tonight—her real life was decidedly void of men about whom she wanted to fantasize.

So the dreams had just been an elaborate fantasy she had created to amuse herself.

Mikki felt a wave of disappointment, which she quickly squelched.

“Would you rather have had a basketball-size brain tumor?” she chided herself as she absently kicked at a loose pebble. “And if it wasn't a brain tumor, what did you think? That you were actually having some kind of magical experience? That a fantasy lover was going to step from your dreams into your life? How pathetic. Get a grip, girl. And try to remember why you're here.”

Mikki turned her back on the statue and marched toward the roped-off construction area, shaking her head in self-disgust. Already annoyed, she approached the construction site with determined steps. That particular part of the terrace wall had begun to crumble, so masons had been hired to repair it, with explicit instructions
not
to mess up the roses that had lived happily in the beds around the wall for decades.

Mikki let out her breath in a huff of disgust. Just as she'd suspected, litter had been left all over. She bent under the yellow construction tape and entered the rose bed, picking up the garbage that dotted the otherwise neat rows of bushes and shoving it into an empty plastic bag she'd untangled from the thorny trap of two rosebushes. When she found the small plastic cooler lying on its side in the middle of the bed, she felt her temper snap.

“This is just bullshit!” she exploded.

Tomorrow was Saturday, so the master gardener wouldn't be on the premises, but first thing Monday morning Mikki would call her and make a full report about the workmen's negligence. And tomorrow she would be sure she was there all day to supervise those Neanderthals and keep them from creating any further havoc.

She finished picking up the trash and then focused her attention on the roses themselves.

“Oh, no!” She felt her stomach clench as she examined the stressed-out bushes. She had thought they had looked wilted yesterday, but she had hoped it was just her overprotective nature rearing its maternal head. Today she knew she had been right to worry. The normally thick, shiny foliage looked markedly dull, even in the subdued light from the fountain. And the blooms were in bad shape. The blossoms were limp, and prematurely loose rose petals sprinkled the ground like sad feathers from dying birds.

Mikki shook her head slowly. “What incredibly bad timing,” she told the damaged bushes. “After all this, you won't be strong enough to fend off much cold weather. If the winter is too harsh, we could lose this entire bed.” Mikki clucked and fussed with the bushes like an irate kindergarten teacher.

The possible loss of the bushes tugged at her heart. Mikki knew most people wouldn't understand her love of roses—her girlfriends had certainly told her enough times that they were only plants, not people or even pets. But whenever Mikki touched a rose or breathed in the heady fragrance of the gardens, she was reminded of her mother and her grandmother; through the roses, if only for a moment, she could feel their love again. Mikki was tired of losing those she loved.

She had to do something. She stopped and looked around her. The tier was empty. Nothing stirred except the water and the wind. Absently, Mikki picked at her already chipped fingernail polish.

Just do it!
she told herself.
No one will know.

The empty cooler beckoned. Mikki made her decision.

“Okay!” she said to the nearest wilting bush. “Just don't tell anyone.”

She grabbed the cooler, ducked back under the construction tape, and walked quickly to the fountain. She dipped the empty cooler in the water, and with a grunt, pulled it out. Filled with water it was heavy, and she had to strain to lift it. Water sloshed around her feet when she set it awkwardly on the ground beside her.

It only took a second for her to work the Band-Aid free from her left palm. The cut was already scabbing over, but her flesh was still pink and tender from the knife wound. Mikki rested her right thumbnail against the little slash line. Holding her breath, she closed her eyes and pressed her nail into the wound, forcing it open again.

Mikki sucked her breath in at the sudden pain. But when she opened her eyes, she was relieved to see the darkness of fresh blood flowing into her palm. With a grimace, she dunked her hand into the pool of water held by the cooler.

She certainly had a lot of disinfecting to do when she got home.

Trying not to think about how much her palm ached, she began dragging the full cooler across the stony path back to the bed of sick roses. Once inside the construction area, she straightened, unsure of her next move.

“There are so many of you,” she told the bushes. It was obvious that she couldn't pour the usual amount of blood-tinged water on each bush. She felt her lips twitch in a sarcastic smile. She'd have to open a damn vein for that—and that was probably not a very good idea.

Assuming a businesslike stance, Mikki put her hands on her hips and addressed the roses. “How about I just sprinkle you guys with some of this water?” The bushes didn't answer, so Mikki counted that as a yes. Bending, she used both hands and began scattering the blush-colored water over the roses that surrounded her. Snapping her wrists and flicking the liquid off her fingers soon became a game. The cool evening breeze mixed with the darkness and the sweet scent of roses and earth. Mikki laughed and sprinkled the blood-kissed water all over, pretending she was a garden fairy raining magic on sleeping children.

Mikki was breathless and smiling by the time she had finished. She studied the damp bushes. It might just be her overactive imagination, but she was sure they were responding already. In the dim, watery light, she swore she could see the limp leaves straightening and the wilting blooms healing. There was more water in the cooler than she had anticipated, and she bent to pour it out onto the nearest bush when a flicker of light caught the corner of her eye as it danced over the guardian statue.

Why not?
Mikki thought. Glancing around to make sure she was still alone, she carried the almost-empty cooler quickly to the marble statue.

“Your roses deserve a little extra boost, too,” she told the silent beast. “After all, you've been watching over them a lot longer than I have.”

Grinning, she dunked her still bleeding hand into what was left of the pink water. With practiced motions she rained drops over the roses that surrounded the statue. When she was finished she stashed the cooler near the wall next to where she had left the full bag of garbage. Noticing that she had inadvertently sprayed some of the water on the statue, she patted one of the creature's big hands.

“Oops, I didn't mean to get you wet,” she said fondly. “But I'm pretty sure you understand. I mean, please. We, more or less, have the same job. You watch 'em—I watch 'em.”

Digging into her purse, she retrieved a Kleenex, which she wrapped around her left palm, wincing at the tenderness of the reopened cut. She didn't really care about the pain. It had been worth it. She was certain now the roses would survive the winter to thrive and bloom again next spring.

With feet that felt light, she retraced her path out of the third tier, passing under the stone arch and climbing up the stairs. With languid, lazy steps, she walked through the second tier, staying close to the side of the path so she could occasionally reach out and brush her uninjured hand gently over a delicate bloom.

The gardens were absolutely deserted, and Mikki imagined that they were hers—that she was a great lady who lived in a huge mansion and whose only job was to tend to and enjoy her roses.

The night seemed to agree with her. There was no noise at all, not even any echoes of the actresses from Woodward Park, which relieved her because it meant they must have finished and gone home. Thankfully, she wouldn't have to face them again.

It was so silent that Mikki imagined a soundless bubble had been formed around her made of roses and cool October air.

The silence lent itself to listening, so Mikki noticed the noise immediately. It began as a strange, shattering sound, and it came from somewhere behind her—somewhere on the third tier. The sound made her jump in surprise. It reminded her of the crack of faraway thunder. She even glanced up at the sky, half expecting to see clouds announcing the coming of a storm.

No, the night was clear. Thousands of stars spattered the thick ink of the sky; there was not even a hint of clouds above her. Mikki stopped and listened carefully. When she heard nothing more she decided the sound must have been caused by a rabbit or maybe a wandering cat.

“Probably knocking over some of the construction workers' garbage,” she told the rosebush nearest to her.

Mikki walked on, ignoring the fact that her feet were carrying her forward more quickly and the hair on the back of her neck felt prickly and on edge.

The other noise started as soon as she reached the middle of the second tier. At first she thought it was the echo of her boots bouncing back from the rock wall that framed one tier from the next. Two more steps forward were enough to assure her that she wasn't hearing an echo. She was hearing independent footsteps. They crunched on the pathway with a decidedly heavier tread than her neat little boot taps.

But it wasn't the footsteps themselves that were odd. Lots of people liked to walk the rose garden paths, even after nine o'clock on a cool fall night. It was the distinctive noise that went along with the steps that caught Mikki's attention. She heard it once and discounted it.

She heard it a second time and halted, pretending to stop and smell a particularly lovely Princesse de Monaco. Actually, she was listening with every fiber of her being.

The third time she heard it she was sure. It was an achingly familiar grunt . . . a deep, rumbling exhalation that was somewhere between a growl and a snarl. It passed through her body in an intimate wave that caused her to shiver. Mikki's eyes widened in shock. There could be no other noise like that, and no other being could make such a sound except the creature from her dreams. And it was coming closer to her with every heavy step.

No fucking way!
her rational mind screamed.
That's utterly impossible.

It's just a delusion
, she reminded herself firmly.
Nothing more than a symptom of my overactive imagination.

But no matter what common sense told her, Mikki knew that what she was hearing was real—at least to her. At this moment what was happening had become her reality.

Her heart was beating erratically.
Get out of the gardens and into the park where I' ll be surrounded by lights and people!
Her mind nagged at her, belying the rush of sexual excitement that stirred low in the pit of her stomach.

She wasn't dreaming. She was not safely asleep in her apartment or retelling an erotic fantasy to her girlfriend, or even mixing up lines on a script because of nervousness and too much chianti. Something out there was stalking her. She had to get to safety. As soon as she left the rose gardens, she would be away from the shadowed darkness of their paths and the night-shrouded privacy they afforded. Then she could scream for help. Even if the actors and stagehands had all packed up for the night, someone was always within hearing range in Woodward Park. Plus, she would be well illuminated within the park's free-standing light fixtures. Easy for rescuers to see her.

And easy for
him
to see, too, that “other” part of her whispered seductively.

Mikki quickened her pace.

A muffled grunt—a mighty burst of breath that sounded as if it came from a blacksmith's bellows rather than a living being—came from the path that ran parallel to the one on which she was walking. Separating them was only a neat bed of profusely blooming Tiffany roses. Mikki sent a furtive look across the pink-faced flowers.

She wasn't close enough to the park for the city lights to help her see him very well. She only caught the flash of glowing eyes before he spun away from her. Size—she gasped—the creature was immense. Against her will, her body flushed with a wild rush of excitement.

A sudden, violent snarl made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. He was flanking her. He meant to cut her off from the lights of the park.

Faster!
her rational mind warned.
Get out of the gardens and into the light of the park and then scream for help!
Fear overshadowed excitement, and in a frightening parody of her dream, Mikki ran.

 

 

WHEN he felt her presence, he thought he was dreaming. Again. He didn't understand them, but he welcomed the dreams as rare gifts. They relieved the unending darkness of his entombment. They almost gave him hope . . . almost.

But the fabric of this dream was different. At first that didn't surprise or alarm him. He'd been there generations and had only infrequently been allowed the wisp of a thought . . . the enticing aroma of the living world . . . any living world. Each time it had been a little different. Over the years he'd strained to hear the sound of a voice, the touch of a soft hand, the scent of roses and spice. Sometimes he'd be rewarded; most of the time he had not.

Until recently. The dreams had come to him. That was when she had entered his prison and he had begun to live again.

He had reveled in the dreams, inhaled her until he felt drunk on her essence. Dreams . . . who better than he knew what magic they held?