I’ve never been on a date with Geneva. It’s a combination of two things, one being my previous, very rational, fear of spending too much time alone with the succubus. The second being my difficulty subjecting her to what I can only imagine to be inane activities. How am I supposed to entertain a centuries-old being of immense power who has traveled through multiple realms and seen sights I can’t even imagine? Watching a play and sampling restaurants seems too dull. I didn’t want to embarrass myself.

Now, after spending several months together, I’ve become far more comfortable with my elemental. There’s no need to fear looking like an idiot in front of her. Given the absolutely incomprehensible gap in our experience, I’m going to be an idiot before her for a long time.

Missing great opportunities trying to deny that fact is the really stupid thing. Beyond that, Geneva is more than willing to play along. I’m certain that she’s only doing it to get closer to me and eventually devour me but no need to mind the small things.

So, when she suggested the date, I gladly accepted, hurrying off to my bedroom to change. To my utter delight, Geneva did the same. When we meet again in the dining room, her usual plain dress is replaced with another white number with two strips of pale blue fabric over the bust and waist. The skirt would be scandalously short at her mid-thigh if not for the double layer of underskirts reaching down to her ankles. Made from the sheer material Kierra has a fondness for, it turns what should be a modest fashion into a walking temptation, the barely obstructed view of her shapely legs making the viewer think they are seeing something they shouldn’t.

She even applied make-up, the smoky coloring around her eyes making them stand out more and her lips sporting an enticing sheen. Oh, wait, that’s probably shapeshifting. Convenient.

When I entered, Geneva ducked her head and clasped her hands behind her back, giving me a shy smile.

It’s fake. I know it’s fake. Works every time though.

“Shall we?” I ask, channeling every gallant hero I’ve ever heard about as I step over and extend my elbow. Geneva giggles as she places her hand on my arm and we walk toward the front door together. Bell, ever helpful, runs ahead of us to open the front door.

The carriage is waiting, Gajin gently patting one of the horses. If I were anyone else, I’d be concerned about him. He spends everyday wandering the garden alone before retreating to his hut to attend to his personal plants. He has regular contact with Geneva, as she’s in charge of instructing the servants in proper conduct and whatever else she deems necessary, but I’d hardly qualify that as healthy.

My gardener is becoming stranger and stranger. His dark brown hair is long and wild, barely kept in check by a leather tie, and his scraggy stubble is long enough to braid.

Over a simple shirt and loose pants, he wears a custom jacket Kierra helped him with. It’s a purple dark enough to be almost black, with a high collar rimmed with gold. There are three dull gold buttons in the middle that might as well not exist since he never does them up and along each side are three wide pockets that have a noticeable bulge. An enterprising thief might think they were filled with valuables. A noble might take one look at him and think he was a crazy beggar who’d stolen someone’s jacket and filled the pockets with random trash. The thief would be closer to the truth.

His pockets are filled with valuables, though only a few would recognize them as such. The bulges in his pocket are holding dirt. Very rich dirt to support the plants he’s growing. From his jacket.

The lower pockets are used for creepers that have grown up the jacket and wound themselves along his arms. The middle and upper pockets have flowers of all varieties; ones with small, delicate petals, ones with large pouting petals, ones that smell sweet, ones that smell bitter. The man is in bloom, a thick fragrance wafting from his direction. All he needs is a hunched back and he’d be a perfect match for the crazy hermits bards sing about. Maybe a cat.

I have no idea why the man is a walking flowerpot. One of the women in my life probably has something to do with it. I’d bet at least a few of those flowers are poisonous and meant to be used offensively. Not sure how. Is he going to make someone chew on a stem or swallow crushed petals in the middle of a fight?

His appearance is definitely unique, which, for status seeking, is just as good as looking good. He gives a shallow bow when he sees us. “Good morning, my lady.”

“Morning, Gajin. We’re not pulling you away from something, are we?” Out of the servants, he has to be the busiest. I wouldn’t want his work to suffer.

“Thanks for the concern but my babies can do without me for a few hours.” He opens the door for the carriage as we approach. “Where are we headed?”

I help Geneva inside before climbing in myself. “To the Guiness Company.”