✨🔮✨

“Can we really trust Azalea?” Barlow asks me. I’m absentmindedly stirring a cup of tea. I made it, but don’t actually want it.

Barlow and I are waiting in my place. He knows what yesterday meant to me and chooses to focus on our current situation.

“We can trust her curiosity, her passion for knowledge outweighs her self-preservation. If she wants to turn us in, she’ll be too involved.”

“What if she doesn’t care about that? Maybe the rules matter more to her,” he counters with a valid point. I shrug.

“I’m just hoping it won’t come to that. Planning for failure invites it to your doorstep. I can’t fail this.”

“You won’t,” he replies. “I know you’ll find a way, no matter what. I’m just asking to make sure you don’t trip up on the way.”

“I suppose I can see the merit in that.”

“How did you leave IronHenge anyway?”

I guess I never told him about it.

“I laid a series of wards that I would teleport to, like skipping a stone across water. I placed the last one directly under the barrier between us and the outside world. I figured it focuses on keeping stuff out, not in. So when I formed under it, the barrier forced me to the outside world. And there we are.”

Barlow takes that in for a moment.

“What if it just shredded you?”

“I tested it before I did it to myself. I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, you outsmarted a magical barrier that’s stood for a thousand years, so no, I guess you aren’t an idiot,” he admits.

“Thanks…sometimes I wish I left years earlier or learned to just be happy here. It feels like nothing’s ever enough for me. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You just want more from life,” Barlow comments with a shrug. “Nothing wrong with that. Besides, if you did either, you might not have come across the Necromancer. Who knows where we’d be?”

“I guess so.”

A knock comes from my door, followed by,

“It’s me, Azalea!”

With a wave of my hand, the door opens to a tall stack of books, scrolls, and loose papers barely held up by a pair of arms. Barlow takes half the stack to reveal the wizard in training. She smiles brightly at us.

“I got everything I could find, without getting caught, about magicians with vendettas against Arcaniums!”

I summon a table to house the bounty of knowledge. There’s more than I expected, but then again, I asked a wizard for information on a historical subject; it’d be more unsettling if there was little to go off from.

“So we’ll divide and conquer,” Azalea is relieved to be free of the weight, but her eyes glimmer at the mess of papers before us. She produces notebooks and gives one to Barlow and me. “Take notes of anything that catches your attention but keep reading. Unless you find exactly what you’re looking for,” she instructs. Barlow and I exchange a look and a mutual understanding forms between us; we were not expecting to take part in the research ourselves. But fair’s fair in an arrangement for my benefit. I suppose.

“Maybe, while we’re at this, you can fill me in on what’s going on.”

We all take a seat and make our piles of reading material. Now I wonder if this gratuitous info dump was a measure of sorts. Withholding the info I need until she gets what she wants from me.

I look at her smile and feel she’s genuine in this endeavor, she just wants to know.

“You need to know that this is a part of something bigger. What we’re doing will break the laws of our Arcanium, but there's a good reason for it. If you turn me in, you won’t stop me, it’s really important to me. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but I can’t afford to be slowed down, understand?”

Azalea finishes organizing her pile before we do. She tilts her head in rumination.

“No one makes history always obeying all the time, I suppose.”

Barlow shrugs at me.

“Your call.”

“Okay, let’s get started first.”

After we all dig into our respective piles, I tell Azalea about how I left and the Necromancer. She doesn’t need to know about Hollyhock yet.

She’s stunned all the same.

“An unknown magician in a non-magical city? Planning to destroy IronHenge and you stopped them, single-handedly?”

Now I regret not telling her about Hollyhock. The assassin was by my side the entire time. I, by no means, single-handedly did all that.

“I…had some help.” She seems impressed about the fighting another magician part, but I don’t know how she’ll react to me exposing magic to a non-magical person; especially an assassin.

“Even still, you’re practically a hero from an old legend.”

That reminds me of something that mortician said to Hollyhock one time.

“Unsung for now, since no one knows about it. I want to learn everything I can about the Necromancer. To find out why they’d attack us, to prevent more attacks. Or just how they’ve evaded us for so long.”

“Right!” With some of the story, Azalea is invigorated and starts devouring her texts.

I look over mine and nothing is of great importance. They mostly cover minute instances of magicians in disagreements with the laws of the Arcanium at various times in history. Almost none of them left or escalated to the level of open aggression. I remember the vitriol with which the Necromancer spoke. That kind of anger, absolute fury, isn’t forged from something small.

Unless they’re very petty. I hadn’t considered that, but I’m choosing to believe that I didn’t get Hollyhock's mind wiped over a minor slight.

As I pore through the texts, I also have my tomes about memory magic open. If Azalea notices, she says nothing of it, minding her work. Though I have Hollyhock's memories, I still want to know what could be happening to her.

My mind slips from the main task and conjures possibilities of what she’s doing.

I hope she’s alright.

🌿💀🌿

I’ve never been more fucking miserable. After my fit of laughter at the DeadNettles’ demise, I’ve been benched. Koki’O took me home that night. She had nothing to say to me at the time, and she could always come up with something.

She left me here, alone, with the crushing weight of realizing I caused all this. That my brain cannot be trusted and has already caused a huge problem.

I started the beef with the DeadNettles and didn’t, couldn’t, know about it.

What’ll I do next? Wipe out a precinct? End a politician? Hurt someone innocent?

Well, those first two things don’t sound that bad, but the third one is no good.

As of now, I’m excommunicated, with no gigs, and no keeping in touch. Tamara texted me that it’s a temporary measure, but I don’t see a permanent solution lying around anywhere.

So I rot here in my apartment, which has never felt emptier. These…hints that someone else was here, don’t help me feel better. They’re the wind, rain, and lightning of the storm over my sea of anguish. They add layers and textures to this growing quagmire that I cannot interpret; because my brain withholds the context from me.

My bed feels too big, too barren, too lonely for me to sleep in. When I don’t want to strap myself to the wall, I sleep on the couch. My drawers, filled with clothes I don’t recognize make me feel like I’m going through a stranger’s things. I wash and recycle clothes from my hamper.

The days blur together despite my attempt to form a routine. Without being a Bay Leaf, I don’t know how to be productive. I wake up, I work out, and I watch TV with no enjoyment. When I get bored with that, I go to my bookshelf. Only a few of them are fake with guns hidden behind them, the rest are real. When I was younger I aspired to read a lot of books, and I’m sure the younger me would be proud of the collection I have. She’d then, most likely, be disgusted to hear I’ve only read two of them. Still, I’ve kept that one promise to her.

If nothing else, I’ve kept it.

I grab something from the shelf and start reading it. My eyes go over the words but I can’t say I’m actually comprehending them. I’m just flipping through pages, pretending I can focus.

When I get sick of that act, I go back to fake-watching TV. When I get sick of both, I work out, when I’m too tired to work out it’s usually time for me to sleep. I’m pretty sure at some point between all that I eat something. I wake up, and the cycle continues; for how long, I don’t care.

It doesn’t matter.

✨🔮✨

I’ve barely slept all week. Between my regular apprenticeship with Mentor Acacia, my own research, and the group research with Barlow and Azalea, my brain is barely holding it together. I don’t hear any complaints from Barlow, and I assume that Azalea has done more intensive research sessions than this. I keep having to remind myself why I’m doing this, and that’ll typically give me a burst of focus. When that wears off, I chug an invigoration draught.

Definitely not healthy, but the alternative is I waste time sleeping and leave Hollyhock to suffer.

Our group research continues to yield little results. The trouble with looking over history regarding magicians is that you can’t rule out something just because it happened a long time ago. With a regular human, I’d be able to dismiss anything past a few decades old. But with how powerful the Necromancer was, I can’t feasibly say they weren’t older than a century. Hell, they might be two hundred years old. Then again, a 200-year-old magician probably wouldn’t have lost to me.

Or maybe they would, I’m feeling too hebetudinous to think about it.

Switching from subject to subject provides a small buffer from complete burnout. Though at this point studying cerebral magic is more for curiosity than any practical use. It does work for deepening my anxiety though; especially as I come across a disturbing fact.

I can’t hide the horror on my face as the information processes through my mind. Barlow notices.

“What’s wrong, Hazel?”

I open my mouth to answer when I remember Azalea is still here. While trying to come up with an excuse to get her out of here, she interrupts with,

“I think we’re going at this the wrong way.” I obscure my dread for a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“Good records are made during times of peace. When everything’s boring, you can write about all the mundane events; civil disputes, and such. But times of chaos? More than a few things slip through the cracks.”

“You’re saying the Necromancer might’ve left during a crisis or something?”

“What better time to sneak out and plan an attack against an Arcanium you hate?” She makes a great point.

“But if stuff falls to the wayside like you said, how’re we going to find anything?”

Azalea doesn’t respond right away, holding her right earlobe in thought. A curious gesture.

“I have an idea. Excuse me!”

With that, she gets up and practically runs out of my house. Barlow raises his eyebrows.

“That was easy,” he comments before turning to me. “What happened?”

“I just read something I wish I hadn’t.”

“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, what is it?”

“As you know, the memory magic we use curtails thinking about whatever it’s blocking. It also increases in strength to negatively reinforce that point.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but as magicians, we already know about this magic and since we accept the spell, we don’t actively try to think about it.”

“But Hollyhock doesn’t know magic exists anymore. So of course she’ll keep trying to find out what she’s missing. Which will make the spell hurt more,” Barlow deduces.

“And anything that triggers those memories will activate the spell. But that’s not the worst part.”

“Scared to think how this could get worse.”

“There is no documentation for how strong the spell gets. If she keeps fighting it, I don’t know what could happen. Anything from minor to serious brain damage. She could die from this.”

🌿💀🌿

An irregularity occurs in my indistinguishable cycle: a sound from a now unfamiliar thing, the front door. At first, I think it’s a hallucination. A new, fun side effect of my mental degradation. But the knock comes again, slightly harder this time. I conclude it’s real and decide to investigate. Or it’s a persistent hallucination and I have to entertain it a bit.

Whatever the case, I spy through the peephole. What I see on the other side signals a change of plans for me today. I open the door to Larkspur, who looks me up and down. They want to say I look like shit, I know because I feel like shit. They decide against pointing out the obvious and instead say,

“Get dressed, Tamara wants us for something.”

Normally I’d have questions, concerns, and maybe even a joke. But I got nothing. I comply, going into my bedroom, and avoiding looking at anything that reminds me of what’s missing.

I can’t help but yearn for whoever was here when I didn’t have this unending pain in my head. Whoever they were, whoever I was then, might’ve been happy. But they’re both gone now.

I dress in black jeans and an orange tank top.

I can’t find my good pair of boots anywhere, just my luck. So I substitute them with white sneakers. No time for a shower, but I manage to wash my face a bit, without bothering to look at myself in the reflection.

I follow Larkspur, wordlessly, to the car. Kadupul waits in the backseat. She doesn’t have anything annoying to say and isn’t smoking anything, which means I am well and truly fucked.

We drive without talking, and music plays from the stereo. I’m vaguely aware of the fact that Larkspur isn’t driving us in the direction of HQ. I tuck that fact away and don’t ask why.

As we stop at an intersection, Larkspur casts a tentative look my way and turns the volume up. Prodding me to rap along. I’d much rather stay completely miserable, but my fellow Bay Leaf won’t have that.

Larkspur starts making the car bounce to the beat of the song; pumping their foot on and off the brake. Kadupul laughs a bit and a smile creeps across my face despite my best efforts. Larkspur beams, knowing I’m about to give in. As the chorus ends, I clear my throat and meet the song with,

NAH, I AIN’T HEARD OF THAT

I HIT THE BEACH IN A FURRY HAT

SHE GOT A GUY BUT SHE PURRING BACK

I’M LOOKING LIKE, “WHERE HE AT?”

NIGGA, GET OUT THE WAY!

Larkspur joins in on alternating lines, and Kadupul mostly does the ad-libs. We bump to the song as another car pulls up to us.

I rap to the other driver,

ME, I DON’T LIKE VIOLENCE BUT THE GUNS DO

Larkspur takes it with,

‘CAUSE THAT GORILLA RIGHT THERE, HE GON’ HUNT YOU

Kadupul follows with,

WHILE ME AND MY BITCH COUNTING STARS OUT THE SUNROOF

That’s when we realize that the other driver is Koki’O. She smiles at us though. Larkspur turns the music down as she asks,

“Y’all heading over there?”

“Yeah,” Kadupul answers. Koki’O nods. This seems like another chance to learn our destination. Koki’O looks at me and turns to Larkspur.

“You let her out the house like that?”

“Didn’t tell her where we’re going.”

“I’m sitting right here, y’know?” I chime in. Koki’O sighs.

“Guess it’ll be a surprise then.”

A car behind us honks its horn, and we all reveal our middle fingers to them. Larkspur follows Koki’O’s car to wherever we’re going.

We’re driving into the richest neighborhood in Oleander City. High-rise luxury apartments, premium businesses, and litter-free streets signal the quality of life around here. Theories as to what we’re doing here start to form, but are quickly erased as I recognize the building we approach.

The Halford Tower, once the tallest structure in this city, has been outdone by more modern skyscrapers. But it remains the most historically significant. It is one of the first skyscrapers in the city, it stands at over 2,000 feet tall. The entire building is painted a yellow-orange peach-like color, making it easy to spot. If that doesn’t grab someone’s attention, the disc-shaped observation floor will. Being in the center of Oleander City allows for a full view of everything on offer. The first floor of the observation area is open to the public; with tickets, souvenirs, and prices befitting such a tourist trap.

Unfortunately, we aren’t here for such a banal reason.

Tamara stands outside the front entrance, letting tourists and such walk past her. She has a neutral expression that subtly changes as she sees me. I take it she also isn’t pleased with my appearance. Had I known the gravitas of our little rendezvous, I might’ve cleaned up a bit more. She senses that and chooses not to comment.

We head inside the lobby and Digit is waiting by an elevator. He looks me up and down and has a similar distaste for my overall presentation.

The self-esteem tour continues on an excellent roll.

A slight shake of Tamara’s head tells our doctor/tattooist/quartermaster/weaponsmith/fellow assassin not to say anything. Our group is apparently complete, since we pack inside the only elevator that's not in constant use. Its door is transparent, as is the wall opposite. The two remaining walls are golden and red carpeting graces our feet. Gaudy, in my opinion. But considering the higher echelon of people who use it, I guess it’s lowbrow.

A sorta jazzy tune plays from the speakers above our heads. It doesn’t alleviate the awkwardness or tension building.

“Why are we here?” I ask. Tamara turns her head to look at me for a moment before turning back and answering with,

“You know who owns this building?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Well, they asked to see us. So we’re here.”

“Thanks, that really answers all my questions.”

“The fact that they asked is a good sign,” Koki’O interjects.

“Debatable,” Tamara counters. We return to the music being the only sound. I peek up to the floor counter to see there isn’t one. You’d think a private elevator would be faster.

“Anyone catch the game last night?” Kadupul asks. Koki’O chuckles.

“Yeah, the Shrubs really botched it in the ninth inning. They shoulda won that,” she answers. The two of them idly chat about the Oleander Shrubs and their performance this season. Their conversation reminds me that there’s a world still going on outside my misery. I don’t like it.

The back wall has a wonderful view of the city, but none of us are interested and don’t turn around.

Finally, we reach the top floor. Below us is the public area, but this floor is the meeting hall of the Argonos; the members of which are waiting for us.

Despite the opulence of the elevator, the meeting hall is a stark, almost solemn place. The ceiling and floor are light brown. The wide open space has nothing occupying it but its main function.

At the center of this room is a massive circular table. It’s made from pure black wood, ebony, I believe. I’m not sure how much it costs exactly, but I’m guessing you could buy a mansion for the same price.

The twelve members of the Argonos sit around the monument of nature’s destruction.

Oleander City started as one of the settlements formed after the gold rush, but became a central hub for legal and illegal trading afterward. Its location makes it a rest stop for the West Coast and some Midwest criminals. Being the nerve center of crime for this part of the country has, obviously, attracted several organizations. Big and small-time, makers and distributors, servicers and patrons.

But none of them have accumulated as much money, fear, and outright power as the Argonos. This is their city. You can’t so much as jaywalk without one or all of them knowing about it. Nothing goes in or out of Oleander without their permission, and nothing happens in it without their approval.

They have no great attachments to any of the criminal groups that operate here; beyond getting a cut of all their money, that is. They’re the overseers of this plantation, carefully orchestrating all the chaos that happens in this shithole yields profit.

So they probably aren’t happy that we just burned a field of their crops.

The esteemed group turns their attention to us. Tamara stops a few feet from the table, and we flank behind her.

One of the many adages she hammered into me is ‘Never be unprepared if you can help it’. Most of the time that means always having a weapon. But all of us are unarmed. Then again, a Bay Leaf is never defenseless.

Tamara stands with her shoulders squared.

Questions about her past have always been lodged in my mind. I know her skills and equipment aren’t something you can just pick up off the streets. The fact that the Argonos have asked to see her in person further solidifies that she is far beyond the average killer.

Each member of the Argonos has a different ornate chair. I don’t know if this denotes rank, or position, or is just subject to personal preference. The group also encompasses a wide variety of demographics. Members range from being in their early thirties to maybe upwards of seventy. They’re also quite colorful, a regular party mix of races and ethnicities sit here.

Good to know that the Argonos don’t discriminate.

“Tamara,” one member says, breaking the silence. She’s a black woman, mid-thirties, with a bald head and disturbingly blue eyes. For half a second I think she’s about to say her last name, but she’s interrupted with,

“You understand why we called you here?” an older man snidely asks. He looks like he’s in his sixties, I’d guess at least sixty-five. Tamara doesn’t respond.

“We aren’t school teachers scolding a child,” the woman who was interrupted says.

“And we have manners.” Another member chimes in. This one is perhaps the oldest at the table, gray hair flows down to his shoulders.

Pain spikes in my head. I suppress my reaction to it.

The interrupting member scoffs but relents.

“Tamara, we’ve always maintained a suitable relationship with your organization.”

Is that what we are? An organization? Sounds so formal.

“You and yours are a needed predator for our ecosystem. A shark for all the little fishes in our little pond,” the oldest man here says.

Personally, I’ve always thought of us as wolves, but sharks are cool too.

“Enough praise,” the interrupting man speaks up again. Tamara has been neutrally meeting the eyes of everyone else, but for this man, a specter of emotion spans her face. It’s too delicate for me to pin down. “Let's get to the reason we’re here.”

The other members mumble with various assenting and dissenting opinions, but do move on. I don’t know how this group normally conducts its business, but I’m guessing this man is the official curmudgeon.

“My peers and I,” an Asian woman says. She has an almost absurd amount of freckles and lime-green hair. “We have our ideas about why you did what you did. But this is the land of law and order.”

Everyone at the table laughs a bit at that.

“So we figured we should hear your side of things.”

“Not like the offended party can say theirs,” the interrupting man interjects once more. I pay more attention to his voice this time, since I doubt it’ll be the last I’ll hear of it. He speaks with a Spaniard’s accent. For the most part, his body seems to be in good shape for his age, but his eyes age him countless years. They have more bags than a grocery store checkout, but the eyes themselves have a haunting look.

As if they know the secrets of everything they gaze upon. I don’t know his name, but from one look I know he’s cognizant of far too much. His attention is on Tamara for now, but I peel my eyes off him before he turns to me.

Tamara shifts her shoulders a bit.

“You are aware it’s possible to not fill each second of silence with your voice, right?” Another member speaks up, this one a white man in his thirties. British, I think. “WE are a collective, WE called this meeting so that WE could hear their story. Not just so YOU could lay out whatever agenda you have now. Bless us with the notion that you can stay quiet and listen for two minutes, sir.”

Scolded again, he scoffs and leans back in his chair.

“If you would say your piece, please,” the maybe British man says. Tamara clears her throat.

“The DeadNettles attempted to kill one of mine, and I retaliated in kind,” she says. Straight to the point. Her audience waits a moment to see if she has anything to add to that.

She doesn’t.

“By wiping them out?” The first woman to speak asks.

“Yes,” Tamara answers.

“One of your Bay Leaves was worth all those lives?”

“Yes.”

Knowing she’s talking about me but won’t or can’t mention makes my skin crawl a bit. Like a mother discreetly talking about her child’s problems to anyone who’ll listen.

“Surely you’ve lost people before? Do you go on a crusade for each one of them?” The interrupting man can’t help but keep speaking, much to the chagrin of his colleagues.

Tamara locks eyes with him.

“Me and mine accept whatever happens on a job, happens. But this, Señor Sequoia,” she says to him. He seems a bit rattled that she said his name. Matter of fact, all the Argonos do. Seems she wasn’t supposed to do that. “Wasn’t on the job. My Bay Leaf finished a job for the DeadNettles, and instead of paying they decided to ambush-” there’s a split second hesitation because she wants to say ‘her’ but doesn’t want to give anything away “them.”

The group considers this information, that is, except Señor Sequoia. He’s finally quiet for a change, but his eyes scan over us. He lingers on me for a moment longer than I’d like.

They end their mini-conference and one of them speaks up.

“Justified as it was, it was not only a breach of our arrangement but a disruption to the drug trade.”

“Which is why I ordered my Bay Leaves to leave the buildings standing and the products alone,” Tamara counters. “I’ve also taken the liberty of draining the DeadNettles accounts and transferring the contents to your pooled cache.”

Again, the entire group seems put off by this. They look at each other as if asking how she can even know about that. The possibly British man takes out a tablet and quickly taps it to check. After a moment or two, he finds what he’s looking for and nods to the rest.

“You’ll find more than enough there to cover the temporary loss in trade. It’ll tide you over until whatever group that can handle it takes over. I believe you call this a hiccup,” Tamara finishes. Now I know why I kidnapped that accountant.

Guess it wasn’t for Christmas bonuses.

The Argonos seemed much more confident when we first came in. Assured that their power and influence spoke loud enough to cover their names and assets. They were wrong. This only further mystifies just how dangerous Tamara is.

But that isn’t the crux of the issue here.

Clearly, this is a group of people that prefers to operate anonymously. And here’s Tamara, a woman who they know is a skilled killer with her group of skilled killers. It doesn’t require much imagination to think if she can get one of their names, she can get the rest of them. And when you have someone’s name, you can get the rest of their info. Skilled killers with your personal info? Simple math.

Yet that isn’t even the problem. What truly bothers them is that Tamara is still playing by their rules. That’s what’s got them all so fucking perplexed. Why would someone so capable and dangerous willingly genuflect to someone less so?

I’m wondering that myself.

But the group collects their composure again. Seems they’ve reached a conclusion, without Señor Sequoia. He’s staring at Tamara like he wishes he had heat vision. But again his gaze turns to us and then lands on me.

I don’t like the look in his eyes. He knows something he shouldn’t and it makes my stomach turn.

“Well, your vengeance was justified,” the green-haired Asian woman says.

“And we’ve been more than compensated,” the conceivably British man adds.

“So let’s consider this dust-up over and done with,” the bald black woman says.

“WHAT?!” Señor Sequoia yells. “After all that, she gets to just walk away from this?!”

“Our losses will be covered, things will shift but will stabilize.”

“It’s not about the money! It’s about maintaining the order of things. If we let her get away with this, what’s to stop her from doing this again?”

“Tamara, are you planning on wiping any more gangs?” The oldest member asks.

“Not at the moment, but the day is young.” A rare joke from Tamara. All the same, the rest of the Argonos seemed satisfied with her response. The one voice of dissent fumes.

“She must receive punishment!”

“Oh? Should we all take her over our laps and spank her?” The bald black woman proposes. Everyone at the table laughs again. Koki’O barely stifles one of her own. Tamara shoots her a look.

Is this a criminal ring or a comedy club?

“What does it matter? The situation works out in our favor, and it’s one less group of riffraff to deal with.”

With all his colleagues in agreement, it seems there isn’t anything more he can do. He looks at Tamara and quells his rage, sinking into an eerily calm demeanor.

“I suppose karma will have to suffice,” he says coldly. Again he looks in my direction, certain of something.

I’ve theorized many things about Tamara; one I hold as the truest is that she cannot experience fear. Either because the part of the brain that makes one feel it doesn’t exist in her or through some hellish conditioning, she instantly suppresses such a human emotion.

So the anxiety I feel rapidly spreads through my body as I see her ball a fist behind her back. At first, I think it’s out of anger, but I know her better than that. Tamara expresses her rage outwardly, never hidden behind her. Especially not in front of a group of people she just proved she can get to.

I steal a glance at Koki’O and see the most minute expression of worry on her face: confirming my thoughts. Tamara’s hand trembles a bit as she squeezes harder, her nails piercing the palm.

What does he know that has her scared?

If the rest of the Argonos know anything of what’s going on between Tamara and Señor Sequoia, none of them let on. I’m not sure if they even notice.

“Consider this matter concluded. You may go,” Señor Sequoia says as if he wasn’t just calling for her punishment. She looks at him, then the rest of the Argonos, nods and turns to leave. We follow close behind. I dare to peek back and see the man who put fear into Tamara looking right at me. It’s a repulsive look at that. Thankfully, we get into the elevator and the doors close, so I don’t have to see him anymore.

Tamara faces the glass wall this time. I faintly see her reflection. She has her thinking face on. She’s unclenched her fist, red lines where blood seeps out pattern her palm. Koki’O looks at it like she wants to take hold. Digit glances at it, probably wondering when that got there. I can’t see Larkspur or Kadupul since they’re behind me, but I imagine they’ve noticed too. We descend in silence before Kadupul says,

“Anyone else thought that green-haired lady was hot?”

Digit sputters out a laugh, and Koki’O shakes her head amused. Tamara cracks a smile. Just a small one.

“You’re incorrigible,” Tamara lightly scolds.

“It’s part of my charm,” Kadupul quips while taking out a spliff. She goes to light it before seeing the look Tamara is giving her. She spins it between her fingers back into her pocket. “That went better than I thought.”

“Hmm,” Tamara offers in reply. The mood has lightened a bit, but we fall back into silence. It’s quickly broken as we exit the elevator to the lobby, where every sucker in the world waits to buy overpriced shit.

We all head out to the sidewalk, ready to part ways. I start to go with Larkspur and Kadupul when Tamara stops me with her arm across my chest. She nods to them both to go ahead.

“See ya.”

“Bye.”

Digit and Koki’O take notice of this. The good doctor heads to his ride as Koki’O walks over to us, her whole body is tense.

“Tamara,” she says in an almost pleading tone. Her eyes dart to me for a second.

“Go,” is all Tamara offers. Even though this clearly concerns me, I can’t work up the nerve to ask what’s going on. The scene unfolding before my eyes doesn’t seem like that of a leader and her right-hand woman. This is something else entirely.

“Listen to me, I-” Koki’o speaks more firmly as Tamara interjects with,

“Please.”

In all the years I’ve been a Bay Leaf, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Tamara say please. Why would she ever need to? She’s the boss, she taught us everything we know about our deadly craft.

I’ve also never heard her say anything so softly.

Koki’O tries to harden her resolve. To get whatever point she wants across. Her eyes flick to me again. She wants to say more, but can’t or won’t in front of me. The same strange feeling I had as Tamara anonymously spoke of me forms again. It’s…uncomfortable.

Tamara doesn’t say or do anything else. She just stares at Koki’O, whose willpower melts by the second. In one last push of determination, she makes her large hands into fists. For half a second I believe she might fight Tamara.

But she caves, letting out a deep sigh. Again, I know there’s more she wants to say, but doesn’t.

The two of them have an entire conversation with just their eyes. An unspoken, unknowable language flies between them. There’s no way for me to dissect what’s been articulated just here.

I briefly wonder if I’ll ever have that kind of connection with someone. My head aches dully.

With their nonverbal talk over, Koki’O sighs again and shakes her head slowly. She opens her mouth to say something but decides against it.

Soon it’s just me and Tamara. She looks me up and down once more.

“Have you eaten?” She asks. I shrug, genuinely unsure if I have. I know she hates when I shrug, but it’s all I got.

She points with her chin for me to follow her.

“C’mon, Hollyhock.”

✨🔮✨

“C’mon, Hazel.”

Barlow grabs my attention from the dense tome I’m reading.

“What?”

“You need to take a break.”

“I already took a break.”

“Eating one graham cracker does not count as a break.”

“I-”

“I’m fully aware of the stakes. I know what this means to you. But you need to decompress, otherwise, you’ll burn out. Bad. Then what good will you be to anyone?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, either out of annoyance or frustration.

“The sooner we find something, the sooner I can take a break.”

“Who’s we?”

I look across the table to see an absent chair where Azalea usually sits, nose-deep in a text.

“Where’s Azalea?” Barlow looks at me like I suggested we should eat rocks.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“It’s…” I blank on the answer.

“Hazel, it’s the Day of Dispassion.”

“No it isn’t! That isn’t until…”

Shit, it is today. The rest of the world seeps into my perception. Music, talking, laughter, and the veritable sounds of life, come through. I look at the text I was just reading, and the letters seem to dance around on the page. I should take a break.

With a deep sigh, I stand up and give in.

“I’ll walk around for a bit.”

“Not dressed like that.”

I look at what Barlow is wearing. Simple black shoes and pants, but the top is a knitted vest with an almost honeycomb pattern of pink and purple. Each segment of the pattern reacts to whoever is looking at it, changing colors in a rainbow spectrum as my eyes travel across it.

A relatively lax outfit for him.

“Point taken. I’ll change, give me a couple of minutes.” Barlow nods, satisfied that I’m cooperating.

“I’ll wait outside.” He leaves on that note. I go to wash my face to regain some humanity. Then I head over to my wardrobe and examine my options.

I’ve never been more disinterested in what I’ve got.

Then my eyes land on a dress. It’s a simple thing, thin shoulder straps and formless. A tangerine orange, it has a deep V neckline that almost dips to my navel. With thigh slits at the sides, the thing that caught my eye is the cosmetic enchantment. Random shapes and patterns slowly move across the dress’ midsection, changing as they go around the back.

It feels like something Hollyhock would wear.

Even though I’ve never seen her wear a dress.

Regardless, I don the piece and slip into some black high heels; not intending to stay long. I pull my hair into a simple ponytail and exit my home.

Barlow looks me over as I step out. He wanted me to dress up more but says nothing, seeing me out of the house is enough of a victory for him.

The sounds of the festival ring out clearer. Barlow offers his arm like a gentleman.

I scoff but accept it. We walk together to where the festivities are.

Day of Dispassion, a time of commencement. For much of recorded human history, magicians had interfered with the non-magical world. Both directly and tangentially. More than a few wars, ‘natural’ disasters, plagues, and other travesties can be traced to a magician's conflict. It was on this day that magicians the world over agreed enough was enough. They made a pact to ban any interference with the non-magic world. The exception to this is stopping other magical threats.

So magicians retreated to the Arcaniums and cloistered ourselves off from the world’s affairs. This holiday has had its fair share of conflicting opinions, some have said it’s a foolish idea to separate from the world when we’re a part of it. Others have posited that our powers have corrupted our influence over the world too many times. There are other schools of thought about protecting ourselves vs. guiding humanity.

Before leaving, I never gave it much thought. But now that I’ve been out in the world, I’ve gained some conflicting notions myself.

Still, regardless of what one might think of the Day of Dispassion, it’s a good excuse to party and relax.

In the town center is where the majority of people celebrate. Banners, lanterns, and all kinds of decorations paint the space in a myriad of colors. Delicious aromas of a variety of foods being served hit my nose and my stomach growls. Barlow chuckles a bit.

“Seems I made the right call bringing you out.”

“I’ll never admit you’re right. Ever.”

He picks up a skewer of grilled meat and veggies from a stand and offers it to me. I take it from his hand and bite into it.

“Well?”

“You might have a point,” I say around a mouthful of food.

We walk around for a while, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells. The Day of Dispassion started as a more somber event. We’d gather and recollect all the ills magicians caused throughout history. Over time, it turned into a more casual event, and from there it became festive. With no particular decor theme, this holiday has people throwing whatever colors and patterns they wish to. Some dress on the more tame side of things, others not so much.

People eat and drink and dance, just enjoying each other’s company. I can’t enjoy it as much as I used to in past years, my mind wanders to Hollyhock. I fantasize about bringing her here.

Barlow goes searching for something sweet to eat, as I stand on the periphery of the festivities; feeling like a stranger in my own city. I people watch, trying to get out of my head and relax. But then I feel bad for relaxing when Hollyhock could be in horrible danger. Then I have to remind myself that my brain will fizzle out if I DON’T relax, and I won’t be able to do anything after that.

This back and forth goes on so loudly in my head that I don’t notice the person standing in front of me until she says,

“I’ve never seen you so spaced out, Hazel.” her voice brings me back to reality. I turn to see the beautiful Puya smiling at me. Her long azure blue hair rests in delicate curls on her shoulders. “Then again, I usually don’t have your undivided attention.”

“Sorry, I…have a lot on my mind right now.”

“Hmm, that’s okay.” She circles me, observing me closely. Her bright orange eyes narrow as they scan my midsection. I’ve dressed up more than this for this day, and she’s no doubt noticed I put on some weight. “Me and the girls haven’t seen you lately. Mentor keeping you busy?”

“And then some.”

“Well,” she stops in front of me, “I’m sure the girls and I can take your mind off things.” she points to her friends. I follow her finger to a jewelry stand to see Lotus, Cypri, Lilly, and Camellia grouped. They all giggle as they see me look over.

“Just because it’s the Day of Dispassion,” Puya says with a provocative smile. Her pointer finger starts at my neck and trails down my chest. “Doesn’t mean we can’t liven things up.” She rubs tiny circles between my breasts.

Two months ago, I’d’ve indulged. The handful of bacchanalia I’ve experienced with Puya and her coterie were exhilarating, to say the least. Those late nights and early mornings we spent together taking and giving to one another were compelling. But now her delightful touch just makes me want Hollyhock even more.

And only her.

“Sorry,” I say, guiding her hand back to her side. “As fun as it’d be, I’m not in the mood.”

“We could get you in the mood.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Is our lil’ Hazel lovesick?”

Our relationship has always just been physical, truth be told we don’t know much about one another. Or at least I thought so. I didn’t expect Puya to be able to read me like that.

“I…” that trails off with no hope of continuation.

“She must be one hell of a lady to have you in knots like this.” Puya lifts my chin with her finger.

“You have no idea.”

“Well,” she kisses me on the cheek. I catch a whiff of her shampoo. It has an evocative, spicy smell. “If you and her like to share, bring her around sometime. We’d love to get to know her.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, holding my cheek.

With a wink, she walks away. Leaving me alone with my thoughts once again.

The assassin has done a number on me. We’re not even officially together, and I’m turning down orgies.

No small part of me wishes that Hollyhock is doing the same.

🌿💀🌿

“This is the worst date I’ve ever been on.”

“First thing you’ve said all day, and it’s a joke,” Tamara replies from across the table.

She drove us for an hour and a half. Now we’re sitting in a little hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant on the periphery of Oleander City. The one barely working ceiling fan does very little to combat the blazing heat outside. I swear, the sun has gotten bigger.

We ordered our food a while ago. Tamara asked for spanakopita and insisted that I have moussaka. Being the only customers here should’ve sped up our orders, but the owners are probably the oldest people in the world. Seriously, I think the waitress was around for the Peloponnesian war.

Not that any of that matters, since I don’t know what we’re doing here.

Tamara’s been staring out the window, acting like it’s not ten billion degrees in here, and being as quiet as I’ve been. She turns her gaze to me.

She has to know I want to ask about everything. What were she and Koki'O talking, or not talking, about me for? Why was Señor Sequoia looking at me? Why did we have to go to this giant oven of a restaurant?

But I know if she isn’t offering the gossip, then there’s next to no point in asking. I’m more likely to win the lottery while being struck by lightning on February 29th than acquiring info from Tamara when she doesn’t want to share.

‘Sides, I want to stay away from asking Tamara things I really want to know.

So we sit quietly after my clever quip. She turns back to looking out the window for whatever she’s been staring at. I could turn my head and potentially find out, but I’m not familiar with this part of the city, so I see little point.

She still has that tense, anxious aura about her. One hand slowly and idly spins a knife as the other is balled in a fist.

“Is your hand okay?” I ask. She looks at her palm like she didn’t notice. Barely worth a two-second look, she goes back to looking out the window.

“It’ll be fine. Your voice is hoarse, drink some water.”

“My voice always sounds like this,” I remark.

“That’s not-” Tamara stops herself for some reason. “Just drink some water.”

I look at the glasses on the table. The ice melted, and the water is probably two degrees away from boiling. I take a sip, and it is indeed room temperature, hot. It also has that straight-from-the-tap flavor.

“Does that soothe your soul?” She was right, my throat was dry as hell.

“No,” she admits.

“Time might go faster if we talk about whatever we’re waiting for,” I probe for an opening.

“Time will move on, no matter what,” she says, kinda ominously. I have nothing to say to that, so silence dominates once more. That is, until the clattering plates of our orders approach, being carried by a living fossil. The old woman sets out food down.

“Efcharisto,” Tamara says with the smallest smile. The waitress smiles back, and I repeat the phrase to get a smile too.

“Eat,” Tamara demands. I won’t deny I’m hungry so I dig in. Actually, I scarf the food down, I don’t savor the flavors as I should, but it is a delicious meal. Tamara eats her food with more dignity and restraint than I do. “You need to keep your strength up, always.”

‘For what?’ I almost ask. I don’t because I have a mouthful of food and don’t want to hear whatever lecture she has loaded in her brain. A nod will suffice.

God, I feel like a kid again. That little scared girl Tamara found and fed, devouring the food she gave me because I wasn’t sure when my last meal was; or when my next one would be.

I force the memory from my mind. Ironic, given my current circumstances. All the shit I’ve forgotten and that one is cemented.

Tamara finishes her food before I do, glancing at me before returning to the view of the window. When I finish, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Tamara hates that.

Eventually, the waitress comes back to take our plates. Tamara pays generously and says something to her. The woman nods, says something in turn, and gives a placating gesture. I’m guessing something along the lines of ‘take your time.’

And take our time, we do. The hours crawl by with us exchanging no more words. With the sun no longer at its zenith, the temperature had entered tolerable levels. Tamara raises an eyebrow and stands up. I follow her out, back to the car. Instead of heading to the driver’s side, she goes to the trunk.

Popping it open, she reveals her weapon cache. She reaches for her custom gun, Rue. Practiced ease quickly has her screw on a silencer. I grab a pistol, a GoldenSeal, and do the same. As I’m doing it, I look around. We’re in a nice suburban area. Big houses with big lawns. Tamara’s eyes are locked on one at the end of the block. It’s the largest and fanciest by far. With a private gate and probably other security measures.

Whoever we’re here to kill lives there, no doubt.

She tucks her gun in the back of her pants. With that, she grabs a treated leather jacket and a bandanna. She surprises me by having my embroidered one. I don’t remember taking it off after the DeadNettle extermination, but I guess I parted ways with it at some point. I don it and the bandanna Tamara gives me. We tie them around our necks to be lifted in a moment.

Bandannas means she expects this to be quick with light resistance.

I can’t help but wonder why she had me come with her, or why she won’t tell me who we’re here to kill.

She darts her eyes around and takes out her phone. Tapping it a few times, she looks up again. Directly across the street from us, I notice the lights flicker in a home.

‘A block-wide power blip. She’s planned this.’

Tamara is satisfied, putting her phone away, and starts jogging to the house to the end of the block. I follow suit, keeping pace with her. We reach the brick wall blocking off the expansive lawn of the soon-to-be deceased. I give her a boost to help her over. She reaches her hand down to pull me up. We both land on the other side with a roll.

No time to waste, we go into a low sprint.

I’m guessing Tamara knocked out whatever security devices temporarily, and whoever is here might notice eventually.

This is a time crunch.

I notice the garage and see one of the automatic doors is open. Either someone is planning to leave soon, or they just came back and aren't planning on staying long. The car parked inside is old-school and very fancy.

We get closer to the house and two guards come into view. Tamara might be able to casually talk with Koki’O nonverbally, but she and I don’t need words for this. She points to the one on the right and expects me to do what she taught me. Wordlessly, we simultaneously put three rounds in the chest of both guards.

They didn’t even get to notice us. Both are dead as we close in on the front door. Tamara grabs a key from one. We both pull up our bandannas over our noses. She crouches before the door and slowly opens it. I lower myself to have her follow up. She checks the left and I check the right.

The first floor of this atrium is clear. We scan the second floor.

“HEY!” A guard from the second floor yells. Tamara puts a bullet between his eyebrows before he can radio for help or draw his gun. He falls over and flops over the handrail, crashing to the first floor.

“Shit,” she mutters. No doubt someone heard that. I spot a still clueless guard and put one through her neck. She dies, knocking into something. The sound of whatever it was breaking, reaches me over here.

The element of surprise has left us.

Blitz time.

Tamara sprints through the space and I follow close behind. I assume she knows where she’s going. We climb the stairs three at a time. Rushing past the guard I killed, I notice she knocked a red vase. Her blood is indistinguishable from the porcelain fragments.

Without looking back, Tamara aims her gun behind us and fires twice. I hear the thud of a body a second later. We head down a hallway that leads to a room with tall wooden doors. Tamara picks up speed and slides to her knee to open it. I slip in just as it opens, and Tamara closes it after us.

The room we’ve entered is a large study. Bookshelves line one wall, and various art pieces cover another. There’s a desk with a computer that’s on. No one seems to be here. Tamara starts searching. As I look around, I see a large painting that illuminates why we’re here.

An oil portrait of Señor Sequoia and people I assume to be his family dominates one wall.

I knew he knew too much. I just didn’t expect to pay within the day.

‘Them’s the break, I guess.’

An electrical squawk projects from somewhere and suddenly the voice of the man calls out,

“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised to see you here, Tamara. Just not so soon. And with company.” Tamara doesn’t respond to him. Instead, she produces a smoke grenade from her jacket pocket. It’s a small device that makes a more controlled stream of gray smoke. She throws it to the edge of the room. Smoke slowly forms, creating a thin blanket.

“Guess that one was a dud,” our target says. He’s unaware she’s using it to look for any hidden rooms or corridors. Unless this room is hermetically sealed, which I doubt, the thinnest seam will draw smoke in. “I didn’t think you’d make this so easy for me.”

‘What is he talking about?’ I keep circling the room, eyes peeled for any sign of where he’s hiding.

“Or maybe you’re just more cruel than I thought. Bringing this one with you seems especially callous.”

“SHUT UP!” Tamara shouts. It’s off-putting, her responding to such a taunt. But I’m a professional, so I don’t react.

“Perhaps it’s simple indifference that made you bring Hollyhock here.”

I flinch hearing my name.

“I SAID SHUT UP!” Then I see smoke flowing into a seam between bookshelves. I stomp twice to get Tamara’s attention. She snaps in my direction and spots what I see. I move to the side as she fires three rounds. They go through the books, and the shelf, without ricocheting. I find the hidden handle and force it open. Inside a small alcove, I see the man whose death is assured. He’s been monitoring us on a small screen and talking into an intercom. I grab him by his collar and pull him out. Hard.

He crashes to the ground and I already have my gun aimed at him.

“WAIT! DON’T YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT SHE’S HIDING?!”

I break one of the most important rules of the Bay Leaves: never hesitate.

He preyed on my growing curiosity perfectly, giving him time to pull out his gun that I should’ve spotted. Taking aim at my face and pulling back the hammer, it feels like the whole world goes into slow motion. I jerk my head to the right as he squeezes the trigger.

Hot, spinning lead excavates a trench along my left cheek and takes some of my ear as a souvenir. Years of training and personal experience allow me to focus through the pain and shoot my gun.

My shot hits his gun hand. He drops the pistol since two of his fingers have gone missing. He yells out in pain as I stumble to the right. Señor Sequoia doesn’t have to be in pain for long, though. Tamara walks over and graciously endows his head with all the ammo she has.

Bullet after bullet work in concert to make a bloody soup of what was once his skull.

CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!

Tamara doesn’t want to stop shooting the nearly decapitated corpse.

My wound has cooled from the initial shot but is still bleeding. When Tamara finally looks my way, I don’t see a look of rage like I expected, but relief.

She realizes I’m hurt.

“You alright?” I was bracing myself for a lecture on basically everything she taught me.

“Just a flesh wound.”

She nods and moves to the computer. Her hands deftly navigate through its systems. I figure she’s deleting security footage. Blood has soaked through my bandanna. Tamara’s been at the computer for longer than she should for something that simple. I watch her and see she’s looking for something. Either she doesn’t know where it is or what exactly it is she’s looking for.

As much as I’d like to take a guess, I feel it’s more important to remember we’re in a house with armed guards looking for us.

“Tamara, let’s go!” I ignore how much it hurt my face to say that by focusing on how weird it felt to order her. She shoots an angry look at me but concedes, settling to factory reset the computer. When that takes too long, she resorts to a more tech-savvy approach by picking up the computer and throwing it on the ground as hard as she can. She then takes out a fire starter tool, flicks its little switch, and drops it on the remains of the computer.

My face hurts.

Looking extremely dissatisfied, Tamara reloads her gun.

“Let’s get out of here.”

✨🔮✨

Despite my protests, Barlow dragged me into a group of people dancing. I’m not sure which song they’re dancing to, as there are many playing in beautiful disharmony. Maybe they’re dancing to all of them. Barlow and I spin and dance to whatever melody takes hold of us. A smile has made its way across my face at some point.

I take a stranger's hand and twirl around. The stress that cemented itself in my muscles has loosened just a bit. Even the guilt of enjoying myself has diminished some.

After this, I know I’ll be refreshed and ready to dig in deeper.

🌿💀🌿

I sit on the examining table in the Bay Leaves infirmary.

After the lovely visit we paid to Señor Sequoia, we made it back with relatively no problem. There wasn’t even any traffic, though that’s to be expected with this heat.

Digit looks my wound over as Tamara stands nearby. Koki’O is glowering at the copper-haired woman. She either doesn’t notice or care. I know why Koki’O is here, to later admonish Tamara, but can’t discern any reason as to why Larkspur and Kadupul are here too.

Probably just to poke fun. It reminds me of when I dislocated my shoulder after a sparring match with Koki’O as an uppity teenager, and they were laughing their asses off.

Digit cleans the gash on my face with alcohol, since I never got the chance to disinfect it.

“Are you sure this isn’t hydrochloric acid? This shit stings.”

“Maybe next time, don’t get shot in the face.”

“Better than the alternative, right?” He shrugs and throws away the cotton swab he was using.

“Alright, easy part’s over.”

Larkspur looks at the gash and whistles.

“That’s a real buck fifty,” they say, holding up a surgical tray for me. I look at the straight line across my face. It felt like a bigger piece of my ear was shot off, but it isn’t that bad.

“Buck fifty?” Tamara asks.

“You’re too white and European to understand,” Digit replies. Tamara rolls her eyes at that. In the past, whenever we’ve used such lingo around her, Koki’O usually provides a definition. Seems she’s too furious for it this time.

“They might cancel my modeling contract over this,” I fake decry. Digit gets a needle and thread ready.

“Serves ya right for copying me,” Kadupul chimes in. She licks the scar that bisects her lips.

“That’s right, I got shot in the face all so I could further emulate you. You’ve seen right through my ploy, Kadupul.”

She saunters over, fanning herself with an unopened gauze pad.

“Honestly, Holly, your obsession with me is reaching fanatic levels. Lil’ bit of a turn-off, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll tone it down.”

“See that you do, young miss,” she says with a haughty voice. Just as Digit is about to start sewing me together, she steps close to examine the wound. I want to slap her hand away as she grabs my chin. She looks it over. “That’ll scar nicely.”

“That your expert opinion?”

“Mhm. You could use some witch hazel on it.”

The explosion of pain that erupts in my head is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. For a moment I think the world is tilting, then I realize that I’m falling over. I can’t seem to stop myself either.

As I go to hit the floor I knock over a table of equipment, something flies past my face and I see a flash of red. I’m unable to get up, as my limbs don’t respond to my commands. All these years of exercise and training, and now my muscles betray me.

Convulsions attack my body as my head continues its volley of self-inflicting torment. Lying on my side, I can only see the feet of everyone else and more of my blood staining the floor. I can’t feel my arms and legs flopping around past the sheer pain assaulting me.

Vaguely, I perceive someone shouting,

“I THINK SHE’S HAVING A SEIZURE!”

I can see everyone moving around, trying to help.

My worst fear has come true. Trapped in my own body, unable to do anything as the world goes on.

I want to scream. Scream from the agony and the fear taking over.

But I can’t. My body fails me.

Through the terrible pain, I sense something on the edge of my mind; it’s rapidly enveloping my consciousness. It’s sweet, like death, bringing relief from my pain.

Everything…goes…black.

✨🔮✨

I break out into a cold sweat and stop in my tracks. Barlow notices and takes me to the side.

“Are you okay? You look like you swallowed a live eel.”

It feels like that. My insides are in turmoil. My skin is clammy, and an inexplicable grief has taken hold of my heart.

“Hollyhock,” I say, barely above a whisper.

“Huh?” Barlow gets me further away from everyone. We duck between two empty stands.

“Hollyhock, something bad just happened to her.”

“How can you know that?”

I can’t explain it, I barely understand it myself. There isn’t any other explanation for what I’m feeling right now.

I just know it’s about the woman I love.

Tears stream uncontrollably down my face.

I feel like I’m going to throw up. What happened to her?

Is she dying? Is she dead?

No. No, she can’t be.

Hollyhock just can’t be dead. She can’t.

I’ll burn this world down if she is.

🌿💀🌿

I wake up looking at a gray abyss. Digit’s face enters my view. It’s the ceiling I’m looking at.

“Can’t be in heaven if I’m seeing your mug.”

“Oh good, your sense of humor is intact. You said that without slurring, so that’s a good sign.” He shines a flashlight in my eyes. “Can you touch your toes for me?”

I tap my feet together. My body is mine again.

For now.

“Okay, good. You seem alert.”

I nod. A sting comes from between my eyes.

“Why does my nose hurt?”

“You knocked over a table and a scalpel cut your nose bridge. I put a band-aid on it.”

“Ah.” Digit waits for me to say something else.

I don’t.

“I sewed up your other cut while you were out. Hundred fifty stitches like Lark said.”

I’m still staring at the ceiling, but I sense no one else is in the room with us. Not sure if that’s good or bad. Out of light conversation to say, Digit sighs.

He stands up so I can see his serious expression.

“Listen, seizures are a sign of many things. I know someone who can get you an MRI and CT scan. We do a full check-up and-”

“Can you just take me home?” I interrupt his suggestions. His face twists in confusion.

“Listen to me-”

“Please.” It’s all I can manage to keep my voice neutral, free of the emotion building in my chest.

Fear corrupts the heart that’s been made strong from this life. My arsenal is bereft of calm, a strategy, or even simple anger to combat this horror consuming me.

I clench my fists, resisting the urge to cry in front of him. More than anything, I don’t want Digit to see me like this.

He can see past it anyway, turning his head away to hide his own emotions. I can see his own hands become fists in my periphery.

He could force me to do whatever he deems necessary. It’s obvious he knows more about this than I do. No doubt, Tamara ordered him to do whatever it takes. He has no reason to listen to my plea. I don’t know if the Hippocratic oath applies to him, I’ve never learned how he acquired his medical skills.

But I fear the truth above all else. That’s why I have that promise I keep to my younger self.

That which could be brought to light terrifies me more than anything and everything. Bullets, explosions, and knives mean nothing to me. It is the simple truth that will break me, I just know it. So I ask again,

“Please,” the tiniest tremor shapes the word.

Digit shakes a bit, bracing the storm of conflicting emotions against his willpower.

“Okay…okay,” he says with his breath shuddering.

We drive through the empty streets of Oleander City. It’s dark and hot out. The news playing on the radio relays that this heat wave isn’t going to let up soon. I can’t bear to look at Digit as he drives, and he does the courtesy of not looking my way either. The palpable heartbreak we’re both feeling is enough without meeting eyes.

He stops in front of my building and doesn’t move as I get out.

“I’ll come in a week to check on the stitches, okay?” He informs me as I walk away. I give no indication I heard him, focusing on going back to my home.

He assumes I heard and drives away.

My breath and footsteps are all I hear as I move.

I reach my apartment. First thing I do is turn the AC on. It spurs to life, but shortly after gives a loud CLUNK and dies.

‘Perfect. Just perfect.’

I can’t summon any energy to be properly angry about that. I shed my outer layer of clothes and sink into my bed. Ignoring the smell of my sheets and pillows, I curl up and try to smother the tears that force their way out of my eyes.

✨🔮✨

I go back home, the initial shock of what I felt has waned, but I still have this weight in my heart. Barlow took me back with no arguments but insisted I rest.

I lie in my bed, more anxious and guilty than before. They hold my heart like a hand, unsure whether to let go or crush it completely. I still feel Hollyhock’s pain.

I don’t know when I drift off to sleep, but it’s a temporary relief. A powerful sensation jolts me awake.

It isn’t Hollyhock this time, but an unfortunately familiar feeling.

Tremors shake my bones.

I jump out of bed and look in my trunk. I realize that I didn’t retrieve both my aura receptors. One is still active in Oleander City. The one I took with me glows unmistakably.

The Necromancer’s magic is active. They’re still alive somehow.

I have to get back there. Now. Hollyhock is in serious danger, a powerful magician she doesn’t even know about is active again and might go after her.

“Just hold on, Hollyhock. I’m coming for you.”

Ch. 26 End