Snapdragons

  Snapdragons

  Kallysten

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2008 Kallysten

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means mechanical, electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Kallysten to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published August 2008

  First Edition

  All characters in this publication are purely fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Edited by Deborah M.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Snapdragons

  Rhea snapped her eyelids shut and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. Only when the panic had receded somewhat did she open her eyes again. Even so, a few seconds passed before her vision had cleared and she could read the letter again.

  Her lips formed each word silently, but even on this second reading they made no sense. When she reached the end of the letter, her eyes stopped on the name there—her name. If anyone had asked her, she could have sworn under oath that it was her handwriting, that she had signed this letter herself, written every word of it. How could she, though, when she didn’t remember writing it? Of course, that was the whole point, wasn’t it?

  Her hands shaking a little, she refolded the letter and put it back in the pocket of her cardigan, where she had found it upon waking up. She looked around her. She could only see a dozen other people in the bus, none of them closer than three rows away. The other thing she had found in her pocket, a bus pass, had informed her the bus had left New York at seven in the morning and would arrive the next day past three in the afternoon. A look at her watch didn’t help her much, even once she got past the surprise of seeing a fine, ladylike watch on her wrist rather than the cheap plastic one she had owned for years. It was just past two in the afternoon, but she had no idea if that was the day of departure or arrival. She turned to the window on her left and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Palm trees and Florida license plates suggested that they had to be close to Miami. Why was she on that bus?

  Once again, she pulled out the letter from her pocket. This time, she changed her mind and rather than unfolding the thin sheet of paper, she simply held on to it, staring at it as though it held all the memories that eluded her at that moment. She started to shake again, and tried not to let tears rise to her eyes. She couldn’t think if she was crying, and she had to think. She had to figure out what was going on, why she was on that bus, and—more importantly—what she would do once she arrived in Miami.

  Trying to hold her fear and panic at bay, she reached back toward the last thing she remembered. She didn’t recall getting on the bus, or writing the letter. Her last memory was leaving the agency with Carol, a little before nightfall. Neither of them had said a word until they had arrived at Carol’s apartment, and Rhea remembered having gone to her small bedroom without dinner, despite her roommate’s protests. She had been upset…

  She frowned as she tried to remember what had upset her so much, and blinked when the memory resurfaced. Peter. The agency had had an intervention, that afternoon, to show him they knew about him and that vampire, knew he hadn’t staked her when he had told them he had, knew he was sleeping with her.

  Pain returned along with the memory and Rhea bit down on her bottom lip. Peter had never looked at her as anything more than a child and colleague, yet she had felt betrayed by his admission that yes, he had a relationship with Kaelin, yes, he knew she killed, no, he wouldn’t stake her even if it cost him his job as a Special Enforcer. She wished she had known what to say to him, or the others, but she hadn’t said a word when he had surrendered his badge to Paul and simply announced that he was quitting. What could she have said? She was only an apprentice, not even a full member of the agency yet. That she was the one who had found out Kaelin was still alive changed nothing, and only added guilt to her disappointment and sadness at seeing him leaving.

  After his departure, they'd worked on a plan to attack Kaelin's clan the next day. Rhea had gone home with Carol, gone to sleep without dinner, and awakened in this bus. It couldn’t be all, though. It didn’t fit. Still holding on to the letter, she pulled her ticket back out for another look. She ran her thumb on the upper right corner, where the date was printed. If the ticket was right, Peter’s intervention—and her last memory—had taken place almost six years earlier.

  Another wave of panic threatened to submerge Rhea. She closed her eyes again. Before long, dry sobs were rocking her body. She tried to keep quiet so she wouldn’t draw attention to herself. She had lost six years of her life. Not only that, but if she believed the letter, she had stolen her own memories herself. If she believed the letter, she wouldn’t do a thing to try to recover her past.

  When the bus finally stopped at the station in Miami an hour later, Rhea had calmed down enough to manage getting off, clutching her purse at her side. She squinted in the too-bright sunlight and looked around her, desperate to find someone she knew, all too aware that she wouldn’t. According to the ticket, she had no luggage. Her wallet held fifteen dollars, a credit card and a driver license; she didn’t recall ever sitting behind the wheel of a car. What was she supposed to do, now?

  She was starting to hyperventilate. She looked around for help, but the other passengers had already left, and the driver was pulling away with the bus. She took a few stumbling steps backwards and was almost grateful when the back of her legs hit a bench. She sat down, or rather she allowed her knees to buckle beneath her, and struggled to get her breathing under control.

  It will be all right, she repeated to herself. I’ve been there before. I didn’t know anyone when I got to New York. I found Carol. I’ll find someone here too. Someone who will help me. I can do this.

  She didn’t know how much time passed before she trusted her legs to carry her again. She tried not to think of where she was going. She would panic again if she let herself remember that she didn’t know. One step after another, she walked without looking ahead of her, taking streets at random. Her instincts pushed her away from crowds and noise, and she soon found herself walking through small, dark streets where the fresh ocean air didn’t reach.

  Buildings loomed over her, clothes hanging from lines thrown over the street. Old women sat on their stoops, watching her pass with eagle eyes. She walked a little faster when she noticed three young men a short distance behind her, and turned in the first street she saw.

  Her heart stuttered when she realized it was a cul de sac. She tensed as the young men’s steps echoed behind her. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The heat seemed to have increased tenfold, suddenly. She turned toward the opening of the street, ready to confront them—ready to run—but they didn’t come after her. Soon they had disappeared.

  Breathing a little more easily, Rhea noticed a small shop on her right, the name “Snapdragon” painted in fading gold letters over the awning. Behind the dusty window, potted plants tried to reach for the sunlight that probably never penetrated t
he alley. They obscured the view of the inside so that Rhea wasn’t even sure whether the shop was open or not. There was no indication of hours of business on the door, merely a small placard that announced: “help wanted”.

  Rhea pushed the door open, attracted both by the name of the shop and by the plants. Carol had grown some of the same plants on her balcony, and had taught Rhea to harvest the leaves, flowers and roots to use for their spells at the agency.

  With only one light bulb hanging bare from the ceiling, the shop, no more than five feet wide and barely any deeper, seemed as dark as the alley. The air held the musty smell of wet soil and Rhea rubbed the back of her fingers against her nose. All around her, from floor to ceiling, dusty glass jars of all shapes and sizes crowded wooden shelves, which seemed ready to collapse under their weight. A small counter stood in the back near a half-open door, but Rhea couldn't see anyone in the shop.

  “Huh… Hello?” she called out, her mouth very dry and her heart hammering inside her chest. A few slow steps brought her closer to the counter. “Anyone here?”

  Heavy steps in the back room were the only answer she received until a tall, stout man appeared at the door, his massive body concealed from chest to knees behind a dirty leather apron. It might have been black at some point in the past, maybe like his hair, but both were now graying and slightly greasy. He looked Rhea up and down, scowling.

  “Well? I don’t have all day. What do you want?”

  Rhea swallowed hard. She wished she had had any other option. “I… I saw the sign. On the door. The help wanted sign?”

  “I put it there. I know what it says.”

  “Well I was… I was wondering—”

  The man snorted. “This is actual work, not some kind of New Age thing where you can get high on my inventory and tell all your little friends you’re practicing magic.”

  “I don’t… I mean, it’s work that I want. And I’m a serious worker.”

  He gave her another up and down look that left Rhea feeling like she needed a shower.

  “A serious worker, hey? What I want is someone who knows the difference between basil leaves and bearberry root.”

  Unable to keep looking at him, she turned to the display on her right and started reading the labels. She quickly figured out how the jars were organized—alphabetically, powders on the top shelves and roots at the bottom—and pulled out the bearberry root jar with trembling hands.

  “That’s bearberry root,” she said, looking back at the man and trying to smile. “I doubt you have basil unless you’re running a cooking store as well as a magic one.” Her attempt at humor fell completely flat. She hurried to add: “Bearberry is used for protection spells but in very small doses because it can explode when heated.”

  She waited for the shop owner’s approval, or even a sign of acknowledgment that she was right. All he did was bark another name at her.

  “Hyssop.”

  She placed the bearberry jar back but didn’t look for the hyssop one. Instead, she clutched her purse in front of her and looked toward the man, her eyes on a point above his shoulder.

  “The flowers are used for truth-finding spells. The oil for healing mixtures.”

  He gave her four more names after that, his surprise slowly coloring his features even though he never praised her. In truth, she was starting to feel surprised too, and just a little queasy. She knew all these names, all these uses for various ingredients, wouldn’t have hesitated if he had asked her to mix a spell or potion for him, and yet she couldn’t remember learning about half of these plants. Carol had always been very conservative in her use of magic, perhaps because her abilities were limited, and while she had encouraged Rhea to explore her own potential, she hadn’t known as much as Rhea now did.

  “Snapdragon,” the man said after a few seconds of silence, his tone implying it was the last test.

  “It’s my favorite flower,” Rhea said with a shaky smile.

  The man grumbled under his breath. “Don’t waste my—”

  “Memory,” she said quickly. “It’s good for memory spells, to help people remember things. And to make them forget, too, if you use too much of it.”

  She wondered, as she finished, whether it was what she had used on herself. Would she ever know?

  “Forget?” the man said, now frowning. “How much more do you have to use for that? I’d never heard of such a thing.”

  Rhea gulped. “I can show you. If… if I get the job, that is.”

  For a long moment, he considered her thoughtfully. Rhea tried not to fidget under his heavy stare.

  “Go home,” he said at last. “Come back tomorrow. We open at seven.”

  All at once, Rhea felt happy and scared. She had found a job, something she was actually good at, but her new boss’ demeanor was more than a little forbidding. He hadn’t even asked for her name or offered one for himself. Still, he had offered her the position. It was good enough for now.

  “Thank you, I’ll be there.”

  She stepped back to the front door, giving an awkward little goodbye wave and more thanks, but stopped before she could walk out. He had told her to go home; she wished she could have.

  “I… I just arrived in town, actually. I don’t suppose you know of a small place where I could live?”

  Once he had finished complaining about the youth of today and where the country would end up if left in the hands of people like her, he gave her an address, just two blocks away, and told her to say Angelo had sent her. The apartment she was shown was barely more than a room with a decrepit bathroom attached, but the landlady was nice and told Rhea tales of a young, much friendlier Angelo as she fed her a too-salty vegetable soup. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

  * * * *

  Rhea had worked for Angelo for almost two weeks when, one evening, Peter entered the shop. She had been watering the plants in the window, one of her last daily tasks before closing time, and although she had seen him pass by, she hadn’t seen his face. She looked toward him automatically as he stepped in, and stopped breathing. Judging by his own wide-eyed expression, he was as shocked as she was.

  “Peter?” The word was a whisper, as though he would disappear if she spoke too loud. “You’re alive.”

  He frowned at that, and she noticed the thin lines at the corner of his eyes. They hadn’t been there in her memories, and neither had the few strands of gray in his dark brown hair. His eyes were the same, though, bright green and full of life. The leather jacket he had worn in New York was gone, no doubt a concession to the weather. Differences or not, it was him. Peter. Without thinking any further, Rhea dropped her watering can and stepped forward to hug him.

  “You’re alive!” she repeated, tears rising to her eyes. “I thought… the letter said everyone…oh, I’m so happy you’re here! How did you find me?”

  “I see you know my new employee,” Angelo said behind them.

  He didn’t sound particularly amused. Rhea stepped back at once. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment. She tensed and looked down at the floor, waiting for a reprimand. She may not have worked for Angelo very long, but she had quickly learned to be wary of his temper.

  “Yes, we’ve known each other for a while,” Peter said. “You’re lucky to have Rhea working for you. She’s very talented.”

  Angelo acknowledged Peter’s words with a slight inclination of his head. “I’ll get your order. I won’t be long.”

  The last sounded like a warning, as though he were loath to leave Peter and Rhea alone. She turned her eyes to Peter again, feeling grateful for his help and a little silly to have thought that he had come for her. She had heard Angelo place a phone call to someone called Peter earlier, but she would never have imagined it could be her Peter.

  “Angelo doesn’t seem to like his employees fraternizing with the customers,” she joked feebly, her eyes running over him again and spotting all the differences that reminded her they hadn’t met for years, even if she remembered seeing him a few days e
arlier.

  “I guess not,” he replied with a faint smile. “I’m surprised you’re here, Rhea. I thought working for the agency was your dream job.”

  “It was.” The now familiar lump was back in her throat. She pushed the words past it. “But I had to find something else after…after that clan attacked us.”

  “What happened?”

  A shiver ran through Rhea and her eyes filled with tears again, though all the happiness had drained from her. “The Kavanagh clan—”

  Heavy steps announced Angelo’s return. His eyes went from Rhea to Peter and back; his frown deepened. With a start, Rhea turned her back on both of them and picked up her watering can. Thankfully, no water had spilled when she had dropped it. She resumed watering the plants while Peter paid for his order. He briefly met Rhea’s eyes on his way out, and she could guess he had a lot of questions for her. He had left the agency on less than amicable terms, but she was sure he had cared about Paul and Carol, and the others. He had worked by their sides for years, after all, much longer than she had.

  She wasn’t all that surprised, when the store closed ten minutes later, to find Peter waiting for her in the street.

  * * * *

  Rhea bit the pad of her thumb as she watched Peter’s eyes run over the letter she had handed him with trembling hands. The diner was busy around them, loud voices and laughter filling the space as effectively as the bodies they came from, but her entire focus remained on him, on the slight frown pulling at his brow when he reached the end of the letter and started again. She knew the letter so well that she recited it in her mind as she continued to watch him.

  You know your own handwriting well enough to realize who wrote this note. So hi, me.

  By now you’re probably very confused and wondering what’s going on, so here’s the short story. The attack on the Kavanagh clan went very, very badly. On a scale of one to ten, the badness was at least a thousand. They fought back, and they didn’t just come for the agency. They came for our families, our friends. In the end, everybody you loved or cared about was killed. You found a lot of them yourself. You had to make sure they wouldn’t return as vamps.