The Fae Language of Flowers

She knew something was off as soon as she stepped onto the third floor of her rundown building. The dread in her stomach built with every sodden step she took up the rickety stairs. Growing larger and larger with every floor of the apartment building as she climbed.

Floor one: No soft notes of song drifting from the siren behind the door of 1C .

The rain dropped steadily off of her black umbrella, but seemed to quicken with her heartbeat as she hastened towards the next stairway.

Floor two: No putrid stench of boiled frog brains roiling out from the entrance of 2B, even with the multiple No-Stench spells the witch that lived there used to keep the reek away.

Her pounding thoughts seemed too loud as her feet were soundless on the wooden floorboards moving faster, faster towards the next level.

Floor Three: No lingering cackle of the poltergeist that enjoyed tripping the unsuspecting tennant as they rummaged for their keys after a long day.

Along with the missing sounds and stenches that usually emitted from the worn building, there were no scurrying fey children playing on knobby knees, pushing around the renters as they scrambled lost in their mock battles and games of wit. The silence was eerie.

Her breath rattled out of her chest as the wrongness of the situation pressed on her shoulders. She should leave. Right now. He could have found her. She had taken every precaution. Every step that was necessary to stay out of his web of information. Left everything of herself behind. Perhaps it hadn’t been enough. She needed to run. But first she needed supplies. Grab the things that she would need and disappear again. Fading into the world like the dew trapped on the lacework of a spider vanished under the heat of the sun.

The trembling in her fingers cost her several seconds as she tried to fit the key into the ancient lock on her door. Finally, she managed to yank the door open, and the cloying choking smell that hit her almost made her vomit right there on the grimy carpet.

When the tears in her eyes cleared she laid eyes on the source of the overwhelming floral scent. Roses. Red ones. Hundreds of them. They were winding up the legs of the single chair and table like they were trellises. Blooming out of the drain of the sink in the kitchen. Winding over the moth-eaten curtains and around the rod that held them up. Even more pushing through the heating vents high up on the walls looking as if there was a blood-red waterfall of stained glass on the cracked plaster. It took her a moment to fight through the thorns that bloodied her arms and legs in pin pricks of pain and pull past the petals that seemed to reach out and grab for her hands. When she did, she saw the message woven on the wall across from the window. In bold, familiar, cursive writing, roses spelled out,

“I’ve found you, did you miss me, mo ghràidh?”

He’d found her. After months of running, he’d finally found her. Her stomach settled as she realized that her dread and panic were well founded. Her energy transferred into adrenaline as she lunged through the explosive garden towards the closet. She always kept a bag packed with the essentials one needed to disappear. A change of clothes, food, cloaking spells and energy potions. Her fingers gripped the handles of the nondescript bag as she reached under the kitchen table and pulled out a dirk sheathed in a plain leather scabbard. Pulling out the long knife, she hacked her way through the roses and back towards the door.

She was almost through the threshold when more blossoms sprouted up and started pulling and pushing her back. Furiously, she sawed through them for she knew what would follow the sudden growth. Who would follow. The scent of them grew stronger and stronger. Too slow. She was too damned slow to get through this pretty trap. He was here.

“I always thought roses were your favorite, Elspeth. Or, perhaps, they are mine. You know how forgetful I am in my old age.” A voice as soft as the dawn on a mist filled morning swirled through her apartment.

Slowly, she turned and looked at the man who had haunted her in her dreams and hunted her when she was awake for the last six months. Polished leather shoes shined dully in the reddish light that made it through the impenetrable wall of thorns around us. Slim trousers hid powerful legs and a maroon suit jacket was stretched across broad shoulders. A slim black tie matched the black lapels of the jacket where a pin fashioned to look like a raven captured in mid flight with a rose clutched in one claw and a sword in the other.

She did not look into that face, as she had so many times before. She knew the warlock standing before her. Bence Miklos. The leader and mastermind of the underworld organization Turul.