Loved (House of Night Other World #1)(15)

Instead, old people (OP)—obviously members of the Tulsa Garden Center—were milling around the bushes that stretched along the side of the gardens that bordered Woodward Park, muttering and staring at flowers that were in full bloom.

“This is really weird,” Z said. “We’ve had a hard freeze already. The roses shouldn’t be blooming.”

“Huh?” Stark said.

“Roses don’t bloom after a freeze. They go dormant. Like the koi in the water features. I know because I used to help Grandma prune her roses and then wrap them up for the winter. We always did it after the first hard freeze. But it looks like those roses are blooming.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Stark said.

“Stay here. I’m going to go ask one of those OP what’s going on,” Aphrodite said. When Darius started to go with her, she touched his shoulder gently, saying, “No, you stay here, too, handsome. You’re a big, scary vampyre Warrior, remember? Things are better between vamps and humans right now, but there will be a lot less gawking and question asking if I’m not being escorted by you.”

Darius nodded tightly. “I’ll be watching from here. I’ll know if you need me.”

Aphrodite winked and hummed Sting’s “Every Breath You Take” as she headed for the closest old man.

“Excuse me, sir.” Aphrodite put on her sweetest girly-girl smile.

The retiree should have smiled. Men always smiled when she turned her charm on them, but this OP barely glanced in her direction as he mumbled, “Garden shop’s closed.”

“Oh, thank you, sir, but I don’t want to shop. Well, not at this moment I don’t,” she added automatically. “I was just wondering what’s going on with the roses. Isn’t it weird that they’re blooming right now?”

“It is, young lady. But it’s weirder even than that. Apparently we are the victims of a rose thief.”

“Rose thief? I don’t understand.” I didn’t even know there could be such a thing, she added silently.

He did look at her then, and his annoyed expression lightened. “We don’t understand either. But someone stole all of the roses from the beds bordering Woodward Park, and replaced them with these. They’re not even a true rose.” He pointed with disgust at a bush not far from them. Aphrodite followed his finger, and felt a jolt of shock when she realized what she was seeing.

All of the rose bushes that framed this side of Woodward Park were in full bloom, even though their leaves were shriveled and their stalks twisted and spindly.

Each rose was completely black.

These roses had an almost liquid look that made them glisten in the wan streetlight.

Aphrodite felt a sharp spear of fear. “When did this happen?”

“That’s the strangest part of all of this. It had to have happened this afternoon—only a few hours ago. But no one saw anything until it was too late.”

“What did you mean when you said they aren’t even true roses?”

“There is no such thing as a true black rose. A rose doesn’t have the correct genes for the color black.”

While the old man talked, Aphrodite moved closer to the rose bushes, really looking at them. She put out a tentative finger, barely brushing one of the blooms.

And jerked her hand back fast.

Aphrodite stared at the roses. The blossoms were all wrong—they felt slick and cold—like no rose she’d ever known, but it was the bushes themselves that caused her breath to catch in fear. The stalks of the bushes—every one of the bushes—weren’t actually twisted like they’d looked from a distance. Closer up it was obvious that they were bent, curling sinuously toward the ground in a snakelike fashion, giving the appearance of tendrils made of darkness and thorns …

“So, though they can be manipulated—watered with ink, sprayed with paint, etcetera, a black rose is genetically impossible to create at this time,” finished the old gardener.

“Were these watered with ink or sprayed?” Aphrodite asked, the sickness in her gut already answering her question.

“Neither. We’re completely befuddled about what’s gone on here, but we are sure a crime has been committed.”

“Thank you, sir. I hope you find your rose thief.” She hastily turned away, hurrying back to her friends.

“Well? What’s going on?” Z asked.

“It’s bad. Come on, let’s get into the park away from all these Garden Center people. They do not need to overhear this.”

Aphrodite led the way up the wedding cake–tiered Rose Garden levels to the pebbled path that emptied into Woodward Park. Vintage-looking street lights illuminated soft yellow bubbles that the four of them passed quickly through, moving into the heart of the park that used to be filled with old-growth oaks and huge mazes of azaleas.

Last year’s fire in the park had destroyed much of that, but the city—with the financial backing of Zoey Redbird’s new North American High Council—had replanted vigorously all during the past year. Now the park had a fresh-faced look, even in the winter.

“Hey, no one’s around. Tell us what was going on back there,” Z said.

“Not yet. We’re not there yet.” Aphrodite kept walking. She had to. She was compelled to. As soon as she understood that she was being led, her palms started to get sweaty and her stomach roiled as her headache began to build. I don’t want it to happen out here in the middle of the park! Her mind shrieked, but Aphrodite didn’t give voice to her internal misery. She was used to it.