Phoryne Rose's Arc

Chapter 1 of 5

Phoryne Rose wanted one white rose, and she meant to steal it tonight. The bush grew just past the vine-covered manor next door, thick with layered white blooms. She could root a cutting at home, coax it into a whole hedge of her own. All she needed was one stem. She stepped outside in her nightdress and pink heels, boa fluttering at her toes, and pushed through the gap in the hedge. The manor sat dark and quiet. Vines trailed over its tall windows. No lights burned inside. Good. She crossed the wet grass, careful in her heels, and knelt beside the rose bush. Its blossoms glowed pale in the moonlight. She pinched a healthy stem between two fingers and pulled her small shears from her pocket. "Those are mine." The voice came from behind her, low and even. Phoryne spun. A man stood between her and the hedge. Tall. Black hair. His skin caught the moon like something carved. Runes marked his neck and hands. His pale blue eyes did not blink. He wore a dark coat that belonged in another century, and he had crossed the whole lawn without a sound. "I'm sorry," she said. Her heart slammed. "I thought the house was empty." "It is never empty at night." He looked at the shears in her hand, then at the rose. "You came for one flower." Phoryne stood slowly. Her heart in her ears. She should run. But he stood between her and the only way out, and she knew, somehow, that she could not outrun him. "I only wanted a cutting," she said. "To grow my own. I never meant to take the whole bush." He stepped closer. She smelled cold earth and something older. "People do not walk my grounds after dark," he said. "They know better." His gaze moved over her flushed face, her freckles, her slightly different colored eyes. Something in him paused. "I didn't know," she whispered. "Nobody told me anyone lived here." "Alaric," he said. Just the name. He tilted his head. "You are not afraid enough. That is unusual." Phoryne swallowed. "Should I be?" He reached past her. His hand closed on the stem she had chosen. With one twist he snapped it clean and held it out to her, thorns and all. "Take it," he said. "But understand something. You have walked onto my grounds now. I have seen your face. I will remember it." She took the rose. The thorn bit her thumb. A bead of blood welled up, and his eyes dropped to it at once. He went very still. "Go home," he said, quieter now. "Before I change my mind." Phoryne backed toward the hedge, the stolen rose pressed to her chest. She had what she came for. But the oldest thing in Plight had tasted the sight of her blood, and he knew exactly where she slept.