The Order of the Rose Episode Five: Blood in Bloom
The Order of the Rose: Episode Five
Blood in Bloom
Kramer finished the last of his duties for the evening. Azreal had long since gone to bed, which was where Kramer was finally heading.
His four-room suite occupied part of the mansion’s east wing. He went directly to the bedroom and began changing into his bedclothes, removing his gloves first.
As he pulled off the left one, something pricked his palm.
A small puncture in the heel of his hand was slowly bleeding. Unsure what had caused it, Kramer examined the glove more closely. He carefully turned it inside out and found a tiny thorn from the roses Valentina had brought earlier that evening.
He dismissed it as a silly accident, went to the bathroom medicine cabinet, and dabbed Mercurochrome onto the wound before covering it with a bandage.
Even small wounds sting when touched with Mercurochrome.
This one didn’t.
No sting at all.
Too small a hole, Kramer thought.
He usually treated himself to a nightcap of heated Grande Marnier, but tonight he decided against it. He felt exhausted and went straight to bed.
Sleep came quickly and heavily, which was unusual for Kramer.
So was the dream.
A hot, sweaty, disjointed mishmash of visions, all bleeding into one another. Yet through them all remained a single face.
Valentina Romancewicz.
Azreal dreamed of her as well.
And so did Darria.
Darren’s dream was equally hot and sweaty, but neither disjointed nor a mishmash of visions. It was, let’s say, a different kind of hot and sweaty.
One face, or more correctly, one body flowed through it.
Azreal.
🩸
Kramer was already in the kitchen when Azreal stepped in. Toasted lemon-cranberry scones with preserves and hot black coffee with a double shot of espresso were waiting for him.
The usual sleep wells and other small talk were exchanged before Azreal announced that he was going for a swim and would be out for most of the day.
“Should I get the car ready?”
“No. I think I’ll take the Lotus out for a spin.”
Azreal headed through the back garden toward the swimming pool. As he passed the marble table, he noticed the roses delivered the previous night.
They had wilted—or rather, they appeared completely charred and blackened, as though left in a dehydrating oven for far too long at far too high a heat.
After his swim, Azreal changed and prepared to go out. On his way from the mansion, he instructed Kramer to dispose of the dead roses in the garden.
Three times that day, Kramer headed outside to do exactly that.
Each time, something pulled him back into the house.
It was the opposite of walking through a doorway and forgetting why you had entered the room. This was stepping through one and suddenly remembering that something important had been left unfinished behind you.
Stronger than the old Did I unplug the iron?
Yet each time Kramer went back inside, he couldn’t remember what needed doing.
Azreal had said he wouldn’t be home until early evening, so Kramer began preparing dinner for eight o’clock. Even if Azreal was late, he was always content to have a plate warming and waiting for him.
Kramer was preparing the vegetables when he remembered the roses.
Outside, the night was dark and moonless. He approached the marble table, expecting to find the blackened remains.
Instead, the roses stood in full bloom, vibrant and beautiful.
He reached for them.
His left hand cramped.
The tiny puncture in his palm began to throb beneath the bandage.
Kramer pulled his hand away.
Azreal must have been mistaken about what he had seen. Kramer left the bouquet untouched.
“Silly Azreal,” he murmured. “Doesn’t know beauty when he sees it.”
🩸
Across town, Valentina rose smiling as the sun slipped below the horizon. Since the solstice, her sunset wake-up call arrived a little earlier each day.
She already had an agenda planned, but first she needed to prepare another bouquet.
Valentina raised the roses herself, from seed to flower. She soaked each seed in her blood until it began to germinate, then planted it inside her Grandsire’s old casket, in soil carried from his Romanian homeland. All his childer, including her own Sire, kept some of that soil with them. It traveled with them wherever they resided.
She was proud of her roses.
And of what they could accomplish.
Blood added to wine made its drinkers suggestible, but the connection remained weak and required her to stay close. Her roses were different. Birthed in her blood, their thorns carried it directly beneath the skin.
Stronger control.
Greater distance.
Since the gala, one person has occupied Valentina’s thoughts.
Darren Van Klumph.
These roses she would deliver herself, along with a dinner invitation for both twins. If Darria was present, Valentina could plant two simple suggestions: never touch the roses—and find some excuse not to attend the dinner.
Her driver took her to the Van Klumph residence. Fortune favoured her; both twins were home.
Their housekeeper answered the door and offered to take the bouquet, but Valentina insisted upon delivering it personally.
Darren and Darria emerged from the parlor to greet her.
Valentina held out the roses.
Darren accepted them.
She smiled.
“Ouch.” He examined his finger, grinning. “Sharp little buggers.”
Without a word being spoken, two thoughts settled naturally into Darria’s mind.
Do not touch the roses.
Find an excuse to miss the dinner.
Valentina was satisfied.
Darren was hers.
She didn’t want to turn him.
She didn’t want to devour him.
She wanted to be swept up and ravaged by him.
Frank aka Foxxfyrre
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