Page 71 of Inked in Bloom
“Thank you for providing them for us,” Skylar says to him, though the words are hollow, which is odd considering how much she enjoys riding. “They aren’t as hard to conjure as I thought they would be.”
“Of course. I’m glad to hear it. It’s a much more fun way to get around.” He brushes something off his jacket, the moon spotlighting the rose covering his hand and the marks twining up his neck. “With such a big area to tend, it saves time.”
I’d assumed we all got floracycles, but I never asked when Skylar first summoned them. Why did he go to the trouble?
“Speaking of time,” Skylar says, “we really should get going so we can continue to thaw the last few wintry patches left behind by the Frosts.”
“Looks like you’re on top of things.” The richness of his tone sucks all the moisture from my throat. His attention flicks over me, and he gives an approving nod.
“We always are,” I reply, my chest lifting like a balloon, filled by the warmth of his praise.
The subtle sweetness of powdered sugar sifts on the breeze. I clear my throat, ignoring the tiny flares of heat drifting into my pelvis.
Pheromones are a bitch.
Briar holds my stare, but I don’t miss Corrigan rolling her eyes behind him, pricking the balloon between my ribs and deflating it in a matter of moments.
“Well, you both better run along, then.” She crosses her evergreen arms. “Wouldn’t want to keep you from your work, isn’t that right, Radix Briar?”
“Of course.” He bows his head, and glances toward the trees where he came from. “I need to review a few Rescue Rider applications with you before I run errands.”
“Errands?” Corrigan asks, cocking her head.
He nods for her to follow him, which she does, leaving Skylar and me alone. Their whispers are too soft to hear, and as seamlessly as a wave, they become smudges of chestnut and brown-dappled fur. A hole’s scooped from the earth as the veil opens to them, one of the privileges of being a Radix, I suppose, coming and going as you please. Briar sprints ahead and Corrigan catches up to him. Like a pair of synchronized divers, they bound from the soil, lifting a few feet in the air and disappearing into the ground.
A chilling ache lingers between my ribs. I hate that it does.
Shaking out the disquieting sensation, I turn toward Skylar. “Let’s go.”
Uncrossing her arms, she grins. “Let’s.”
A quick twitch of our noses and a pair of floracycles pop up along the street’s edge. Without hesitation or bobble, we straddle our rides, taking off under the deepening night sky. Stars wink into view the farther we get from the lamplights as purple petals spill from Skylar’s exhaust, a paler shade and white. They fly around me, a vibrant lavender mixing between them from beneath my bike, and I drift through cars on the road, focusing on the wonder of it all and not on tonight’s unexpected visit.
My mind conjures images of Briar in all the ways I’ve stupidly let myself ponder in my weakest moments of rejuvenation. Would he be gentle—fingers brushing through hair, trailing thighs, sinking in with slow and steady purpose. Or would nails bite into flesh, hips pistoning withrough precision while his fist wrapped up my hair and he whispered dirty promises?
The bike’s vibrations only make matters worse. I release a shaky breath.
This is not the time nor the place to picture him.
After what feels like hours later, but is most likely minutes, we park our floracycles on the road, watching them disappear the moment we step off them. I’ve slowly added to mine, filling the pastel-blue body with a bouquet of assorted wildflowers, some in familiar hues and others more vibrant products of my imagination.
Kneeling in the grassy knoll, I clip and discard some weeds and draw seedlings out from the earth. Sprigs of green poke from between blades of grass. Over in the shade of the tree line, white specks coat the greenery.
A shadow moves in my peripheral, and I go still.
Is it Briar? Or something worse—a Storm?
Squinting, I am able to make out tendrils of fabric spilling around delicately defined legs.
“Dr. Tanner?” The silvery voice skates along the breeze. It’s not threatening, and the use of my name fills me with a chilling curiosity.
“Give me a second,” I say to Skylar. She nods and continues revitalizing the bark of the trees to my left, brows pinched together.
Once I get close, I stop in my tracks.
Seated atop a branch, a pale shimmering harbinger kicks her feet, toes pointed, accentuating her deep-curved arches. Long navy tresses billow around her shoulders, floating as if of their own accord. Though she looks different—her eyes bluer, skin adorned with silvery markings drifting up her arms—I recognize herright away.
“Jolie?” I stare up at my former client. “Is that really you?”
