Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91002 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
We stood deep in the wood, where most of Edgar’s experiments were held. Flowers of experiments past were either watching us, swaying randomly, or wilting vines with their tops chewed off by the basajaunak. They policed the more dangerous of the creations and ate anything that had gone too far.
The basajaunak stood around us now, presumably hoping Edgar’s latest batch would be deemed edible. The almost cognizant flowers tasted better than the run-of-the-mill magical flowers, apparently. To my dismay, they also tended to be worse for flatulence.
Ten thick stalks with large, waxy petals each supported a chrysanthemum-style blossom. Each flower was a different color—fuchsia, sunbeam yellow, lavender, chartreuse—and a dusting of bronze sat at the bloom’s center.
“For the flower of the century,” Edgar said in a strange, echoing voice.
Indigo stood in the center of the setup. As our resident healer, she didn’t have much to do until we had to battle, and so she passed the time helping Edgar with the flowers, hanging out with the nature-loving basajaunak, or running in blind terror from the gnomes.
As Tristan, standing a few paces behind me with his arms crossed, harrumphed at Edgar’s act, Indigo winked at us. “This one is really special,” she said.
With her words, the flowers started swaying and twisting in unison. After a moment, they broke formation and switched to a series of independent movements that somehow worked together before returning to their choreography. I realized they were essentially dancing.
“This flower has it all,” Edgar said, stepping closer to one of his babies. “It has teeth!”
The flower opened a mouth that hadn’t been visible before, revealing fangs.
“It has poisonous saliva!”
On cue, a fang dripped.
“Razor-sharp leaves!”
The flower sliced one of its leaves through the air, then the other, like a ninja.
“Projectile killing spores!”
It bent to the ground and shot a stream of small orbs at the dirt.
“They listen like your best friend”—all the flowers turned to him at the same time—“never need to sleep, know friend from foe after just one introduction, and have a long striking distance for a quick or torturous death, depending on which they deem worthy. They have different kinds of poisons—all natural, of course. This is a purely organic flower. No chemicals or preservatives.”
“Besides the original formula to grow them,” Indigo added.
“Well, yes, besides the formula I injected into the soil thrice daily,” Edgar amended. “All natural.”
“Except for the magic,” Indigo said.
He nodded. “Yes. Except for that.”
I rubbed my temples. “How does a flower decide the speed of death?”
“With its flower brain,” Edgar replied.
“It has an actual brain?” I asked incredulously. “Like…a human brain?”
“No, silly. It’s a flower. Why would it have a human brain?” He laughed, and Indigo joined in, but I stood there, feeling uneasy and more than a little perplexed.
“And if it isn’t introduced to someone?” I lifted my eyebrows.
“Its instinct is to kill first and ask questions later.” Edgar put his hands behind his back and blinked asynchronously. It was like he was trying to get weirder.
I should probably thank him for allowing me to feel normal.
“Right,” I said on a release of breath, willing patience. “So, the difference between this flower and the last three versions is that it decides how quickly or slowly to kill its foe?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t take my notes from the last versions, when I told you that the flowers shouldn’t kill unless they were sure the person was a foe and not a random stranger?”
“Oh.” Edgar tilted his head at me. “Was that a note or a wish?”
I stared at him with an open mouth. “It’s the same thing, Edgar. A note is a wish. A wish is a request.” My voice rose, out of my control. “A request is a barrier against using this flower until it’s safe for strangers. We can’t randomly kill wayward hikers, Edgar. It’s a huge wood. They get lost from time to time, and they shouldn’t be killed for their lack of directional sense. It’s bad enough that the basajaunak scare the hell out of them and send them running for their lives. We cannot have killer flowers here. I’ve told you this.”
“Ah.” Edgar held up one spindly finger. “But these flowers won’t go in the wood.”
The flowers started swaying and dancing, shaking their leaves and somehow wiggling the petals on their “faces.”
“And where will they go?” I asked.
“They will go along the walkway to the house.” He smiled as if that solved everything. Indigo nodded, totally fine with this plan.
I turned to Tristan and held up my hands. He didn’t so much as step forward to help.
“Right,” I said, tired, wanting to slip into the bath, utterly at a loss.
“Great!” Edgar beamed. “I’ll just—”
“No. That wasn’t acceptance of putting lethal flowers at the front of the house. A wayward hiker is way less likely than a stranger delivering a package. Or a Girl Scout selling cookies. Or a new shifter stopping by with a message.”