I read it twice. Three times. The language is airtight, every loophole pre-sealed with subordinate clauses that nest inside each other like those cursed Russian dolls my aunt collects. Valerius didn't draft this overnight. This was waiting. Pre-loaded. A bullet in the chamber for the exact moment someone dared to fight back on their own property.
"He sent them."
Flynn's jaw works. Green muscle cords along his neck.
"The beetles. Valerius sent the beetles, then sent the ordinance banning us from killing them." I crumple the cardstock into a ball. "He's boxing us in. He wants us to lose the garden competition by default because we can't even defend what we grow."
Flynn takes the crumpled ball from my fist, smooths it against his thigh with the same care he'd give a topographic survey map, and folds it into a precise square. Tucks it into his cargo shorts. Left pocket, third from the top.
"Evidence."
"Evidence of what? That he's a sociopath with a landscaping fetish?"
"That he's violating the Fair Pest Sovereignty clause in the county agricultural code. Section 12, paragraph?—"
"Flynn."
He stops.
"I don't need paragraph numbers right now. I need a plan."
The sun is dropping behind the roofline of his house, throwing his yard into that golden-hour glow that makes everything look like a home improvement commercial. His lawn. God, his lawn. It stretches in an unbroken sheet of emerald from the foundation to the sidewalk, each blade precisely two and three-quarter inches tall—he told me this while we mixed soil, unprompted, with the reverence most people reserve for prayer. The edging along his flower beds cuts geometric lines so clean they look printed. His hedges form a wall of dense boxwood, trimmed to military specs, no branches out of formation.
It is perfect.
It is also boring as hell.
I turn to look at my own yard. The beetle carnage has left craters in the raised beds. Copper ichor pools between the flagstones. Three of my hanging baskets are shredded, their contents spilling down the porch columns in tangles of green and violet. But underneath the damage, the bones are wild and alive. Moonflower vines have already begun reweaving themselves through the trellis. The jasmine along the south wall is putting out new shoots, pale green fingers reaching for the last of the light. And in the corner, under the makeshift shade cloth, the Ghost Orchid sits in its humidity tent, untouched. The beetles didn't reach it. Flynn reached them first.
His yard has structure. Mine has soul.
Separately, Valerius will pick us apart. His magical enhancements, his pre-loaded ordinances, his stone gargoylesand bottomless HOA budget—none of it matters if he's only fighting one front at a time. He'll suffocate Flynn's precision with some enchanted topiary that rearranges itself into the Mona Lisa. He'll bury my wildflowers under a citation avalanche until there's nothing left to judge.
But together.
"Your yard and mine share a property line."
Flynn's eyes narrow. "Thirty-seven linear feet of six-foot cedar privacy fence."
"What if it wasn't?"
His left tusk catches his bottom lip. A tell. I've cataloged exactly one of his tells so far, and it's this: the tusk thing happens when he's considering something that violates a rule he loves.
"The competition is scored by individual lot."
"The competition is scored by curb appeal, structural integrity, botanical diversity, and overall aesthetic impact. I read the flyer. None of those categories specify lot boundaries."
He unfolds his arms. Folds them again. The puncture wounds on his forearm have already started clotting, dark green scabs forming in neat rows like rivets on a hull.
"You want to tear down my fence."
"I want to tear down your fence."
"That fence is pressure-treated western red cedar. Hand-selected. Each board planed to?—"
"Flynn. Your fence is gorgeous. Your fence is the Sistine Chapel of fences. But Valerius isn't going to lose to a fence."
He stares at me. I stare back. Beetle guts are drying on my face. My overalls are soaked through with hose water and ichor and probably some of his blood, which means I look like I crawled out of a compost heap that fought back. But I hold his gaze because this matters.
