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The car stopped completely.
Gigi whimpered. “What’s going to happen, Iris?”
“I don’t know, Geeg,” I whispered back, still working the phone out of her pocket. “We’re going to be OK.”
I heard her sniff. “You don’t know that.”
“No, but I’m the big sister; it’s my job to lie.”
The trunk popped open, and John’s face appeared overhead. I pulled my hand away from the phone and pretended that I was trying to comfort my sister. He tsked indulgently, pulling the cloths back over our eyes. “Naughty, naughty. What have you two been up to back here? I could hear you talking, you know. I’ve always wondered what two sisters talk about late into the night. I’m definitely going to keep you around long enough to find out …”
Ugh. Evil, creepy teenagers.
John hauled us out of the trunk by our elbows and set us on our feet. He cut the tape away from our ankles and then linked his arms through ours, like he was escorting us to a garden party.
“Step carefully, my pretty things,” he said, helping us down a long, uneven path as he hummed a happy tune. He pushed us gently onto a bench, the cool metal unyielding against our awkwardly positioned hands. I heard a low, threatening growl to our left. Gigi shrank into my side. I shushed her. “Now, you two just sit there and look appetizing. No funny business.”
There was silence. I assumed that John had stepped away. The humming had stopped, and my head cleared. We were surrounded by pleasant earthy scents. A strange sensation niggled at the corner of my mind. Something I should be remembering. Wisteria. The light citrus of commuter daylilies. Mulch … no, ginkgo. The sour “earthy” scent of ginkgo. Where was I when I’d last smelled ginkgo?
“Oh, sonofabitch!” I yelled.
Gigi gasped at my right. “Iris, you said a cuss word!”
“And I’m about to say a few more. Sonofabitch!”
“No, that’s the same one,” she reminded me.
“Wisteria, ginkgo, crepe myrtle. Those weren’t black-thumb plants!”
“Have you been drinking?” Gigi asked.
“His garden is chock-full of temperamental wonders.” I continued to rant. “He has flipping Mexican heather. Do you know how temperamental Mexican heather is? I’m astonished that he could keep it alive. Our winters are too cold. Our summers are too hot. If you let the soil dry out the least little bit—”
“I get it, I get it. You’re a big plant geek,” Gigi said. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mr. Marchand. He said he had bad luck with plants when I visited him last week. He acted like he didn’t know anything about gardening. But I don’t care how good your landscapers are, unless they’re sitting outside your house twenty-four hours a day with a hose, Mexican heather is going to die without constant, focused care. The kind of care that might go into growing large batches of rare plants used to drive vampires into a frenzy.”
“What does that mean?”
“Mr. Marchand is the guy, the guy growing all of the ingredients for the vampire whammy potions. It’s more than likely he’s the guy brewing and selling them. And I owe Mr. Crown a large apology.”
“Awesome, you figured it out,” she said. “What now?”
“Nothing. It doesn’t really help us.”
“Shoot,” she grumped. “I really thought you had something there.”
“Well, it does show what a gift she has for botany.” A new voice sounded to our right. We both jumped at the dulcet baritone. Gigi cowered at my side, ducking her head against my neck. Cool hands peeled down the blindfolds, and the smiling face of Colonel Sanders’s evil twin appeared in my line of vision.
Mr. Marchand greeted us cordially. “Ladies, thank you so much for visiting us this evening. I can see the blindfolds are no longer necessary, Miss Iris, since you are so very clever.”
We blinked as our eyes adjusted to the dark, fragrant recesses of Mr. Marchand’s garden. This was a section I hadn’t been shown before, a quiet little alcove near the west end of the porch. A gorgeous hydrangea bloomed to our left. A fountain—a woman pouring water from an earthen jar—burbled cheerfully near a little table and wrought-iron chairs. Little red Japanese lanterns swung from a line overhead. It would have been an elegant, peaceful setting, if not for the whole “hostage” thing and the fact that Cal was gagged and handcuffed to one of the wrought-iron chairs with his laptop open in front of him.
“Cal!” I yelled. “What the hell?”
Mr. Marchand smiled cordially as John stood near Gigi, playing with the dark strands of her hair. Although he spoke with the same genteel tone, all of the amiable manners of the Council official I’d known were gone. This Mr. Marchand was cold, nearly reptilian in his movements, as his gaze bounced back and forth between his new guests and Cal. “Your friend, Mr. Calix, has been most unhelpful in resolving a little administrative matter. It might have something to do with injecting debilitating poison into his gift blood. Some people hold grudges.”
Dark with hate, Cal’s eyes were narrowed on Mr. Marchand, tracking his every movement. His lips curled back into a snarl as he struggled against the cuffs. Each movement of his wrist made his skin blacken and burn as he came into contact with the cuffs. Silver cuffs. Mr. Marchand had been torturing him with silver.
