Billy & The Beast (Ever After, New York #3) - Eli Easton Page 0,2

a cracked cement top, like it was built a long time ago.

There was a gate wide enough for two cars. It looked as old as the stone wall, and it had an arched top and heavy iron bars, the whole thing decorated with iron vines and roses. Through the bars, you could see the driveway for a bit, but not what was at the other end of it. And there was a veritable jungle of overgrown greenery in there. The inside of the property didn’t look any better maintained than the wall.

Riding my bike gave me plenty of time to let my imagination churn, and I’d made up stories about who lived behind that wall. Was it a mansion? A castle? Or maybe it had once been some sort of secret institution like in X-Men or The Umbrella Academy. That would be cool.

The place felt abandoned now, but maybe not. Maybe an ancient and reclusive billionaire lived there, an old miser with a bug phobia. Sounded like the perfect setup for a Tales from the Crypt episode.

I stopped where the road did, at the far end of that wall. I got off my bike and toed down the kick stand. When I first started training, I used to collapse on the grass here, unable to even stand up, but now I merely bent at the waist, hands on my knees, to catch my breath.

I stared down at my legs. They were long and skinny, flecked with mud from a puddle or two, and, as I stood there panting, I noticed how tan they were getting. My arms too. Only I was getting a farmer’s tan since I always wore short-sleeved T-shirts. I needed to wear a tank top now and then to get some sun on my shoulders. Ugh. I much preferred big, baggy shirts.

I took off my helmet and shook my head, fluffing my sweaty, dark brown hair. I gulped from my water bottle. And, as a treat for my hard work, I strolled over to the drop-off to admire the best view in town and snap a few photos for my mom.

Here at the summit of Hillcrest Avenue, the walled property loomed on one side while on the other there was a sheer cliff with an old guardrail. The top rail was a convenient place to park my ass and look over the town.

It was so quiet, as if the noise of everyday life could not make it this far up the hill. Somewhere nearby a bird trilled and warbled. Otherwise, the silence was as soft and thick as cotton.

I gave a contented sigh and enjoyed the peace for as long as I could force myself to sit still, which was never very long. Then I got up to be on my way, glancing at the iron gate. That’s when I noticed it—a flash of bright pink just inside the gunmetal gray bars.

It was such a vibrant color, unexpected in that wall of earth-toned stones and dark metal. Curious, I inched closer.

I’d never stood this close to the gate before. And, man, despite its age it looked like it could stop a tank. It must have been black way back when, but now the paint was a dull, weathered gray, and there was a little rust on the wrought iron roses and leaves. I stood still and listened. For some reason my heart was pounding. I had a creepy sensation of being watched, even though no one was around. I stepped close enough to peek inside.

Along the inside of the wall were rose bushes. But to say they were rose bushes was like calling a wild Siberian tiger a cat. They were huge, nearly as tall as the seven-foot wall, thick, and thorny. And they were dotted with the most beautiful roses I’d ever seen.

They were nothing like the tight-budded roses you got at the florist. I’d bought my mom a few over the years, usually only a single stem because they weren’t cheap. These roses were as large as my palm, wide open, and had dozens or even hundreds of inner petals packed tight. They were old-fashioned, the kind of roses I’d only seen in fairy tale books. The color was an iridescent pink, pure and bright, like the sun was shining through the petals.

Their scent drifted to me, strong and heady as perfume straight from the bottle.

Wow. They were amazing.

I got a brilliant idea. What if I were to cut one of those blooms and take