On the way, I pass a tourist bus parked in the middle of the street. It seems fairly new, unlike the other cars I have seen left abandoned and rusted over. However, stems from scars in the road have looped and twirled themselves around the wheels, as though holding it in place, afraid it will leave Cotton Rock in the dust. Roses and chrysanthemums of every imaginable color grow from its broken windows where passengers may have sat and looked out from not so long ago.
When I pass a strip of storefronts, I see them. People in faded color and black and white. Smiling, staring out at me with grim expressions. Their dark eyes follow me from behind the overgrowth as I walk down the street. There are hundreds of them pasted to the walls and windows. Some have come loose and flap in the breeze. Missing. Missing. Missing. The word is everywhere in desperate, blocky font.
Faces… Why do I see faces everywhere?
I grip the strap of my tote bag and squeeze it. What the hell am I doing here? It’s not like I want Copper-Eye back in my life after how our relationship ended. Was it closure I subconsciously sought when I performed the disastrous tracker spell, or stepped into the Three Blind Mice? An apology from her perhaps? What was my logic for getting into the car this morning and gunning it for Cotton Rock?
“Fuck!” I switch my phone off and shove it into my pocket. Turning on the balls of my feet, I march back down the street from where I came. I couldn’t care less about Copper-Eye or her mysterious flower. Or being on probation with magic too, for that matter. Or the disgusting botflies. And, most of all —
The car door of a blistered sedan bursts open a few meters away and a man tumbles out onto the sidewalk. He’s scruffy and covered in dirt and blood. When he rolls onto his back, I see the crotch of his pants is soaked.
He turns his head my way, but it’s hard to tell whether the expression on his face is afraid or relieved because of the pale magnolias sprouting from his left cheek.
For the second time in forty-eight hours, I reach for the switchblade in my pocket.
He coughs, and four pink petals shoot from his mouth, floating down to his chest. “My… tour group,” he rasps, hugging himself. “I have to… Find…”
My hold on the switchblade thaws. I scan the street for any other signs of life. There’s nothing, save the colorful flora surrounding us. “What is going on here?”
The man attempts to sit up, but his arms are knobbled and thin. They quake under his weight. He drops back to the sidewalk and wheezes. “Must find them… They’re just kids… Oldest is only twenty-one.” He opens his mouth wide, then his jaw goes slack.
I creep toward him, taking in the strange magnolias. To think, up until this moment, I assumed there was nothing more disturbing than botflies laying their eggs inside Wendy’s face. Kneeling at his side, I take my tote bag off and lay it beside me. I ask him again: “What is going on here?”
The man’s eyes roll inside their sockets. His pupils are dilated to the size of saucers. A tear rolls down his cheek, the one that hasn’t become a botanical art show. “Ask… her,” he whispers, then grits his teeth. “The lady… In the blue house on the hill. She’s —”
His face contorts and his body starts to convulse as dozens of green shoots burst from his swelling head.
I want to crawl away and run, but I cannot move. I watch, absolutely powerless, as the stems grow wild and blossom until there’s nothing left of the man but a bush of pale and startlingly beautiful magnolias.
Chapter Seven
Garden of Eden
When I was fourteen years old, I’d finally gathered what little courage I had to knock on the door to Copper-Eye’s study late one evening and ask her why she didn’t want me to specialize.
My other adopted siblings were told explicitly what field of magic Copper-Eye intended for them to study when they first arrived in the house. Blood and swamp magic were assigned to my sisters. Dirt and navigation, my brothers. Copper-Eye would tell us tales of other children she had taken under her wing in the past who she’d trained to become psycho mages. The craft had eaten away at their minds, she had said. They’d committed suicide before their