Goddess of the Rose (Goddess Summoning #4)(9)

She mentally shook herself. She'd better stop daydreaming and hurry if she was going to get to the restaurant before her date.

The breeze stirred and Mikki breathed deeply, savoring the sweet scent of roses - her roses. The balcony held five large clay pots in which lived five exquisite examples of expertly tended rosebushes. All five were the same type of rose. Mikki had long ago given up mixing her roses at home; she knew what worked best for her - consistency and meticulous care. Her success surrounded her. All five bushes were in full bloom, and the blooms were more than just the typical last-minute blossoming show before winter called them to dormancy. Her Mikado Roses were miraculous.

The outer petals of the fat blooms were red, but not just any red. The scarlet of Mikki's roses had been compared to rubies, fire, and blood. As the blooms unfurled, the brilliant red merged with gold until the base of the rose appeared to have been dipped in a glass of expensive sherry.

Mikki had been winning the amateur category of the annual All-American Rose Selections Garden Show for the past five years. Her co-volunteers at the Tulsa Rose Gardens liked to joke that no one could beat her because she had some kind of magic potion she poured on her roses. Each year they would make a big production of begging her to share her secret.

Mikki smiled and accepted their praise - but she never joked about having a secret rose potion.

Mikki put down the watering bucket and the little toolbox that held her various pruning sheers and other rose gardening implements. She approached the first bush. Frowning, she pinched off a small leaf that to the untrained eye looked healthy, but to Mikki's experienced gaze spelled a potential problem.

"Powdery mildew," she said with disgust. "I knew the last couple nights had been unseasonably cool, but I thought the temperatures during the day would offset any negative effects." She caressed one of the blooms lightly, speaking to the bush as if it were a child. "It's too early in the season. You won't want me to bring you inside yet. I guess I'll have to start covering you at night."

Moving from plant to plant, Mikki inspected her charges. She found no more offending leaves, but she made a mental note to check the forecast before she went to bed. If the temperature was going to drop to anywhere around forty degrees, she would cover the roses.

Returning to the toolbox, she selected a medium-size pair of shears. Quickly making her choice, she moved to the rosebush that sat closest to the sliding glass doors leading to her bedroom. With sure, experienced motions, she held the stem of a delicate, just opening bloom, and in one quick motion made a vertical cut in the straight, green stem. She lifted the bloom to her nose and drank in its intoxicating fragrance.

"I will love wearing you in my hair tonight," she told it.

Once more she returned to her toolbox. Gently, she placed the cut rose on the balcony beside it. Then she put away the pair of shears and searched through the box for the final tool she would need that evening.

She found the pocketknife quickly. It was small, but her toolbox was familiar and well ordered. Nothing could hide within it for long. Mikki opened the knife. The little blade was honed to a razorlike edge, which glinted dangerously in the fading light. Methodically, Mikki opened the bottom drawer of the box. Extracting a small packet, she tore open the alcohol wipe. First she swabbed the palm of her left hand, and then she cleaned the already-sterile-looking blade.

She could hear her mother's familiar voice speak from her memory, You can never be too careful, Mikado. There's no need to get an infection.

Satisfied that both surfaces were clean, Mikki discarded the alcohol pad. She glanced around her. Even though her balcony faced a busy street, the apartment's height and the thick foliage of her rosebushes coupled to prevent any passersby from catching much more than a glimpse of her. But on the evening of the new moon, Mikki wanted to avoid even the possibility of being glimpsed.

Nothing was stirring around her except the breeze.

Mikki held her left hand in front of her. The skin of her palm was mottled with slender white scars. She glanced at the palm of her right hand. Yes, she had remembered correctly. Amidst the little bone-colored lines on that palm was a more recent mark, still pink and newly healed, which assured her that this month it was her left palm she must use.

Without further hesitation, Mikki pressed the sharp blade against her left palm, and with a practiced, precise movement, cut herself.

Blood welled instantly, and Mikki was suddenly reminded of Sevillana's injury. It had been in exactly the same place, only deeper and wider. And then with a jolt, she realized what else she had seen on the old woman's palm. Bone-colored scars, slender, well healed, and familiar. Mikki felt a wave of dizziness and closed her eyes quickly on the spinning balcony.

How could the old woman have the same cutting scars as she? It was only the women in Mikki's family who practiced this ritual, and they had done so in strict secrecy for generations. And since her mother had died the year before, Mikki had thought she was the last of her kind, the only person left in the world who knew the secret of blood roses. Mikki had to find out more about her. First thing Monday morning she would pull Sevillana's patient record and get her address. She must see the old woman again.

The vertigo-like feeling faded, and Mikki opened her eyes. Blood was pooling in her palm. Before it could drip onto the balcony, Mikki plunged her hand into the watering bucket. At first the cut stung, but the coolness of the water quickly turned soothing. Mikki swished her hand around, watching the water blush with her blood.