Chapter 5

Lilith

The little pot of vines felt like it had always existed on the side table next to my living room window. The toadstools eventually settled into their new home, though I suspected they preferred the apple tree to the pothos. Alistair assured me they would leave if they were terribly unhappy, but I had no idea how. Mushrooms could just up and leave my locked apartment? But he'd sounded completely sure of himself. My apartment remained frog-free as the days went by, so perhaps my upstairs neighbor had finally been the solution to that unusual problem.

I thought of the mothman strangely often as I went about the next few days, thinking back to the deep vibrating rumble of his voice as he talked me down out of the ibec tree or the careful way he phrased his suggestions so as not to come across too pushy or harsh. The soft clicks he made as he thought about his answers and the way his antennae seemed to have a mind of their own. His personality was as unique as his appearance, at least to me, since I'd never met anyone like him before. I wondered what he did for fun, other than gardening, and what kind of community he had grown up in. The more my thoughts lingered on him, the more my appreciation for his uniqueness grew.

Sometimes, when I heard the scratch of his talons start up at night, I'd consider inviting him down for evening tea. Then I'd remember that he'd said he didn't like to eat that early, so I'd drink my evening tea alone and go to bed. I'd even considered taking him some cookies as a way to thank him for taking care of my tree, but I didn't know if he even ate cookies, and in the end, I chickened out. He'd said I could come visit my tree any time I wanted and had seemed rather enamored at my reaction to his rooftop garden, but I didn't know how to approach him about it in a way that wouldn't seem like I didn't trust his skills as a horticulturist. Hello, Alistair, I would like to check on the health of the tree you so generously offered to maintain for me. That would just be awkward.

I found myself looking for him at the corner market when I shopped—surely he would shop there too, since it was the closest market—and was suddenly acutely aware of everyone's comings and goings at the apartment, but I never saw him . I even went back to the orchard one afternoon to buy a box of apples—it wasn't stalking ; I'd wanted one anyway!—but he wasn't there. Our schedules must have been too disparate, or maybe he simply didn't want to be seen. The thought caused an odd pang in my chest and made me wonder what I was doing, so I decided to push him from my mind and refocus on the plant shop. Making friends here would just be a distraction anyway.

But then, one evening, there was a knock at my door, so timid and light I might have missed it if I hadn't been lost in my own head. I blinked at the mushrooms, and they blinked back at me, obviously having no answer for me about who might be calling, so I hauled myself off the couch to answer the door. A wall of gray greeted me through the peephole. Alistair stood looming in my doorway again, this time with his fluff in perfect order and his delicate antennae gracefully arching above his head. They only gave a tiny twitch this time before he gained control of them. He cleared his throat and hitched his fluff higher around his head, making me realize I'd been staring at his antennae. My face heated.

"Hello," he said before I recovered enough to greet him politely. His fingers were steepled between each opposing hand. "I was wondering if perhaps you might like to come over—if it's not too late, I mean—and visit your tree this evening. But if it is too late, then I completely understand and I apologize for bothering you!"

My mouth quirked at his invitation. Visit my tree? How cute is that? And why hadn't I thought of that excuse?

He kept going before I could respond. "Or we could discuss plants. Or if tonight isn't a good time, we could obviously reschedule for another evening. I just thought that since you hadn't been by to see your tree, maybe you would like to see how it's doing." His taloned fingers began to twist around each other as he gave a nervous sounding click.

A smile spread across my face. "I would love to come over and visit my tree."

He stood, staring at me owlishly, as if he were too surprised to respond.

"Would you like for me to bring up some tea for us to drink while we discuss plants?" I asked.

He gave an interested buzz, and his eyes brightened. "What kind of tea?"

And so, what started out as innocent tree-visiting and plant discussions quickly became fruit salad making—while he enumerated the various ways to determine which strawberries were at perfect ripeness and ranted about how honeydew melon was the worst fruit in existence—and spur of the moment jaunts to the smoothie stand in the student district. Then there were rooftop garden parties which consisted of actual gardening, not just sitting around eating cake in a garden, although that happened occasionally too, as long as the cake had fruit in it. Moon Blush apples randomly appeared in crates on my welcome mat, and Alistair started stopping by the plant shop just before closing.

He'd been hesitant to visit at first, even though he seemed to want to, but he finally came to see our new set up and even ended up chatting with Artem about various splicing methods. The old dryad didn't seem to know what to make of my talkative neighbor and all of his ideas about various ways to cobble trees together to build the best tree. I laughed every time I thought about my employee's baffled expressions at some of Alistair's suggestions, but I'd been so impressed at the way Alistair managed to pull Artem out of his proverbial shell. They had been like wary cats when he first walked in, each unsure of the other with nothing more than a prickly greeting and a quintessential man-nod. But Alistair's enthusiastic excitement as he exclaimed to me over every tiny plant baby in the store had quickly won over the old man, who tip-toed closer to hear the mothman's words of praise about how healthy this one looked or what an adorable leaf structure that one possessed. It wasn't long before Artem was discussing the finer points of mycorrhizal inoculation in homemade potting soil and the preferred PH of stone fruits.

But Alistair's original reticence to visit the shop, even though he had expressed interest in doing so, stuck with me as I found myself thinking of him more and more these days. It was almost as if he had seemed unsure of his welcome in the store, though I'd invited him half a dozen times before he finally showed up. When I asked Alistair about his hesitancy, he just shrugged and changed the subject. I finally managed to pin down Artem one morning while he was watering plants. Not literally, obviously. The man was as big as a tree. I didn't want to put him on the spot, so I mentioned my curiosity in the most off-hand way I could, and I might have set down a steaming hot cup of his favorite honey-flavored brew that I'd picked up for him on my way in. I could tell he wanted to be his usual grumpy, tight-lipped self as he eyed my proffered bribe, but he slowly reached out to take it and took a long sip while giving me an unimpressed look, before finally giving me a crumb of information.

"The previous owners were pretty opinionated about, well, everything, I guess," he said, smacking his lips and giving his own little shrug.

I frowned at him, trying to decipher that, and decided to press him a little harder. "About Alistair?" I asked, wondering if something had happened between him and the previous owners, but half expecting Artem not to answer. He could be cagey at the best of times, and I was just waiting for him to get that shifty look in his deep mahogany eyes before he clammed up and sidled off to go sweep the cobwebs out of a back corner—coffee bribe in tow.

But he surprised me. "Hm, they thought the university and all of its research into new plants was snooty and high-minded," Artem clarified in his low rumble, scratching lightly at the bark on his left cheek before taking another swig of coffee.

My frown deepened, remembering how Artem had once told me that the previous owners didn't want to work with the "head researcher" at the university because he was "persnickety," but one of his first pieces of advice to me was to go order some of the new trees at the university, so obviously he hadn't felt that way about the research.

"They didn't like him?" I guessed aloud, and I knew by the way Artem half-cringed that I'd guessed correctly. I could just picture sweet, excitable Alistair feeling unwelcome at the largest, most established plant nursery in the region and how that must have hurt his feelings. I thought of his wall of plants at home and the rooftop garden he so lovingly tended.

"I like him well enough," Artem said grumpily, interrupting my thoughts, before finishing off his coffee and picking up the watering wand to continue his morning chores.

My smile was small but genuine. "I like him too," I said, touched.

One day, several months later, a new yoga studio opened up a few blocks from our building. New Caelora had been peppered with tiny boutique yoga studios, usually frequented by flocks of fashionable upper-crust elves who all wanted to be part of the trendy new exercise regimen from the human world. I'd always wanted to try it, but since my friends were more the ‘mimosas and brunch' sort, I'd never had anyone to go with me.

"Would you be interested in joining me?" I asked Alistair tentatively that Friday evening as he sat across from me on my threadbare couch. I could go by myself, but the thought of walking in alone to try something brand new with a group of complete strangers left an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I probably wouldn't go alone.

"Yoga?" He paused briefly in his task of putting away the last of our board game pieces before hurriedly shoving the rest of them into his bag with a delighted sounding click. "I would love to try that!" he said. "I own several pieces of exercising apparel that would be perfect," he informed me, "and would be delighted to join you." His eagerness was palpable as we finished our tea and decided to attend the very next day.

Now, Alistair was often excitable, but I hadn't been prepared for just how excited he was to wear his "exercising apparel." I opened the door to his knock the next morning at o'dark- thirty to find he was still bright-eyed and chipper from the night before. He was wearing a loose-fitting white muscle shirt with the neck stretched wide enough to fit his expansive mane. Bold, black letters declared, ‘I [HEART] LAMP,' with a bright red heart design in the middle. I'd never seen him wear clothing before. He was very enthusiastic about it.

"My friend Sidney brings me the best shirts from the Void," he said with a happy chirp, referencing the human world where most of us never ventured. "This one is rather comfortable, I must say, and I do love lamps!"

My grin was permanently etched on my face the whole way to the studio as I trotted along beside him, peppering him with questions about his clothing. Why did he wear a shirt, but no pants? And if he was so thrilled about them, why didn't he wear them more often?

"Mothpeople don't wear clothes!" he said, like it should be obvious. "They just get in the way when we fly, and it's hard to make them fit with our wings and they usually tug and pull on my fluff," he said, carding his fingers through the tuft of gray fuzz sticking out the stretched neck hole of his shirt.

My smile grew impossibly wider.

"But," he continued, "since my friend Sid bought me this one, it's special. And it's more comfortable than most clothes. I'm not big on exercise for sport, so now I get a chance to wear it!"

I felt my eyes crinkle at the corners as I failed to contain my mirth. "I don't see how trousers would interfere with your flying."

He gave me a haughty look that made a laugh burst out of me like a short bark. "Have you seen how my legs are built?" he asked, gesturing at the giant hocks that bent oddly halfway down his legs and the large, sprawling talons he walked on. "I don't even know how I'd get them on," he declared as we entered the studio and approached the reception desk. But he wasn't finished, disregarding the fact that a stranger now stood in front of us as he continued his diatribe with his non-existent nose in the air. "And it's not like we need them for modesty's sake. All our bits are on the inside, as they should be."

The receptionist—a stoutly built bridge-troll with graphite colored skin and a cute pixie cut—went wide-eyed at that comment, causing me to dissolve into a fit of giggles as I apologized to her on his behalf, signed us in, and dragged him off to pick up our rented yoga mats.

The classroom smelled of stale sweat and cleaning solution, but not overpoweringly so, and the instructor, a cheerful, energetic elvish girl, greeted us with curious eyes as we entered the space. Bright light streamed in through two large windows off to the side and some kind of ancient lyre music filtered in from a back room. The space was small, but so was the group—a mixture of what looked to be mostly college-age kids and a few older locals. A goblin, a shifter, an orc, and several more elves made up the group, and none of them seemed to bat an eye at my mothman companion. We looked for a place to set up our mats, but there wasn't much room left. "Here," he told me, "you take this spot in front, so you can see."

I ignored his offer and began to unroll my mat behind him. "I don't want to be that close," I whispered, not wanting to look like a fool in front of the instructor.

He groused at me that he was too big to be able to see around and I wouldn't be able to follow the instructor, but I stubbornly hid behind him until he gave up when our teacher began to talk, the peppy young elf introducing herself as Brianna and explaining how the class would go. She talked about body awareness and mindfulness, and Alistair was right—I couldn't see very much of her—but that was okay, because I could just watch him and follow his lead. And then I realized as she started with a series of gentle opening stretches that I actually had the best view in the whole room. Because Alistair's booty was right there in front of me.

I'd always noticed Alistair was well-built. It would be impossible not to; he was huge. But what I hadn't noticed—due to his large wings, which he usually kept pulled tight against his back—was that the man's posterior was fine . I caught myself wondering multiple times whether it stuck out far enough to balance a cupcake on it. How did a man with an exoskeleton have what appeared to be such shapely looking glutes? It made no sense.

I really did try my best to focus on participating in class, to follow his movements as he followed the instructor. But it was hard with Alistair parked right there in front of me the whole time. How was he so good at this? He was surprisingly adept for someone who claimed to never exercise and had never tried yoga before. He had muscles where muscles should not be. I also never exercised, and my body could only be described as softly rounded. Maybe a little plump, even. I tottered and struggled to form the correct shapes with my body, but his poses flowed easily from one to the next as Brianna calmly gave her placid instructions to the room.

Motes of scales drifted from Alistair as we changed positions, carrying his scent with them as they settled onto me, and something about that scent affected me. I was already hot, but the warm, musky scent of his scales made its own heat twist low in my belly, my thoughts turning fuzzy, and my heart pounding more than was called for by this situation. The slow, warm curl of desire pulsing and tightening deep within me was a heady distraction until he quickly darted a hand out to save me when I nearly face planted onto my mat while trying the Standing Forward Bend. "Careful, darling," he murmured as he righted me.

It took me a second to make sense of his words.

Darling.

He'd called me darling .

Yoga with Alistair became a weekly Saturday ritual, and it never failed to amaze me how many different ways the muscular mothman could contort his multitude of limbs. I always took the spot behind him so I could continue to watch his well-rounded glutes flex and his biceps bulge, and thankfully he never caught on that I wasn't just hiding from the instructor. It usually ended up with me laughing into my yoga mat while Alistair tried to untangle me from myself, complaining all the while about how I managed to mess the poses up so badly when I had so few limbs, but I loved it. I loved the sound of his laugh and the luxurious scent of him and the way he spoke and all of his little mannerisms and gestures. I looked forward to every planned encounter and found myself thinking about him constantly. I was in major crush territory, and I didn't even know how it had happened. It had been weeks since I'd even thought about New Caelora.

One evening we ventured to the rooftop, mugs of my favorite peach-flavored tea in hand, and he made a frustrated sound when the door clicked shut. "It locked us out," he announced with a sigh.

I took a deep breath and set my tea down on his potting bench. This was an inevitable eventuality with a door like that, and I refused to allow myself to panic.

"It's okay. I can do this." The thought of him flying me down from the roof of the fourth floor was terrifying, but I knew I could trust him. "Please don't drop me," I said anyway, my voice shaking as I squeezed my eyes shut, readying myself for him to pluck me from the ground.

But he chuckled and said, "No, darling. I will go down and prop the door open again." He was still laughing to himself as he launched into the sky and gracefully dropped toward the ground below, his massive wings thrumming powerfully.

I loved it when he called me darling.

I. Was. So. Smitten.

"Have you ever tried the fuzz berry pastries?" Alistair asked me early one morning as we stood in front of the doughnut case at a little hole-in-the-wall cafe. I'd never been to this one, usually opting for the chain coffee shop on the way to work that the university students favored, but Alistair told me this one was a local institution. I'd woken up a bit early to be able to meet him here for breakfast before opening the nursery, since he'd just finished his work at the lab.

"I don't think I've ever heard of fuzz berries," I admitted. "Is that a real fruit?"

He puffed up with excitement. "Oh, yes!" he told me before turning to the barista. "Two fuzz berry pastries, please. On my tab," he said, taking the puffy-looking confections carefully once the young naga removed them from the case, plated them, and handed them over.

"I can pay for my own breakfast," I said as he led me to a little table by the window covered with a red and white checkered cloth. It looked like it might have been older than I was, the white squares yellowed with age and worn from heavy use. Alistair knew I loved to people-watch, and he always seemed to find some strange amusement from watching me as I watched the people. This cafe was a little off the beaten path, so the street was nearly empty except for a slow trickle of people stepping in to buy something from the counter before hustling out again.

"Hush," he said, waving me off as he set one of the plated pastries in front of my chair. "What if you don't like it? It's a bit of an acquired taste," he told me, "but it's one of my favorites."

"High praise, coming from you. What do you like about it?" I inquired, latching on to the opportunity to learn something new about him. His insights about food were always unexpected, and there was something about the pleasure he found in simple fruits that always made me smile.

"Oh, I love the flavor, of course," he said with a happy buzz as he used his long talon-like claws to tease apart the crisp, crackled surface of the dough. "It's very tart, be warned." He popped a bit of the fruit filling into his mouth, bypassing the outer pastry crust all together, and gave a deeper, more rumbling buzz. "But mostly it reminds me of my childhood."

Butterflies had threatened to overwhelm me at the sound of his pleasant, purr-like rumbling, so I'd focused on watching a little harpy child toddle down the sidewalk toward the cafe entrance with her mother, only briefly glancing at Alistair as he spoke, but now my gaze was riveted to the way his antennae twitched and his eyes warmed as he enjoyed his treat. "Tell me more," I encouraged, feeling a smile threaten. The man could talk for hours about tree genomes and the best methods for breaking bud dormancy, but talking about himself seemed like a foreign concept.

"I grew up picking fuzz berries in the woods behind my house," he said with a little shrug. "The bushes aren't exactly rare, per se, at least not where I'm from, but the berries are quite delicate. They don't keep, so you won't find them in stores."

I considered this as I took my first bite, enjoying the way the sweetened outer bun buffered the intense tartness of the berry. "Oh! That's very good," I told him sincerely. "That's dangerously good."

"It is, isn't it?" he agreed. "I've never found any other shops that sell baked goods that use them. We'd spend every day during the summer searching for them, me and my best friend. Rampaged around in the woods like little berry-juice smeared primitives. And the flowers!" he exclaimed. "They only open at night, and they have the most delicious nectar. You can't imagine the scent."

"Hmm," I murmured, enjoying the taste. "Do you miss them? Why don't you grow them?" I wondered aloud, thinking of his big rooftop garden. Surely, if anyone could grow them, he could.

"Oh, all the time. I tried to grow them several times, actually, but they're very specifically adapted to the region where they're from. There's not enough humidity here, and the nights just don't get cold enough. They can't have too much light, but they still need enough for their berries to ripen. It's a whole ordeal," he sighed. "These little pastries capture the base flavor, but all the nuance is gone."

I frowned at my half-eaten sweet, noting the dark purple-blue compote and trying to imagine the way it tasted when it was fresh, but I couldn't. "That's sad."

He smiled at me—a small secretive smile that hid something I didn't understand. "It is, a little. I do miss the flavor, but I can still taste them whenever I go home."

"Do you go home often?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

"No, not often," he said, confirming my hunch. "And even if I did, it would be quite a trial lining up my trip to match with their very short fruiting season," he said, his smile rueful this time. "But, I think, somehow, that fleeting window of availability, their rarity, their uniqueness… It all makes them that much more special."

I pondered this, my gaze resting on the way his hands skillfully dissected the baked good so that only the barest sliver sullied the berry filling as a vessel for carrying it to his mouth without dirtying his talons. How many delicious fruits would I never know because I only ate what was available in grocery stores?

"What kinds of things did you do in New Caelora when you were growing up?" Alistair asked conversationally. "What are you missing here that you loved back home?" There was an odd light in his eyes as he asked, as if he were afraid to know the answer.

Everything.

As soon as the thought popped into my mind, I knew it wasn't entirely true.