Chapter 10 That Hot, Wrong Honey

10

That Hot, Wrong Honey

It was past two by the time I finally snuggled under the fluffy comforter of the "guest" room, a space that had always unofficially been mine. The acanthus-carved empire canopy bed had been bought at my request; Little Dasha had indulged in some very grand tastes. The vibrant wallpaper, an indigo, teal, and beige print of curling florals and birds stealing tiny strawberries—a family project, from back when I'd had a thing for antique Morris prints—had never come down in favor of something more neutral. Saanvi even kept the brass censer on the vintage vanity stocked with my favorite incense blend from the Emporium, a mix of vetiver, amber, and bergamot.

It all declared, just as clearly as they constantly repeated to me, that I was always welcome here.

After a long shower to wash off any lingering miasma of the other side—along with drinking it, submersion in water helped banish unwanted necromantic energy—I'd spent a little time in the oasis of Kira's room. Cuddled next to her in the pink glow of her ladybug night-light, stroking the warm curve of her cheek and the glossy black strands that threaded over it, so like her mother's and grandmother's. I couldn't allow myself to impose on their little trio as often as I sometimes wanted to; I was an adult, and one who'd already trespassed on their life enough, even if they were family. I didn't ever want them to consider me a burden, horrified as they'd be if they knew that the thought had even crossed my mind. But sometimes I couldn't resist the draw of my little niece, the peace of her.

After I'd brushed a kiss over her golden cheek and tucked myself into the guest room bed, I'd passed out within minutes. Encounters with the other side often left me with weird lucid dreams, the dark and sludgy dregs of whatever I'd seen swirling around in my head like silt in a churned-up riverbed.

But tonight I found myself on this side of the veil, hovering between a dream and a memory.

It was the first farmer's market of the season, always held at the beginning of March on the emerald swath of Thistle Grove's commons, close enough to Hallows Hill that you could smell the incensey magic lapping down from Lady's Lake above. The year had been unusually warm even for us, the hill already aflame with the vivid purple of Scottish thistle that grew alongside the trails winding up the little mountain. That day, a cascading mist had also been coursing down Hallows Hill like a steamy waterfall, rolling across the commons and refracting sunlight into miniature rainbows.

Against the lemon-curd sunshine and pristine sky, it had felt ridiculously enchanting even for Thistle Grove.

I'd been to the last six inaugural farmer's markets as the Emporium's event coordinator, to help set up our stand. But I remembered this one like it had been etched into my memory—because it had been the first time I'd properly met Ivy Thorn.

Because nothing was ever perfect, I'd had Wynter in tow. Despite Amrita's grumbling, Wynter was undeniably one of the best salespeople at the Emporium, and we'd have been silly not to use her for something like this. She'd hung up black-and-silver bunting in artfully trailing loops and wound tiny purple fairy lights around the stand's posts before I even arrived, and we'd moved on to arranging our wares over a mulberry altar cloth that pooled to the ground like a bridal train. Bundles of premixed incense, "bespelled" hand creams, "enchanted" potions in bejeweled vials (magically inert, but safe to drink), edibles infused with herbal mixes that actually were psychoactive to (mostly) legal degrees, and our centerpiece—the coffin-shaped "dollhouses for ghosts" that one of the Avramov main line cousins had recently begun to craft.

They were adorably macabre, like something made for a gothic nursery. Each perfectly rendered little room a mimicry of one of The Bitters' rooms, with a bunch of teeny, white-sheeted ghost dolls you could place wherever you wanted. Not the kind of goods usually sold at a farmer's market, but a novelty that would pique interest in visiting the Emporium.

"Sorry to bug you, but I've been trying to understand this whole situation from across the way," a low, clover-honey voice said, a shadow falling over me as I fiddled with the final spread of incense. It hardly mattered anyway, since Wynter was going to rearrange it into a superior aesthetic as soon as I turned my attention elsewhere. "And failing. Would you mind just explaining these…mini coffins to me, please? Because the not getting it is killing me."

I looked up and met Ivy Thorn's doe eyes, huge and dark and beautifully lined in a way I'd never been able to master. I knew of Ivy, but we'd somehow never crossed paths before—a damned shame, I remembered thinking, considering the bold architecture of that striking face, that decadent mouth. I'd certainly noticed her before—and noticed the way she looked at me, as if thinking very similar thoughts.

I'd blown a sheaf of white-blond hair out of my mouth, smirking up at her. "They're artisanal coffin dollhouses for miniature ghosts, obviously. Cottagecore, but make it goth. Because, you know, Avramovs. Does that help? I'd really hate to play any part in your untimely demise, Ms….?"

"Ivy," she said, smirking back. "Thorn. Not that you don't already know my name, Daria Avramov. Just like I've heard plenty about you ."

The way she said it made me think that she'd been privy to some less-than-complimentary details about me from any number of my exes. Or, more likely, all of them, given the way witches talked in this town. If any tea was ever left unspilled, you could bet it was by oversight.

"I prefer Dasha. And I do," I assured her, dropping a tiny wink, even more committed to winning her over. "I just thought it'd be sexier to let you tell me. And more respectful, clearly. So, what do you think, Ms. Ivy Thorn—did it work for you?"

She burst out laughing, a multilayered sound like some complicated dessert, so warm and sweet it immediately sparked heat low in my belly.

"Where the hell did you learn this flirting technique? A pervert at the mall?"

"Oof, was the wink too much? I was afraid it might be." I cocked my head, tucking my teeth into my lower lip. I could see her gaze flicker down to my mouth, before she very intentionally dragged it back up to my eyes. Oh yeah, this is happening. "But I remember ‘finish overture with a subtle wink at the lady,' from the Victorian manual on flirting in public spaces I recently read. The Brash and Brazen Wanton's Guide to Wooing Other Wantons , I think was the name?"

"First of all, that wink was an entire parallel universe away from subtle." Her eyes narrowed with amusement. "It wasn't even subtle's third cousin twice removed. And I'm sensing a certain…implication here? Which is kind of out of pocket, if you ask me, given that ‘Why did you bring tiny-ass coffins to sell at a farmer's market?' seems like a pretty innocent question. Not to mention reasonable."

"I think we both know this isn't really about the artisanal coffin dollhouses, Ms. Ivy Thorn. But points for effort and consistency."

Next to me, Wynter coughed demonstratively. "Hey, Dasha, not to be rude or anything, but do you think, like…maybe you two could converse about Victorian porno literature elsewhere? I'd really like to sell some shit today, and your cringe pheromone cloud is obscuring our entire deal." She waved a hand dramatically in front of her face. "I mean, you can practically see the fug. No one's gonna come over here while you two are doing all that."

I flung a brief glare at her, noting the delicate pendant that hung around her neck on a black chain—an amethyst obelisk with some unusual faceting—before I swallowed a retort. I wasn't technically her boss, and she also wasn't technically wrong. The stand was hers to run, anyway; I was only here for setup and initial oversight. And I did want to continue this conversation outside of judgmental Gen Z earshot.

"Would you like to take a turn around the commons with me, Ms. Thorn?" I said, sliding out from behind the booth and offering Ivy my arm. "We can discuss coffins further. Or wantons. Or Victorian porno literature . Or anything millennial dowagers like us feel moved to chat about, really. Lady's choice."

She smiled at me, long and slow, lush lips curving over bright teeth, before slipping a hand into the crook of my elbow. "A turn sounds like just the thing. Why don't you come check out the Thorn stand with me first? For some much-needed perspective on normalcy."

This was where the dream forked away from real life, or at least my memory of it.

In real life, Ivy had taken me to her family's stand and bought me a piece of strawberry-rhubarb pie, breaking down for me in hilariously pedantic detail why this was a more "normal" choice for a farmer's market than toy coffins. Then we'd wandered around the other stands, marveling over intricately braided bread, wildflower honey, herbed butter, cheese, and limoncello—all the while riffing off each other, inventing increasingly absurd practices from my fictional manual on flirting. As the hours passed, we'd segued into talking about her hobbies; she taught yoga in her free time and sang in a local choir. The fact that I'd been in semiprofessional musical productions at the Carbondale theater with Amrita had especially confounded her.

"Avramovs, singing in musicals ?" She'd wrinkled her nose in disbelief. "And not one but two of you? This shit is not computing."

"Such shade, from a Thorn who just dropped not one but two antihistamine pills because she couldn't stop sneezing out here, in her natural habitat."

Ivy's eyes—now much less watery—widened with outrage. "Oh, is hay fever not green-magic enough for you? Did you think it maybe made us immune to pollens and grasses and—"

"Just saying." I bumped her shoulder. "Glass houses."

Then we'd moved on to family. She'd told me about an ongoing rift with her little sister, while I'd done my best not to bring up anything too alienating about myself, instead regaling her with stories about Kira's toddler exploits and some of the wilder clients I'd had at the Emporium.

It had been our first de facto date, ending in an intense make-out session in the copse of trees that shaded the north side of the commons. Both of us half-tipsy from the limoncello stand that should've really come with a high-proof warning. Ivy's back pressed against a sturdy sycamore, her mouth against mine like free-verse poetry, or maybe something too sublime for any words at all.

In real life, I'd felt the darkness lift for once, falling from my shoulders like a horsehair cape.

But in the dream, as soon as we drifted away from the stand, Ivy wheeled to face me, setting her hands on my shoulders. Flowers sprang up all around us, a riotous profusion just like the one she'd woven for me at The Bitters. Then she closed the distance between us until her lips were only a whisper away from mine.

"Promise me you're really staying with me, Dasha," she said fiercely, her face taut with trepidation. "Promise me you're not going back to him ."

I shook my head, not understanding, even as that swirling fog around our feet began to rise, curdling like landbound clouds, billowing up around our waists. I could feel its sudden clammy chill leaching into my legs. "What do you mean? Of course I'm here with you. We're going to…we're going to go have strawberry pie, and then we're going to walk and talk and kiss. That's what happens today. You know that."

"I hope that's what happens." Fear and regret brimmed in her eyes. "But look, Dasha. Just look ."

Slowly, she turned me around, until I faced the Avramov stand again—where Wynter stood still, a disconcerting smile curving her dark lips, her fingers toying with that amethyst pendant. The fog around the stand had coalesced into an inky darkness, no longer mist but a churning river of ectoplasm. And as I watched, Wynter's familiar Bratz doll features morphed into an onyx darkness, her hair shortening and curling, a spired crown and coiling horns appearing on her head. Her clothes melting away to reveal a masculine form carved from granite slabs of muscle, a pair of wings tucked behind her back, their clawed tips curving high above her head.

His head. Because it was him, the Potential King of the Many Hells, the Avramov stand having vanished entirely. Instead, the other side of the veil loomed behind him, fields of black flowers under oxidized clouds, bristling orchards heavy with unnatural fruit. The jagged outline of a castle suddenly reared up, too, against the distant mountain range that was the crooked spine of that other world.

"Child of dark," he crooned at me, lifting a clawed, beckoning hand. His nostrils flaring, as if he could smell me even in this dream. "Do not think that I have forgotten you so very soon, even if I cannot touch you from here. Do not think that you will not find yourself by my side again."

"But I don't want to," I whimpered—even though I did want to, had as soon as I'd seen him. My feet were already scuffing in his direction, Ivy's hands falling from my shoulders as I trudged helplessly toward him.

"Dasha, don't!" Ivy begged, grabbing for my hand, whirling me around to face her again. Behind her, the farmer's market was still as it had been that day—sunlit and mundane, as if this dreamscape were split in two, with the other side of the veil hovering at my back. And myself strung up between them, like a makeshift boundary. "You can choose to stay, I know you can. This world is for you, too. Please, Dash, stay with me."

But I could feel them already, the chill tendrils of ectoplasm winding around my ankles, enticing me toward him. And the urge building inside me to taste that hot, wrong honey that would come after the slide, that scorching blaze of life that was me alone among the dead.

"I don't know," I admitted. "Ivy, I'm sorry. But I don't know what I'm going to do."

She leaned forward and pressed her lips ferociously against mine, a palm flat against my cheek. It was so furnace hot against my skin I nearly flinched, before the heat dissipated into a mellow warmth like a spreading balm.

That didn't make sense, not even in a dream. Ivy had never been hotter than me.

"When the time comes, you will know," she whispered against me. I opened my eyes, my breath catching to see the new light that glowed in hers, pulsing a searing amber like the first filaments of breaking dawn. "I know, I trust , that you will. But before then, Dasha…there's more for you to do."