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THE FLEUR COTILLION is not the type of “party” or “celebration” that I, a former employee of Taffy’s Tavern, am accustomed to. Every night at Taffy’s was a party—a drunken fest with booze, sloppily made hamburgers, and my mother cavorting about in a dress that emphasized her bosoms. Here at the Fleur Cotillion, which is being held inside a mausoleum-like structure, is a classy, upscale event. A waitstaff serving flutes of sparkling wine and cucumber tea sandwiches wears pristine black and white outfits that look like they cost a fortune. When I worked at Taffy’s, my work clothes looked as if I rolled around in a pigsty.
Witches, wizards, young and incredibly old, fill the ballroom with dancing and light chitter-chatter. An orchestra, seated atop a stone balcony thirty feet above, plays classical music, a style I am not familiar with. I’m used to the drunks at my old workplace who’d break out in song and dance; they’re never this elegant.
At the far end of the fancy mausoleum where floating candelabra sway in an invisible, magical current, a long table, clothed in deeply red fabric, hosts a septet of wizards. All seven of them are similar in appearance: old, wrinkled faces; long, silver-white beards; stern, weather-worn eyes and thick, caterpillar brows. They each wear comically large wizard hats that snatch a laugh from my chest.
Vahilda glares at me. “Be mindful, Elyse.” She and I are daintily eating the finger food provided, which, well for me, will not leave me anywhere near satisfied. “Those wizards form the coveted Elite.”
Figures those old geezers were the Elite. Why are men always part of the ruling class? Honestly? Throughout history, all I’ve read about are men in complete and total power. It seems like the patriarchy is forever in control, even in the magical world. I hope to change that very, very soon.
Vahilda continues. “The wizard in the middle—” she juts her chin at one wizard who has his eyes fixated on the witch and I “—is Zerachael Duth’Kurr. He was the wizard who was supposed to step down all those years ago, but, after Edwin’s death and my plea to take his position, Zerachael decided to extend his earthly stay.” Her tone carries the weight of everything she’s been through. The death of my father. The rejection she’s faced. The hurt.
“He is looking this way.” I lick my teeth clean of cucumber skin. “We should go say hi, right?”
“No.” Vahilda pats my shoulder. “What I need from you is to get to know your competition. You already have a great disadvantage because you are new to Parnissi. You have less than five hours to gather what you can before the trials tomorrow.”
“That should be easy!” My voice, smothered in sarcasm, makes the witch clench her jaw. “What are you going to do while I make friends?”
“I’m leaving.” Vahilda lifts her dress slightly, exposing her ankles. “Everyone is already curious about you. This is your time to shine. I will only pose as a distraction.”
“But you can’t.”
“I can, and I will.” The witch smiles at me and holds her chin high as she saunters out the stone doors.
I gulp, stare about the lively party, and search for someone—anyone—to talk to. Standing around being socially awkward will work against me come tomorrow. But, as I observe all the attendees, I can’t honestly tell who is just here for the party and who is participating in the trials. All my training and research about flowers and their magical abilities should’ve included a list of those contestants’ names and faces. That would’ve been a great help.
Scanning the crowd, I spot the familiar face of Justine and her two boyfriends. The wicked trio is dressed to the nines. Justine wears a skin-tight gown that hugs her voluptuous body just the right way, and the twins wear matching suits with polka dot bowties. I start in their direction as they sip wine and laugh snobbishly, but stop short as Zerachael blocks my path.
Standing six feet tall, the wizard stares down his nose at me like I’m an ant or something insignificant. “What are you to Vahilda Marguerite?” The tone of the wizard’s voice is abrasive, grating against my ears.
“She’s an old family friend,” I say, the words sound scripted, contrived.
“What type of family friend?” Zerachael’s long, starchy, black robe drinks in the orange candlelight like a black hole.
“Um, you know, like, a family friend.” I shrug, not sure what exactly he’s asking me.
“Are you and Ms. Marguerite lovers?”
I wince, shiver in disgust, nearly vomiting my finger food. “Goddess, no!”
He leans forward, long beard sweeping the marbled floor. “Something about you is familiar.” Eyes drawn to slits, the wizard makes a noise in the back of his throat as if he’s got me figured out. His lips part to speak, but Justine cuts him off.
“She looks familiar because she was arrested.” Justine swirls her wine like an expert and sips the blue concoction. “Her mug was in the papers for a few days before everyone forgot about her. I mean, just look at her; she is not that memorable at all.”
“Ah, Justine Lilly.” Zerachael shifts his focus to the bombshell in black. “It’s a pleasure to see you. How is your family?”
“Still wealthy,” she chuckles.
“I hear that you are participating in the Flower Trials,” the wizard says. “Could you be the witch to claim my seat? You’ll be the first to do so.”
Justine blushes, apples of her cheeks flame tomato-red. “You must have future sight, your Wizardness. Because I will be the first witch to become an Elite—”
“Don’t count on it.” Maybe it’s the wine or the hunger pangs jabbing my stomach, but I didn’t expect my voice to sound so... severe.
“Ignore the drunk,” Justine snarls and taps her foot in annoyance. “That girl has been trained by Vahilda. Isn’t that, I don’t know, an automatic disqualification?”
Zerachael considers Justine’s question, twirls a finger in his beard. “When the first of the Elite came to be, the rule was that any surviving competitor of the Flower Trial could not impart their knowledge of the trials to their family. All members of that bloodline who broke those rules were, and are, banned from participating.”
Luckily for me, Vahilda has shared the secrets of the Flower Trials with me, and no witch or elderly wizard, for that matter, has any idea that I am her niece. And they’ll never know. I have an advantage that no one else has.
“Training a witch or a wizard who is not family is acceptable, even if that witch or wizard had participated in the Flower Trials. They just can’t share what they’ve learned.”
Justine once overs me, her green eyes trying to decipher something about me. “Still. It seems unfair.” Her black-stained lips imprint on the wine glass as she downs the dregs. “In any case, I guess I only have to worry about your son, Markus.” She tips the glass toward a devilishly handsome man, who looks to be in his early to late twenties.
I can’t believe this ancient wizard has a son—a hot one at that. Markus greets us ladies with a nod of his amber-colored hair, slicked back on his head. He shares his father’s height, thick eyebrows, and wavy nose, but that’s where the similarities end. Markus has a square face, cleft chin, mesmerizing violet eyes, freckled cheeks, and hands, and is built like a brick house.
“I can assure you,” Markus says, voice like the classical music echoing through the mausoleum, “I’ll be the one to claim my father’s chair. Unlike you pedestrians, I am allowed to train with the Elites. And they can share with me whatever they choose.”
Aside from his prince charming looks, Markus is not a pleasant person to be around. Why are the hot ones always so rude? Add to his rudeness with the pressing issue that he is the son of an Elite, and what do you get? Stiff competition. Perhaps stiff is not even the right word for it. He’s a shoo-in to win the Flower Trials.
Raising a brow, Markus smirks at me. “We haven’t yet been acquainted.” His entire holier-than-thou demeanor is flipped upside down for chivalry as he bows at me. “Would you care for a dance?”
I blink at him. Justine blinks at me, then at him. Then at me again. The poor girl is as astonished as I am.
My initial response would be to blow him off and find more finger food to stuff my face with. And yet, I find myself inching close to his offered hand. He’s still handsome, no doubt, but I have an idea in mind. Everyone has a weakness, something they’re afraid of. Allergic to. If I can extract that from him, I’ll have a leg up on the son of a wizard.
My thoughts have become so dark and so competitive. Being around Vahilda for two weeks has unlocked that side of me that I didn’t think existed. I was never this person who’d think such profoundly malicious thoughts. But that has not dissuaded me from taking Markus’s hand as he leads me to the dance floor.
“My, my, my.” Markus gently plants a hand on my backside. “Where have you been all my life?”
“I’ve been... around.”
Our gazes are locked with the intent to uncover what lies beneath one another. For me, it’s his weaknesses. For him, something lewd, sexual.
Wetting his lips, Markus inhales as he slides his hand further down my back. “It’s tradition to consummate this event with some fun. Let’s make a deal: you drop out of the Flower Trials and be my betrothed, or die the most painful death. Lady’s choice.” The smug wizard flashes his pearly whites at me.
Clenching my jaw as his unchivalrous hand grazes my bottom, I shove Markus away. “How about no? I would never stoop so low to be with a disgusting man like you.”
And there goes any chance I have of learning anything about him. Markus bobs his head, shrugs, and walks backward. He smirks at me as he disappears into the crowd of dancers. That smirk was devious, for sure. I must watch my back come tomorrow because Markus has a target on it.
“Nice work.” Justine’s voice makes me jump. She lingers behind me with her boyfriends. “A girl like you doesn’t deserve a man like Markus. Are you not Percy’s girl? You were with that weirdo at the café, correct?”
“I’m not Percy’s girl.” I’d like to be. The dance we shared was far better than whatever I just experienced with the handsy Markus. I wonder if Percy is thinking about me. Our dance. Our almost kiss.
“I applaud you for having a modicum of dignity about you.” Justine spreads her arms, fingers splayed. Her boyfriends each take a hand. “I wonder if he’ll wear that ratty old suit at your funeral?” her parting words to me as she’s lifted like a queen and whisked away into a dance.
Death. The final act. The Fleur Cotillion is celebrating the coming massacre of witches and wizards for the Flower Trials. I’ll either be the one doing the killing or the one to be killed. Vahilda had shared something with me that saved her and my father when they were near death: snapdragons.
Before the start of the trials, every participant can bring an arsenal of flowers for their disposal. Any flowers discovered during the trials can also be utilized at a witch’s or wizard’s disposal. The location of the Flower Trials changes each time an Elite steps down. Luckily for Vahilda and my father, they were dropped off at a starting point where snapdragons grow in abundance. From what little information Vahilda’s communicated to me about the flower and from what I gathered from my stint in jail, snapdragons are a neutralizer for magic. They can be used to restrict magic use of any kind for a short period of time. Though the plant is useful, the flaw is: the user who uses the snapdragon for defense will have their magic snuffed out until the effects wear off. So, snapdragons are a double-edged sword.
I can only hope I am lucky to have a starting point where snapdragons are part of my flower cache.
All participants are escorted via carriage to various spots surrounding the trial grounds where the Flower Trials will take place. No witch or wizard is privy to the location or how massive the landscape will be until they arrive at their personal starting point in the early morning. The Flower Trials may be held in a setting as large as the ocean or as small as the cottage I shared with my mum. I pray for the former. It’ll be a bloodbath otherwise.
Shivering from the daunting thoughts, I shake my head. Vahilda may have had an excellent idea for me to mingle and conspire against my competitors, but this all feels like a waste. Right now, I just want to curl into a ball and catch some shuteye. All of Vahilda’s training has left me in a state of sleeplessness.
Not wanting to draw any attention to myself, I carefully, like a thief in the night, slip out of the mausoleum and into the cold moonlight waiting for me outside. The chilled air is cold against my exposed arms. Rubbing my arms to warm myself, I walk about the graveyard, inspecting every headstone, tombstone, and statue. I wonder how many of these departed souls died from natural causes, magical causes, or were slain at the Flower Trials?
As morbid as the thought, my curiosity has always fed my soul. Although my insatiable curiousness has led me down paths with no way to return to my innocence, it has never stopped me from learning and exploring.
A familiar snickering emerges from a vastly smaller mausoleum further across the graveyard. My curiosity tugs me in the direction of the sinister guffawing emanating from within the crypt. That laugh. That ladylike chuckle belongs to Vahilda.
Nearing the mausoleum, the moonlight trickles just right through the oak trees’ leaves to illuminate the surname carved in the center of the pitched roof. Marguerite. A family mausoleum. My family. A faint blue glow, mixed with spots of flickering orange from a candle’s light, spills out of the open chamber door.
“Promise me.” A male’s voice gives me pause as I gently inch the door open, careful not to make a sound. “Promise me you’ll let her go, Vahilda. She’s innocent.”
“She owes me her life, dear brother.”
Brother? Is... Is Vahilda speaking with my father?
Trembling down to my stockings, I peek inside and hurriedly press a hand over my mouth, suppressing a gasp. The ghastly blue outline of an incorporeal man shines like moonlight, drowning the crypt’s innards in deep blue. He looks just like the pictures Vahilda has in the photo album. The final photo, the one used in his obituary, is exactly how he looks now. My father is frozen in time, a young man with a promising future gone too soon.
“Elyse will win the Flower Trials,” Vahilda says, arms crossed tight. The witch sounds so sure of my win, as if she has the power of foresight. “After such, you’ll be reunited with your daughter.”
“Don’t you dare!” He roars, hands tightening to fists. “You should’ve left her where she was.”
“Your little girl would’ve been executed in front of a live audience.” Vahilda perches atop a sarcophagus in the center. “It’s not like you even knew her. You had relations with a mortal like the stupid drunk you were. I understand celebrating your win, but impregnating a hooker has got to be the highlight of your life. But we’ve all made mistakes, right, brother?”
“My daughter is not a mistake.”
I flinch, unsure how to process that. Mum was never shy to share her thoughts about me being the biggest mistake of her life.
“You barely knew the whore or the bastard child she gave birth to.”
“You stole that opportunity from me, you murderer.”
The gasp I’ve been holding in slips out of me like a punch to the gut. Vahilda’s head snaps in my direction, her eyes wide with horror. This witch killed her brother—my father. I would’ve never guessed by the gallons of tears she shed over his death that she was the one responsible for stealing his life away. But why?
“Elyse?” my father says my name in such a way I can’t help but shed tears. He said my name in a way my mum has never uttered. The care and tenderness behind it shatter my heart to pieces. I’ve never known who my father was, never cared to be honest. But now, I want to know everything there is to know.
Swept in a typhoon of emotions, my lips quiver as they form the words, “Father...” It is only then when I’ve said that foreign word, a flurry of dandelion seeds like a torrential snowstorm, seduces me into unconsciousness.