Nightshade

Lightning flashed across the sky, followed by a roll of thunder that shook the ground beneath Azalea’s feet. The scent of rain hung heavy in the air, a promise of the storm to come. The manor house stood across the way from her, its enormous shadow silhouetted by the flashes of lightning that arched across the sky.

A well-kept lawn stretched up to the stone walls, which were adorned with vines of creeping ivy and lattices of roses in full bloom. Two sets of guards walked the grounds, their eyes vigilant as they moved through the darkness. From her careful observations over the past weeks, Azalea knew the guards would change at midnight, leaving a small gap in which she could make her move.

But until then, she had no intentions of moving an inch.

Even when the rain came, plastering the loose strands of her hair to her face, she never moved. At precisely midnight, the sets of guards that patrolled met at the entrance to the manor.

And that’s when she moved, sneaking out of the shadows to the back of the manor, which would be unguarded for the next few minutes.

A trellis filled with roses in full bloom hid a drainpipe, gushing water from the brewing storm. The sound of rushing water and the rolls of thunder overhead masked any noise she made as she gripped tight to the drainpipe and hauled herself up the side of the manor.

Rain slicked the metal surface, making Azalea nearly lose her grip several times. A few gashes cut into her hands, where she’d slipped a little. They stung lightly, but she ignored the pain.

As she reached the second-floor window, she carefully placed her feet against the siding, her special boots gripping easily. The windows up here were always unlocked, since the lady of the house often left them open to the temperate breezes of spring.

And after some careful questioning of a drunken servant, Azalea learned the lady was often forgetful in latching the windows. Forgetful even to where they would often blow open during storms.

Lightning flashed, but Azalea knew there was no one around to see her clinging to the side of the manor house. The fresh set of guards would chat for a few minutes before beginning their rotations.

She carefully eased the window open, then gripped hard to the wooden ledge, chipped paint flaking away under her fingertips. Inhaling a sharp breath, she pulled herself through the window and into the calm darkness of the manor.

As soon as her feet touched the soft carpet, a sharp wind blew, slamming the windows so hard their glass rattled. White lace curtains flapped in the breeze and raindrops pelted in, soaking the carpets.

Soft footfalls alerted Azalea to a servant, one who’d most likely heard the window clattering in the storm’s wind.

Hearing the footsteps as they ascended the stairs, Azalea slipped into a darkened alcove, blending in with the shadows. The maid passed by, not noticing what lurked in the darkness.

The maid moved to the window, a small sigh escaping her lips as she snagged the window and tugged it shut, snapping the lock closed. Then she pulled the curtains to cover the window, though flashes of lightning shone through the floral lace pattern.

When she finished with her task, the maid walked back the way she came, descending the stairs back onto the main level.

Listening for a few heartbeats, Azalea kept in the darkness, watching the strange shadows cast by the lace curtains. When she was sure that all was once again quiet, she slipped out of her alcove and into the eerie light of the hallway.

Large, ornate wooden doors lined the hall, but Azalea didn’t need to guess which she needed to open. Her careful observations had made her aware of every inch of this manor.

The second door on the left would lead into the room she needed. Moving swiftly, she crept down the hall, ears on alert for sounds of life. But the manor was silent.

Thunder boomed outside, rattling the windowpanes as Azalea turned the doorknob and entered the room.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the room for a half-second. A large four-poster bed dominated most of the room. Its delicate curtains hung loosely around the couple that slept peacefully inside.

The lady of the manor was closest, her fine blonde hair fanned out around her head like a halo. Her husband looked much older. His hair was receding and dotted with specks of gray. A loud, echoing snore came from him, and Azalea frowned.

Between the thunderstorm and the snores, it was a wonder the woman was still sleeping at all.

As she stepped forward, she slipped her blade from its sheath, the cool metal biting into her skin. A loud roll of thunder quaked the house, shaking the wooden frame and once again rattling the windows.

With a gruntled snore, the man woke from his slumber, breathing unevenly and his eyes darting around as if looking for danger.

Azalea moved quickly, sprinting across the room, her blade held tightly in her hand. When the man saw her, his eyes widened with fear and his mouth opened.

But there was no time for him to scream. Before he could react, Azalea drew her blade across his throat, severing his larynx.

Blood rushed from the wound, and the man gasped for air. His hands moved to wrap around the wound, but there was little he could do as the blood moved through his fingers, flowing down his skin.

“Lady Lorena sends her regards.”

At the mention of my patron, Lord Elridge’s eyes widened further, and he opened his mouth, though no words came out. Only a small choking noise, followed by a rivulet of blood.

A few seconds passed before Lord Elridge slumped back against his pillows, the light dimming in his eyes.

Azalea stood, watching him as he drew his last breath. His breathing become shallower and shallower, until with a final, heaving breath, he faded away.

The hand that held his wound slipped away from his throat, his fingers coated in blood. His eyes were still wide from terror, staring blankly at nothing.

From her pocket, Azalea pulled a single purple flower.

She set it carefully on Lord Elridge’s stained nightclothes, the beautiful blossom an odd sight against all the blood. But just like her, the flower was deadlier than it appeared.

With each of her victims, she always left a single blossom of nightshade behind. A remnant of her lingering even after she was gone.

Lady Elridge still slept, her face calm and peaceful. Her husband’s blood stained the edges of her perfect blonde hair, staining it red.

Azalea briefly wondered how the lady would react when she woke to find her husband dead beside her, already cold and gray.

But then the thought was gone, slipping out of her thoughts like water. What came after was not her concern.

She moved to the window and unlocked it, letting in the pouring rain. By the time someone realized it was open, she would be far gone.

The rain streamed against her skin, freezing her to her core in an instant.

And without another glance back, she climbed out the window and into the bitter night.