"Grayson, the thorns!" Mailah cried, as a vine whipped out, narrowly missing Grayson's throat.
"They are feeding on your blade!" Mailah realized, pulling back as a thorn brushed her arm, leaving a shallow, stinging cut that oozed a single, vibrant drop of blood.
As the crimson bead hit the mud, the entire garden shrieked—a sound of triumph. The black flowers began to open in perfect, terrifying unison, releasing a thick, golden pollen that clouded the air, making it hard to breathe. Mailah felt dizzy, her senses spinning as the smell of the pollen invaded her nose, smelling of old, lost summers and the bittersweet ache of childhood.
"Do not inhale it!" Grayson shouted, his own breathing coming in ragged, labored gasps. He grabbed Mailah's waist, spinning her behind him, using his body as a shield against the swirling cloud. His skin, usually cool to the touch, was radiating a heat so intense it singed the hem of her coat.
