The temperature was different there. Warmer near the soil, cooler near the panes. Exactly how I liked it.
Exactly how my roses hybrids liked it, if the dramatic little bastards had finally decided to cooperate.
My dragon-blood roses sat in three long stone planters, half-hidden behind a curtain of climbing white blooms. I had planted them before everything went to hell. Before cages and spells and demons and running through nightmare corridors barefoot. Before I learned that being wanted could feel just as dangerous as being hunted.
They had been an experiment.
The first stems had taken, at least. Dark green, almost black near the base, with thorns sharp enough to make even me respectful. The new leaves had a red shine under the surface, like something living beneath skin. No buds yet,
