Must the Flowers Die

Chapter 9: Casual Cruelty

Liam had updated Demnosia as to the nymph's reaction as soon as he arrived home, which did not improve either of their moods. Demnosia and Liam's relationship became increasingly antagonistic as their mission faltered. They pressed and charmed the locals for information. They volunteered at the shelter and played golf at the country club. They even began going to the churches, as that was a major source of socialization in that small place. Soon, they weaved themselves into the fabric of Piston life. Nothing happened without their knowledge. But as their popularity grew, their goal remained elusive. Demnosia had thought perhaps the locals knew some lore or gossip that could help them, guide them to the secrets of the portal. Small places were like that sometimes. Magic and truths hid in plain sight in the stories passed from generation to generation. Yet the locals, many of whose families had been in the area for generations, offered nothing except for fatuous rumors and unrestrained judgment. They appeared to have completely lost their ties to their past, except the imagined ones from the Civil War, where Piston played a small role as a skirmish nearby cost the town several sons.

Liam also dug into the archives. He looked into the town's history, its founding, its geography. He spoke to the offspring of the native population from pre-European occupation, the few he could find. He even analyzed its historic weather patterns. Birth and death records. His eyes blurred at his efforts. The only information of slight interest was that Alex Walter's family had a penchant for insanity in the past. There were quite a few murders and suicides and dismemberments, but that genetic predilection appeared to have dissipated in the last few generations, likely with increased breeding with non-family members. Demnosia scoured the countryside and the forests, hoping for a chance breakthrough, a message from nature itself. Their work uncovered nothing. Demnosia drowned her disappointment increasingly in wine. Liam sought out Mia, the only effective balm for his tired and sore spirit.

They hanged out alone. For his part, Liam did not particularly want to socialize with her friends. They were fine enough, but he felt no need to engage with them. In particular, he didn't think Alex would enjoy spending time with him. Beyond his own comprehension, he had signed up for Instagram, and he spent an inordinate amount of time looking at Mia's photos. He saw the way Alex looked at Mia in those photos. It was so subtle. Liam wasn't even sure if the boy knew himself. But Liam had several thousand years of experience reading humans, and Alex was in love. Not just puppy love either. Deeper and richer than that.

In any case, Mia, and Mia alone, gave him the needed peace, stopped his mind from spiraling into a bramble of imagined horrors of his mother's fate. Mia, his respite. Mia, for her part, never made it an issue. She did not appear eager to integrate him into the rest of her social life. They did not hide their growing closeness from those around them, per se, but they also did not advertise it.

Liam joined her in her activities. He fitted himself as unobtrusively into her time. It was easy. Besides opening Olympus, he had no other obligations. He joined her in her wushu training and exercises, in which she unfailingly persevered each day. He watched her while she worked on her designs and creations, sometimes speaking, often not. He continued to scour Piston's archives as she completed her college applications in the local library. He accompanied her on her long runs and swims. He enjoyed all his moments with Mia, but those hours spent darting through the trees and cutting through refreshing water were the most rejuvenating. After they always found some tree or grassy patch to talk. The conversation flowed. Mia was young and achingly naïve, but her mind was sharp, creative, and unorthodox.

He loved the way she worked, engrossed and enthusiastic. She took a keen and varied interest in her school work, but she was most enchanting when she worked on her designs. Sometimes considered, sometimes frenetic, sometimes frustrated, but always, always, a light shined from her internally when she drew, cut, and sewed. In her hands the red cloth he bought became a thing of startling beauty. It was unabashedly bold and powerful. Its wearer would appear imperial and impervious, no coquettishness in sight.