Total pages in book: 119
Estimated words: 116875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116875 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
UU was founded in order to foster peace among the four mafia families of Metropolis. We’re learning a little about this in summer orientation, but Honey spilled the real tea about those four families or Houses, and which of their descendants will be attending classes in the fall. Campus is seen as neutral territory, which means no outright gang war. House rivalries, however, are encouraged.
But there’s no murdering allowed. At least, it’s frowned upon, so I’ll need to be careful about my evil plans.
It’s not like I want to kill Vesuvio freshies anyway. No, my endgame involves the big boys, the don and his sons. They’re powerful and well protected, but nothing like a challenge, right?
First, I need to survive Mafia University. To do that, I’ll need all the resources I can get.
Poison garden, here I come.
I push open the iron gate and enter the quiet space beyond. A sign greets me at the head of the path. “Welcome to the poison garden,” the stylized script reads. “Enter at your own risk.”
If they put this sign out front, people would probably be more curious. Instead, they hide it behind the entrance, so no one knows what’s here.
I peer past the posted warning into the dark depths of the garden. There are patches of sunlight, but most of the plants grow in the deep shade cast by the yew and holly trees.
I like plants better than people. I wasn’t kidding when I told Honey my best friend was a carnivorous plant. But I’ve never seen anything like this murder garden.
The heady scent of wet earth and bitter greens is intoxicating. I thought the scent of a greenhouse was my favorite, but this is better. All these greens out in the fresh air, wild. Nature’s darkest secrets on display.
The path is lined with flowers that belong in a cottage garden. So pretty, so demure. All the more deadly because no one would suspect something so lovely could kill them.
If my mother were still alive, she’d want to paint them.
The yew trees are the tallest I’ve ever seen—beautiful evergreens with glossy needles and the most perfect bright red berries. A tea made from those dark green needles can send a man into a coma within a few hours. But researchers isolated a compound from the same tree’s bark that’s now used in chemotherapy treatments. This deadly tree saves lives.
Just another example of how plants hold all the answers.
I walk through the garden, admiring the beds of monkshood and daffodils. The air is cooler here, and the quiet is almost reverent. Or maybe that’s how I feel because phytotoxicology is my religion and deadly plants are my gods. And they are powerful. It’s easy to imagine the plant’s victims buried under the groves.
This has just become my new favorite place.
I’m in love.
Some sun-loving plants like foxglove and deadly hemlock grow in a small patch of sunlight that manages to make it past the branch canopy. The foxglove has a long stem that’s taller than me. I get close and study the pink buds with dark speckles. Such a pretty plant to be so deadly.
“Hello, my precious,” I whisper.
Movement out of the corner of my eye makes me startle, and I whirl around.
“Who’s there?”
This time I’m not imagining it. The biggest guy I’ve ever seen steps out from behind a horse chestnut tree. He’s over six feet tall and white with tanned skin and tattoos swirling down his arms and the back of his hands. But he moves so silently, I feel like I’m imagining him. He carries himself lightly, which tells me he’s fast on his feet. He’s nimble for someone so large.
He pauses by the tree, keeping his face in shadow.
Goosebumps break out over my skin. My breath comes faster.
I’ve had the sense that I’m being followed for the past few days, and suddenly here’s this guy lurking in the poison garden.
My eyes adjust to the shadows, and I catch my breath. The man is wearing a black bandana covering the lower half of his face with some sort of design on it—the white imprint of a skull.
Helloooo, Psycho Mask Daddy. Did Christmas come early? And by Christmas, I mean Halloween.
“It’s a little early to trick or treat,” I say.
He shifts his stance but doesn’t say anything. His arms are corded with hard muscle. He’s all coiled raw power, and something in his eyes makes me think he wants to pounce.
“What are you doing here?” I blurt. I sound breathless, my heart speeding up, and that annoys me.
I refuse to be frightened by him. I’m not afraid of a big guy in a silly little mask. I’m more concerned about how wet I’m getting. Guess I have a mask fetish.
“Same as you.” His voice rumbles in a way that makes me want to squirm. “I wanted to look at the flowers,” he says, but he’s not looking at them. He’s staring at me intently. Studying me like he knows me.