Monster Garden

  See u soon sweetie xoxo

  So I didn’t trip. I munch on dry toast and drink a bit of old apple juice as I try to dredge up my memories - I tripped, and then what? It’s just a blank. Well, okay, it’s not a blank, but I’m discounting everything that happened after because that shit was bonkers bananas. There’s no way it actually happened. Something else must’ve - I tripped and maybe Dane helped me back here? I told him I live downstairs under his friend’s apartment the first night we met. So he knows. I check my pants pocket - yup, my apartment key’s in there. It must be that.

  But the guy who choked me - coming to my work to apologize, and then putting me in my bed when I hit my head? That’s suspiciously nice of him. My body slyly gives another answer, but I push it out of my skull. No way. I checked down there - clean as a whistle. If a whistle was highly acidic and bled every month.

  But right now, Dane being a good dude is all I’ve got in the way of excuses.

  I’ve got a whole day off to ponder it, but it turns out pondering a lot doesn’t exactly help. In fact, it fucking harms. I start to doubt my own memory so hard I get whiplash. And without a way to contact Dane, I can’t confirm anything. I decide to get some air and go out to the mailbox, check for a few bills. But there’s nothing. Nothing but a single envelope, made of thick parchment paper and addressed with gold ink.

  I freeze. No name, no return address. Just my address, in perfect cursive handwriting. My gut instinct is to throw it away - but gold ink? And the way the envelope is so heavy - something important is in here. I shake the envelope, smaller pieces of paper rattling around. I squeeze it, and it has a distinct give to it.

  Money.

  I dash up to my apartment and tear the envelope open the moment the door’s shut.

  There, on the card table, sits two stacks of hundred dollar bills.

  My heart decides to quit working right. I back away slowly from the table. Is this the part where someone jumps out and yells ‘surprise’? Two stack of hundreds is twenty thousand dollars.

  Twenty…my brain stutters. Twenty thousand dollars.

  A piece of paper fell out of the envelope as I backed up, and with shaking fingers I pick it up and read the handwriting in gold-outlined ink.

  Dear Miss James,

  You may remember me - my name is Vilmor Van Grier, and we met yesterday evening.

  I get that far before I rush over to the trash and open it with the pedal, dumping it on top of my day-old applesauce. I watch with some sick satisfaction as the gold lettering runs as the apple’s juices soak through it. I turn back to the table and let out a yelp like someone’s murdering me.

  The letter. Sitting there. Right there in front of me. No stains, no running ink.

  “What the cheese-stuffed fuck -“ I dash over to the trash can, but the letter is gone. In horror I slowly walk back to the table, reading the next sentence from three feet away.

  The twenty thousand dollars I’ve included here is your monthly payment. If you choose to keep it, I will naturally assume you’ve accepted to work for me. If you wish to return it, however, please come to my club, the Seventh Circle, on Second Avenue and Smith, tonight at eleven p.m. Please tell the bouncer you are here for the gin rummy, and he will let you right through.

  Sincerely yours,

  Vilmor Van Grier

  “No.” I say flatly, immediately starting to pace the floor. “No no no no, NO. This isn’t happening. Except it is,” I whine, then run over and punch one of my pillows on the couch. “Damnit! I just wanted it to be a lie. A dream. Is that too much to ask?”

  The dog - Sir Charles. That means he was real. The roses in Dane and Quinn and the dark-haired guy’s eyes - those were real too, weren’t they?

  “Holy sweet mother of Jesus,” I hyperventilate into the pillow. My eyes catch the stack of bills on the table, playing innocent when they’re anything but. “I’m in for it. If I don’t go, I’m Vil’s employee. If I do, I’m walking right into Vil’s club. Either way, I’m getting a faceful of Vil that I never freaking wanted!”

  I have to return it. The last shred of my clear, logical mind yells that I have to return it and it’s right. I do. No way in hell am I working for Vil.

  But god, it’s a lot of money. Enough for Mom and Dad to never give me anything for college as long as I live. I’d never have to be a drain on their time and money and energy ever again. I could even move out of this shithole place, get somewhere all my own. Somewhere nice, with a real kitchen, with plants or a pet, and I could stop eating Ramen every night and I could get a laptop, maybe -

  I beat my head into the pillow. This is just what Vil wants. I’m not succumbing to his tricks, period. What I have right now might be garbage, but it’s my garbage. It’s good enough. I’ll just go to this club, pop my head in, return the money, and leave. That’s all. And thank him for the opportunity, I guess, because it never hurts to be polite with possibly-Satan.

  ****

  I have exactly one dress. It’s a pale cream sundress with daisies on it that I bought for my graduation party. I barely fit into it anymore (thanks freshmen fifteen), but at least the beige flats I bought with it still fit. Everything else I own is five years old and is either a shirt with a cartoon character on it or sweatpants with ten holes in the crotch, so those are out. Daisy dress it is.

  I pull my hair up in a quick ponytail and swipe some eyeliner on. I managed to dig up a cracked, old pink tinted lipbalm from my purse and it isn’t lipstick but damnit - it’s the closest thing I’ve got.

  I jingle my purse nervously on the bus until an old woman with a lined face sighs in my direction tiredly. She’s probably just gotten off her shift, too, judging by the hair net.

  “Long day?” I try a gentle smile. She nods.

  “Hoo boy, you don’t know the half of it. They cut my damn paycheck too, and now Georgie’s college - ” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to blab to ya.”

  My heart twinges a little - she could be my mom, with a cut paycheck and a kid in college to help out. The twenty thousand in my purse suddenly feels super heavy.

  A man as rich as Van Grier wouldn’t miss a single hundred dollar bill, would he?

  My mind’s already made up. I rummage in my purse, wrapping the hundred dollar bill inside a five, and when my stop comes I slip it into her hand and smile.

  “I know it’s not much, but maybe it’ll help Georgie.”

  She gawks at the five. “Oh I can’t take this -“

  “Please.”

  The woman stares at it, then smiles up at me, all the tiredness in her face evaporating. “Thank you, honey. God bless your heart.”

  I get off the bus and watch it putter into the night, feeling a little bit lighter, and then I start off down the road. Seventh Heaven is on Second Avenue, which is a busy road, but Smith is out of the way of downtown, just on the outskirts where the city turns to shipping containers and abandoned rave warehouses. I get hit with a couple existing-as-a-woman-taxes when a few ‘hey beautifuls’ ring out from the local drunks lingering outside sleazy strip clubs, but I always cross the street before I pass them, and spending a year or two on a college campus sort of makes you master the whole ‘walking quick’ thing.

  Finally, after what feels like forever, I get to Second and Smith. It’s a run-down area, but I spot a trail of young, well-dressed people around the corner lining up. Not well-dressed like fancy ballroom-goers, but dressed so chic it hurts to look at - blazers and buzz-cuts and rompers and all pierced everything. Sure enough, I crane my neck to see the building they’re trying to get into and above the door a red, back-lit sign in simple-yet-classy font reads; SEVENTH CIRCLE. Three bouncers in black suits flank the doors, all of them the size of sumo wrestlers and just as thickly corded with muscle. I blink - is it just me, or are they all wearing the same silver chokers from my maybe-not-dream? But I blink, and then the glint of silver around their necks vanish.

  “Hey, Annabelle! Get
in line,” A girl with bright-pink hair yells at me, and I jump, her friends laughing as I skitter to the back of the line behind a kissing couple. I pick at my sundress - I really do look like an Annabelle compared to this painfully fashionable crowd. I set my chin and just scribble it down in my future-goals notepad; get a ‘hella tight’ - as the kids say - wardrobe.

  I check my phone - nine thirty, and it feels like the line hasn’t moved at all. I got here early to make sure I was on time, but now I’ms tarting to think I should’ve gotten here at sunset. Vil might be a weirdo, but he isn’t a liar - his club really is popular. The thumping music pierces through my chest, people coming out to smoke or call cabs. One group of girls walks out and hovers near where I am in line, smoking cigarettes on the curb.

  “Did you see them?”

  “Their eyes were dreamy. They work here, right?”

  “Duh, you saw the bartender.”

  “The bartender wasn’t even the cutest one,” A girl snickers. “That title goes to the white-hot white-hair hottie.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Melissa,” Another girl shrieks with laughter. “He’s way out of your league.”

  “Wow, maybe try being my friend for once?”

  “Who paid for your drinks? That’s right - I did!”

  “All of them aren’t here though,” A third girl muses. “Last time I came, there was an orange-haired guy and a red-haired guy, but it was like, stylish colors, you know? Professionally done. They were super hot, too. Like, fuck-me-in-an-alley hot.”

  I frown. Vil said Quinn was the bartender here, so…a white-hair hottie can’t be Dane, can it? Yes, my whole body aches in agreement. It definitely can.

  “Oh shut up,” I grumble at myself. The couple in front of me turns around and looks me up and down, and I panic. “Sorry, not you. Um. Talking to myself.”

  They turn back around and I breathe relief. I’d do anything to get out of this line right now, but so would everyone else. I check my phone again - nine forty-five and the line’s only moved a couple people. At this rate I’ll be late, and I get sick just thinking about what bizarre stipulations Van Grier will make.

  “Hey, it’s you!”

  I keep my eyes riveted to the door, willing people to move faster.

  “You! Hey you!”

  Boy, someone’s really ignoring their friend, I think, and stand on my tip-toes to see over the couple’s heads. Maybe I can tell the bouncer the password when I get a few more people up the line? Lean in and shout it to them?

  “Sundress girl!”

  Sundress - that’s me! My stomach pitfalls and I whirl around to see the olive-skinned, dark-haired guy from the first night jogging up to me. He flashes me a smile, silver-flecked obsidian eyes crinkling warmly on the sides. His luxurious long hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail tonight, and he wears some band t-shirt and artfully ripped jeans.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” He laughs breathlessly.

  “Yeah,” I nod, ignoring the stares from the line, and glares from the girls on the curb. “I’m here to meet Van Grier.”

  The guy’s smile fades rapidly. “That old coot got to you, huh?”

  “I just have something of his. Something I have to return.”

  The guy’s eyes light up again. “Oooh, you’re the ‘package’ he was talking about expecting! Well what are you waiting in the line for?”

  I flush. “I thought - I didn’t want to seem rude -“

  He laughs, deep and resonant. “Probably for the best. That coot loves it when people get belligerent - gives him an excuse. C’mon, I’ll get you in.”

  Hesitantly I duck under the velvet rope and trot after him, keeping my head down to avoid the stares. Part of me just wants to look up and stick my tongue out at all of them, but that’d be a dick move, and I’ve given myself an allowance of approximately one dick move a night. Or two, or three, my body whispers. If Dane’s around.

  “Fuck off, libido,” I grumble, the loud music drowning out my words the moment we walk between the bouncers without a single issue. Dark-haired guy just flashes him a smile and jerks his thumb to me, and we’re in. Just like that. The dimness engulfs us, and I take it all in. A massive dance floor positioned in the center of the club writhes with bodies, and from there the rest of the club branches out - couches and booths with comfy-looking leather seats and plexiglass tables. Inside the plexiglass flames dance - not real flames, but holograms, maybe, but it makes it look like everyone’s drinking on top of flame altars. A giant fish tank glows with real live koi fish, all sorts of jewel-tones standing out against the muted seaweed and rocks. The fish tank is the bar, actually, the bottles of very expensive-looking booze stacked against the tank on transparent glass shelves. The fish swim behind them, distorting their bodies through the bottles, which I guess is the intended effect, because it looks fucking awesome. I see Quinn standing behind the bar, making drinks with quiet, effortless grace. And the ceiling - it’s crowded with thousands of strands of crystals that refract the strobe lights from the dance floor, throwing the light around like rainbow snowfall. There’s a second level, where people can stand on balconies and watch the dance floor below, their faces lit by the crystal reflections.

  It’s the most opulent place I’ve ever seen. But that isn’t saying much, because the fanciest place I’ve ever gone to was the Cheesecake Factory for my aunt’s birthday. The dark-haired guy throws his arm around me and talks in my ear to bypass the music.

  “Those bouncers are pushovers, but don’t tell anybody. I’m the real security. And Dane. But mostly me.” He winks at me, the silver in his eyes glittering like falling stars in the strobe light.

  “Dane’s here?” I ask, trying to mask the nerves in my voice. He nods.

  “Yeah, pretty much every night. I swear the club’s his favorite part of human - I mean, uh, this city.”

  Quinn’s soft voice echoes in my memory; “But the one I like the most is the word is ‘fae’.” Dane had used the word ‘human’ a few times to differentiate, too. But they can’t be. Faeries are just that - faerie tales. The giant cactus dog, the lifeless gardens, the roses in the guys’ eyes -

  “The coot is right up there,” The guy points to the second floor, where a tinted glass lounge guarded by two extra bouncers reads ‘VIP’. “But when did you say you had to meet him?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Eleven? Shit - you got here a whole hour ahead, early bird!”

  “Like I said,” I stamp my foot a little. “I didn’t want to be rude!”

  He laughs. “I haven’t introduced myself, have I? I’m Altair.”

  “May,” I say. He grins lopsidedly.

  “I know. C’mon, let’s kill an hour. I’ll show you all the good spots.”

  Altair grabs my hand and guides me through the crowd, his palm warm and rough, but soft in its own way. I get looks from everyone - it’s true that Altair stands out, not because of his height or his good-looks, though those don’t hurt. It’s something about him, like an invisible magnet that draws the eyes. Fairy dust, perhaps? My brain snickers. Quinn has the same quality about him - I haven’t been to many bars, but I know people don’t normally just stare at the bartender as he works. Everyone stares at Quinn, even though all he’s doing is mixing drinks with pure grace and methodical skill. He’s not dressed in a butler uniform anymore, but slacks and a casual, open-collar Hawaiian shirt that somehow looks stunningly good on him.

  True to his word Altair shows me the good spots - like a booth just behind the fish tank bar that’s bathed in refracted light from the water. He asks if I want anything to drink, but I shake my head - Dane’s warning still lingering.

  “You don’t drink?” He asks.

  “No, I’m just nervous,” I admit.

  “Eh, well, that’s why alcohol was invented in the first place!” Altair smiles. “I bet I can get you something you like right away. All you gotta do is tell me your favorite dessert.”

  “Desse
rt?” I frown. “Look, it’s okay, really, I don’t want to make you spend money -“ Altair suddenly leans in over the table, inspecting my face. I startle. “W-What’s wrong?”

  “Did Dane tell you not to drink anything from Van Grier?”

  My heart jumps into my eardrums. “No. I just don’t like booze.”

  “You’re lying,” Altair frowns - a rare thing, I’m starting to learn.

  “How do you know?” I fire back.

  “I just do,” He shrugs. “It’s sort of my thing.”

  “Your…fae thing?” I blurt, and instantly regret it. Altair goes stock still, then slumps back in his chair.

  “Oh thank the Bright Lady. I hate keeping up the charade, especially in front of cute girls like you.”