The Garden of Shadows

The mild mid-day sun cast its warm glow over the row of books sitting next to the window. It was hard not to smell the freshly brewed cup of coffee on the small round table next to the counter. It was even harder not to ask for some. If there was one thing the two bookworm brothers had in common besides appearance, it was a taste for quality drinks.

“I didn’t know you were acquainted with poets,” said Alistair as he leisurely leafed through a magazine on a quiet afternoon in the antique shop.

“What do you mean?” I placed down the tools I was holding and looked at him.

He dropped the latest copy of The Revival Review on the shop counter for me to see. It was a popular literary magazine with various short stories, artworks, and poems featured every month. This month, it included a poem with my name on it written by Ophelia.

Although it made me feel rather special, I thought it was pretty bold of her to call me out in a public magazine. I suppose poets love to be dramatic sometimes.

Remina

If only you could see what you were meant to do:

The tragedy of a downfall handwritten by you.

The role of a judge known only by few

Soon, everything will come into view

“Ophelia…” I muttered her name.

“This one sounds more straightforward than that couplet at least, assuming you know the context,” Alistair commented.

“Only Ophelia herself knows what it’s really about.” Suddenly, I had an idea. “Alistair, do you know where the publication’s office is located?”

He flipped the magazine to the last page and pointed at the address. I quickly jotted it down.

“I’ll take a copy.” I handed him the money and took an issue of The Revival Review from the newly delivered pile of periodicals.

The publication office occupied a three-storey building not too far from Alistair’s shop. From the windows, I could see several people inside busy working on papers and typing at their desks. They had no idea I was observing them, searching for anyone who stood out or looked like she could be Ophelia. I then walked into the entrance.

“May I help you?” asked the receptionist at the front desk.

“I’m looking for the poet Ophelia,” I replied.

“I’m afraid she isn’t here.”

“Do you know where I can find her?”

“We do have her address, but I’m not at liberty to give it without her consent.”

“I need to ask her about the poem she published. I think it was meant for me.”

“One moment please.” She dialled a phone number and talked to the person on the other line. After she was done, she wrote down the address on a piece of paper and gave it to me. “Ms. Ophelia said to knock on the door when you arrive. The doorbell doesn’t work.”

I thanked her and went to find the address on the piece of paper. My search led me to an earth-coloured apartment building with white four-paned windows. I walked inside and climbed up the creaky wooden stairs until I found her apartment on the third floor.

I knocked on the door. No answer. I repeated. Still, nobody came. On my third try, I noticed the door was ajar.

“Hello?” I said as I let myself in.

I entered the quiet apartment filled with regular-looking furniture that had no remarkable features. No clutter gave any clues about the kind of person living in the apartment. It almost felt like a showroom, free of any personal belongings. There were no signs of life either. I wondered whether anyone even lived there at all.

Where is Ophelia?

It was only after taking a few steps further into the apartment when I noticed a trail of blood leading into the kitchen. I began to fear the worst. It wasn’t long before I saw the body of a woman with red hair lying on the floor with a pool of blood under her.

Ophelia was dead. There was no doubt about that.

“Keep your hands up in the air where we can see them,” an authoritative voice commanded behind me.

I turned around and saw the city police at the door with their guns pointed at me. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Shit.

I found myself inside the interrogation room of the local police station. There were two officers standing guard to make sure I remained seated at the table. Eventually, a familiar face entered the room and sat in front of me.

Salamander appeared both shocked and disappointed to see me. He placed his palms on his face and slid them to his forehead while muttering, “I can’t believe I have to deal with this.”

“Hello, Salamander,” I greeted him calmly.

He took a deep breath and placed his hands down on the table. “How did you end up here? Did you accidentally blow up a shop? Did you conduct some illegal transactions with shady men? Did you somehow start a cult and convince them to go along with your plot to take over the city?” Even the snake around his neck was eyeing me suspiciously.

“While I’m flattered that you think I’m capable of doing all of those, I regret to inform you that I merely stumbled upon an already dead corpse,” I replied.

He touched my hand and immediately confirmed my claim with winter magic. “What were you even doing there?”

“I was looking for Ophelia. She was already dead when I got there.”

“That was Ophelia?” He was surprised. “She looked more ordinary than I imagined.”

I sighed. “I wish I had the chance to talk to her when she was still alive. Now I’ll have to interpret her poems like a typical student of English literature.”

A middle-aged man in a trench coat suddenly entered the room in the middle of our conversation. I knew he was eavesdropping on us. “Hello, Ms. Ravenfire. I’m Detective Dufort,” he introduced himself.

Salamander stepped aside to allow him to interrogate me next. I guessed that he was probably his direct supervisor.

“Ophelia is well-known for her prophetic poems which she usually published in The Revival Review. Why were you looking for her?” said the detective as he examined my facial expressions.

I placed down my copy of The Revival Review to show him the poem. “She wrote a poem about me. I wanted to ask her about it.”

He picked up the magazine and had a look. His brow furrowed as he read it. “Why would she write a poem about you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. That’s what I’d like to know. I’ve never even met her before.”

He returned my copy. “Can you please tell me in detail about what you saw at her apartment?”

I spent about two hours being questioned at the police station before I was finally allowed to leave. I suppose they deemed me innocent. There wasn’t much they could get out of me when I barely spent two minutes inside the apartment. I was so close to becoming a suspect in a murder that it reminded me of the other murder that I voluntarily stained my hands with. No mention of it from the police and from the newspapers meant good news.

However, my relief was short-lived.

During dinner time at the hotel, Salamander approached me while I was eating with Emma and Leslie. He didn’t seem to care much about Emma’s presence and the fact that she was just recently rejected by him. Emma, on the other hand, looked uncomfortable and avoided his gaze.

“Remina, I need to talk to you… alone,” he said.

“Ooh…” a nearby Toad teased us.

“Shut up, Toad,” we both said in unison.

Salamander whispered into my ear. “It concerns a certain incident that took place lately. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about.”

I wasn’t sure what he was talking about exactly. His vampire problem? The party? My unexpected arrest?

Once we were away from prying eyes inside his hotel room, he pulled out a photo that was inserted into his journal and showed it to me. It was a picture of Emma’s half-sister exactly as I last saw her: very much dead on the ground. It looked like her body was finally found by the police.

“Don’t take me for a fool. You had something to do with this,” he said.

“How do you know that?” I tested him.

“A dead body with no apparent cause of death is already an indication that it was healed or reverted in some way, but what gave it away was an eyewitness testimony that claimed a girl matching your description was seen entering the alley. Later, I found out that the victim was related to Emma which raised my suspicion even more.”

I cursed in my head. I was careless. Of course there’d be eyewitnesses even in a desolate area. I began to regret getting involved.

He softened a little. “They haven’t figured it out yet. I haven’t told them anything. First, I need to know what really happened.”

I held out my hand. “It will be faster this way.”

He took my hand and viewed the memory. When he was done, he sat on a nearby cushioned chair. “Damn.”

I leaned against the wall and folded my arms. “I know.”

“I can stall the investigation, but her family is going to want to learn the truth. You can’t keep defending her forever.”

Salamander was right. Emma already killed two people. She would have to pay for her mistakes eventually whether I liked it or not. Actions have consequences after all.

“What will happen to Emma?” I asked.

He thought about it. “The best case scenario… jail.”

“That’s the best case scenario?”

“The worst case scenario is that she gets executed. It really depends on what happened.”

I sighed. “Emma won’t even tell me what really happened.”

“If only we had another witness…”

It suddenly hit me. “The talking raven!”

“Talking raven?” He raised a brow.

I held out my hand to once again prove my sanity to him, but he pushed it away. “No need. I know you well enough to know that you’re not going mad. So what’s with the talking raven?”

“I only found Emma because that raven appeared at the window and led me to her. It probably saw the whole thing. Would you be able to access its memories?”

He found the idea a bit novel. “I’ve never used the spell on animals before, but it’s worth a try. If you’re planning to capture the talking raven, you’d better hurry. Detective Dufort is one of the best investigators. It won’t be long before he figures out the truth.”

I nodded and noticed how pale he’s become. Even his eyebags and fangs had become more pronounced. “You look… different.”

“Do I? I suppose becoming a vampire changes people.”

I examined him. “Hmm. The broody look does suit you.”

“I’m surprised you’re fine with being alone in a room with me. I could just bite you suddenly, you know?”

“Try it and I’ll burn you into a crisp,” I threatened him.

“I’m joking. Still, I wish you’d let me drink your blood.”

“I’m willing to prick my finger, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

He sighed. “’I’ll take what I can get.”

I pulled out my dagger and used it to prick myself. I then offered him a small drop of blood, which he licked off my finger.

“It’s like offering a starving man some breadcrumbs,” he complained.

“It’s only for two weeks.” I felt his sharp fang against my finger as he continued to lick the blood off it. “Damn it, Salamander. Your fang hurts.”

“Sorry,” he apologised. “Why does blood taste this good? I really am becoming a monster, aren’t I?”

“Oh please, you were already a monster even before you became a vampire.”

“Wow. That makes me feel so much better,” he said sarcastically.

“Have you had enough blood yet?”

“It’s obviously not enough, but I suppose it will sustain me a little. I’d rather not hurt you without your consent.” He healed my finger for me. “Thank you.”

His words and kind gesture made my heart skip a beat. I could still feel the touch of his tongue lingering on my finger, which was a rather strange feeling.

“I’m going back downstairs to finish my dinner,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”

He nodded and sat back down on the cushioned chair, seemingly deep in thought about something.