Free Nightfall Gardens by Allen Houston Page B

Lords of the Underworld, the Wicked Crones —all call it home. Death itself is nothing to be afeard of, of course, but these are the creatures that suck the marrow from the living and rob them of life’s natural end. They’ll try to seduce you, but as long as you don’t leave the path, they can do no harm.”
    “Cassandra said they sometimes get out of the garden,” Silas said.
    Mr. Hawthorne wiped his neck. “This wretched heat is too much. Aye, she’s right. But not just there; evils are breaking out from all the gardens.”
    “Why?”
    “Waiting for your Gran to pass, more than likely. Happens whenever a new Blackwood takes over. Least that’s what I’m told. I’ve only known Deiva. Think this should about do it.” The gardener put his hands on his hips and eyed their handiwork.
    They spent the rest of the day planting pink and yellow vespertines in front of the mansion. Silas kept careful watch of the windows but never caught a glimpse of his sister.
    “Twilight-blooming flowers repel spirits trying to find a way inside. This old house has more than enough creepy crawlies already,” Mr. Hawthorne said. “I don’t understand how Deiva and the others stand it, cooped up there all day.”
    Gloomy gray dusk was turning to night. The gardener leaned against his shovel. Wolves howled off in the mist.
    “Well, we’d better get along, lad. It’s none too safe after the red moon rises,” he said. They followed another path to the bunkhouse and passed near a stone circle with a sundial in its middle.
    “At first light, I’ll give you a tour of the gardens and then we’ll start digging an irrigation ditch for the new field I want to plant. Too much work and never enough time,” Mr. Hawthorne said.
    The dusk riders were sharing wine out of skins and playing jimmy knife when Silas came in, not long afterward.
    “Couldn’t hit the side of a hellcat,” one of the riders, flush with drink, yelled. He was stout, with three day’s growth on his cheeks. The other riders laughed.
    Arfast was 20 paces from a beam gouged with nicks from all the knives that had struck there before. A crude circle was drawn on the beam and two knives barely larger than a letter opener were stuck deep in the wood. He whipped a handful of knives out of his wolf’s cloak and began juggling them.
    “I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Larkspur,” Arfast said. “Of course, if you’re certain we could make a friendly wager.”
    “Wager? And what would that be?” Larkspur said. He sat forward and slapped his knee with laughter. The other dusk riders roared along with him. “The jimmy knives are too thin and weigh too little. They won’t carry that far.”
    “What if I prove you wrong?” Arfast said.
    “I’ll skinny dip in Leech Lake,” Larkspur said. He took a long pull on his wine skin and it dribbled down his cheeks.
    “Not good enough,” Arfast said. “I want some of that tobacco you brought back when the gates were open.”
    Larkspur scratched his chin. “How much?”
    “Five smokes.”
    “It can’t be done,” the mountainous rider said. “You’re mad.”
    “And I’m telling you, I can get these knives in that circle,” Arfast said.
    “For argument’s sake, let’s say I win. What do I get?”
    “What do you want?” Arfast asked.
    “I like that dappled gray that you ride,” Larkspur said. He winked at the other dusk riders and they laughed. “It’d handle my considerable bulk well.”
    “All right, then,” Arfast said. “Do we have ourselves a deal?”
    “Who am I to turn down such a sweet offering? Deal,” Larkspur said. He spit on his palm and shook with Arfast to seal the pact.
    Silas looked around at the room. There were a dozen or more riders crowded inside. With the exception of Larkspur, they were a hard, grizzled-looking bunch. Arfast was the youngest, except for himself. Skuld sat at a table alone. His cloak was thrown open to expose the tapered nub of his right arm. Some riders played