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gown. She yelped in pain, then sighed, as her nipple tingled between his viselike fingers. A starburst of desire radiated from her breast to her belly—she didn’t want the old man, couldn’t want someone so gnarled and stern and crusty, but she was blooming for him under her skirt, her hidden lips wet.
    He held out her wrist to one of the plants. The leaves began to rustle, and a long thorn protruded through the foliage. Lucille gave another high-pitched laugh, thinking of what the growing shaft reminded her of. But her laughter stopped when the thorn pierced the transparent skin of her wrist. Instead of flowing freely, her blood disappeared into the thorn.
    Lucille could not move. A whimper rose in her throat, but her lips wouldn’t open to release it. Her heartbeat slowed to meet the rhythm of the rose’s suckling. The rosarian gently backed her toward a wooden table crowded with his tools. How kind he is, she thought, as he leaned her against the hard surface, so that her slack body wouldn’t drop to the floor. His hands foraged through her long skirt, lifting the brocade like a tent so he could kneel at her feet and press his sightless face against her damp golden pelt, lapping the juices that slicked her thighs. The scent of her own musk mingled with the spicy smell of the rose’s leaves. The flower sucked at Lucille’s wrist, and the rosarian sucked with equal hunger at the fruit between her legs. In her waking life, she never would’ve dreamed that the muddy old man could make her come, but in the spell woven by the vampire flower, Lucille dissolved into cries and shudders under his mouth.
    The plant drank and drank, until Lucille thought it would drain her dry. The rose surged with new life. Its petals flushed with color, its stems straightened and lengthened. The incredible thorns grew long and sharp and gleaming, like ebony knives. When the rose was finished, it released Lucille. She swayed back and forth, her vision clouded by a red mist.
    “What was that?” she gasped. Her eyelids floated open. The rosarian clambered to his feet with surprising agility, making her wonder if his lovemaking had been a dark fantasy woven by the flower. “The rose tried to kill me!”
    “Not kill you. Share your life. You have youth and time in abundance. Feed some to the rose, and you’ll be rewarded.”
    “How?”
    The rosarian clamped his hand over Lucille’s mouth. His skin smelled of earth, dung, crushed rose petals, and something else. His thighs, hard as wood, leaned against her. Feeling his cock through his muddy trousers, she knew she hadn’t imagined coming under his greedy mouth. She’d never known he desired her that way; she thought he preferred the textures and fragrances of roses to anything the female body had to offer. Now she could feel proof she’d been wrong. She couldn’t help imagining what his cock would look like, twisted and knobby, like a rose root. The thought made her titter, and he tightened his grip. Lucille cringed, whimpering against his dank hand as she tried to shrink away from him. But he bracketed her so firmly against the table she might as well have been paralyzed.
    “You ask too many questions, little fool,” he said, as tenderly as a lover. “If you give me some peace, I will consider creating a rose for you. She will be the palest gold, the darkest ivory, with a pink star at its heart. A blossom to match your face.”
    Behind the barrier of the old man’s hand, Lucille squealed with joy.
    “Ah, but I haven’t promised you anything. Many rosarians name their flowers after beautiful ladies, for no other reason than to honor the faint blush on a cheek, or the softness of the hair. I don’t take my flowers so lightly. The roses I breed are different from any other flowers on earth, and of the few I’ve grown, only a few have survived. You have to prove that you have the heart to keep your bond with the rose. Your beauty isn’t enough to win you this honor; you have to