Wolfsbane and Rain

The city of Ravenscroft did not have weather; it had moods. Tonight, the mood was melancholic, a weeping gray drizzle that turned the cobblestone streets into mirrors reflecting the neon signs of the distinct red-light district across the river.

Dr. Iris Vane stood on the muddy bank of the Serpentine River, clutching her coat collar tight against her throat. She hated the river. It smelled of industrial runoff and secrets. But as the precinct’s only Forensic Botanist, the river was often her office.

"Step back," a voice rumbled behind her. It wasn't a request. It was a command, low and vibrating with a tectonic weight.

Iris didn't need to turn around to know it was her husband. Detective Silas Vane.

He stepped up beside her, effectively blocking the wind and the view of the curious onlookers gathered on the bridge. Silas was a mountain of a man, six-foot-five of broad shoulders and grim silence. In the harsh glare of the police floodlights, his sharp features looked carved from granite. He wore a black trench coat that seemed to swallow the light.

"The victim," Silas said, nodding toward the tarp.

Iris stepped forward, her boots squelching in the mud. The coroner peeled back the plastic.

The woman was young, pale, and dressed in a sodden, mud-streaked wedding gown. Her hands were clasped over her chest, frozen in rigor mortis, clutching a bouquet of purple, hooded flowers.

"Aconitum napellus," Iris whispered, leaning closer. "Monkshood. Or Wolfsbane."

"Poisonous?" Silas asked.

"Extremely. Ingestion causes paralysis of the heart muscles. But these weren't ingested. They were placed here post-mortem." Iris touched a petal with her gloved hand. "They're fresh. Hothouse grown. You can't find these wild in Ravenscroft, certainly not in November."

"The husband?" Silas asked the uniform standing nearby.

"Acquitted of domestic abuse charges last week," the officer replied. "Guy’s a piece of work. Maybe she finally snapped and took a swim?"

"In a wedding dress?" Silas’s voice dropped an octave, dripping with disdain. "With a bouquet she couldn't have bought herself? This isn't a suicide. It’s a statement."

Flashbulbs popped from the bridge. The press had arrived.

Silas moved instantly. He shifted his massive frame, completely shielding Iris from the cameras. He hated her being seen. He hated her being touched. He hated her being part of this world at all.

"Get her out of here," Silas growled to the officer, though his eyes were scanning the crowd on the bridge, hunting for threats.

"I'm not finished, Silas," Iris protested gently. "I need to take samples of the soil on the roots."

"Do it at the lab. I'm taking the body. You go to the car."

He looked down at her then. For a second, the hard mask slipped. His dark eyes roamed over her face, checking for distress, checking for fear. It was an intense, suffocating gaze that always made Iris’s heart hammer against her ribs. She mistook it for scrutiny; he meant it as possession.

"Go, Iris," he said softly.

Iris nodded, defeated. She gathered her kit and walked toward the unmarked cruiser, feeling his eyes burning into her back until she was safely inside the steel cage of the vehicle.

This was their marriage. A contract of protection. A partnership of silence. She was the fragile ivy, and he was the stone wall. He protected her from everything, except the loneliness of sleeping in the guest room, wondering why the man who claimed her hand wouldn't even hold it.