Dougal helped her fight her way free. Once Misty stopped trying to harvest the petals, the rose vines snaked away, lying still.

“They’re only plants,” she said in a loud voice. “Able to move on their own, but without a true mind to guide them. Instinct only.”

Dougal pointed to the petals. “What do I do with these?”

Misty started sweeping them into a pile. “Find something for me to put them in.”

Dougal looked around and came up with a shallow stone that was slightly concave. Misty piled the petals on it, then made her way across the vines to the irises.

The irises didn’t fight her as much as the roses had, though the leaves mindlessly tried to drive themselves into her skin. Kyle, who’d followed her, yapped at the plant while Misty pulled off the blossoms, separating the mouthlike petals. The honeysuckles tried to entwine her when she plucked off the flowers, but these vines at least lacked thorns. They were strong, though. Dougal had to help rip her free.

Misty piled the petals on the stone, mixed them together, and poured water from the sports bottle over them. The runny, petal-y mush was pungent.

“How do I call the power of the Father God?” Misty asked. “The cracks for the sun are a long way from here.”

“Um.” Dougal sank down on his knees, gently pushing Matt aside to go through the backpack. Matt sat on his haunches, still crunching, his whiskers full of salt and chip dust. Kyle whined at him.

“Here.” Dougal grinned in triumph and folded down a zipped pocket of the backpack. “Mirror.” He ripped a small square mirror free of the stitching that held it in place.

“Will that be big enough? How far can light reflect?”

“Hang on.” Dougal got to his feet and jogged away, his step exuberant. He came back wearing his jeans again, his wallet in his hands. “There’s a little piece of mirror in here,” he said. “Came with the wallet. Maybe we can set up a relay.”

“You work on that—the cubs can help you. I’ll do the sprinkling and try to get Graham free of these vines.”

Dougal saluted her, a mirror in each hand. “You heard her, kids. Help Uncle Dougal. Matt, stop eating.”

Matt shook himself free of another bag of chips and trotted off after Dougal and Kyle. Misty mixed the petals in the water with her hands, then lifted the mess and dribbled it over Graham’s body.

Water pattered down to bead on his skin. Roses and the wet stamens of honeysuckle, the purple and white streaked petals of iris dropped on him, sticking to his chest and arms, curling around his tatts. Misty knew Graham was truly out then, because he’d have snarled at flowers covering his tatts.

Something bright flashed into Misty’s eyes. Dougal’s voice carried across the cave. “Hold it still, move it to the right. The right. No, the other right. Goddess.”

The light moved around wildly, winking in the darkness. A wavering beam slid onto Graham’s body, faint but clear.

“There!” Misty shouted at him. “It’s touching him.”

“Now call the blessing,” Dougal yelled back.

“What do I say?”

“Keep it simple. The blessings of the Father God be upon you.”

“The blessings of the Father God be upon you, Graham,” Misty repeated quickly.

Her words drifted into silence. The beam wavered again, spearing the wall and falling onto a strand of vine. The vine shrank away from the reflection, receding into the wall. Weird, Misty thought dimly, because plants usually tried to push their way toward sunlight.

Somewhere in the darkness, she heard little voices say, “Hold it still.” “You’re moving it.” “I am not!”

Misty started scooping more water and blossoms onto Graham, every drop, every petal. “Damn it, Graham. Wake up!”

The vines around Graham jerked. Misty sucked in a breath. The vine flowers watching her trembled, light flashed over them wildly as the twins struggled with each other over the mirrors.

The ground shook a little, the earth giving a groan before it went silent again. Graham’s eyes popped open.

Misty stilled, hands balling into fists, droplets of water snaking down her wrists.

Graham’s gray eyes were blank, unseeing, but his chest heaved upward as he took a deep breath.

Sunlight from the mirrors hit him straight in the face. Graham’s fists balled, and he jerked his arms open, snapping a few vines that held him.

He sat up, dirty, wet, and coated with flower petals. His eyes cleared, and he looked down at his body, then up at Misty.

“Misty!” Graham roared in a voice that brought more pebbles down from the ceiling. “What the f**k are you doing here?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Graham was weak. Dying—he knew it. The only thing that had kept him from going insane while the vines smothered him was the thought that Misty was safe.

Now Misty sat next to him, looking pleased with herself. She had dirt and yellow pollen smeared all over her, her hair a scraggly mess, and a big smile on her face.

Graham never seen her so beautiful.

“What the hell are you doing?” Graham demanded. “This is my fight. Get out of here.”

“A fight you’re losing. Why did you sneak off like that?”

“I didn’t sneak off. I was summoned.”

Misty lost her smile. “Leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone is sneaking off.”

“Stubborn little . . . I told Reid. And he told you, the ass**le. He was supposed to keep you home and not let you come after me. He’s dead meat.”