# Chapter 1: Blood and Petals

Alister Finch checked his appearance in the mirror of the third-floor bathroom at Winston's Bar. He straightened his silk tie and ran a hand through his dark hair. It looked good with just the right amount of dishevelment. People seemed to trust him more when he wasn't too perfectly put together. It made him more approachable, and he liked that.

The bathroom was empty, which gave him a moment of quiet before heading back to the crowded bar. He enjoyed these small moments of solitude. They helped him gather his thoughts after a long week at work.

He glanced at his watch. Eight thirty-seven. The night was still young, and he felt restless. He hadn't been out in nearly three weeks, too caught up in his research. Tonight felt like a good opportunity to unwind and meet someone new. Alister wasn't usually an impatient man, but everyone had their limits.

He took a deep breath and smiled at his reflection. He had good teeth. People often commented on that. "You should have been a dentist, Alister," they'd say, and he'd laugh politely. His mother had spent a fortune on orthodontics when he was younger, and he was grateful for it now. A good smile opened many doors.

"Time to mingle," he said quietly to himself.

When he returned to the main floor, Winston's was filling up with the usual Friday night crowd. Young professionals mostly, eager to wash away the work week with overpriced cocktails. The lighting was dim enough to be flattering but bright enough to see across the room. Jazz played softly in the background. Not too loud. Winston's prided itself on being a place where people could actually talk. Alister appreciated that. He enjoyed good conversation.

He looked around the room as he made his way to the bar. It was busy tonight. There was a blonde in the corner booth laughing with her friends, and a redhead at the bar checking her phone every thirty seconds. Then he noticed a brunette sitting alone at a small table, surrounded by what looked like... flowers?

That was different.

Alister ordered a whiskey, neat, and glanced her way while waiting for his drink. She appeared to be in her late twenties, wearing a simple green dress that complemented her olive skin. Her table was covered with small containers of flowers. She was arranging them meticulously, completely absorbed in her task.

He found himself intrigued. It wasn't every day you saw someone working with flowers in a bar.

He picked up his drink and approached her table.

"Excuse me," he said with a friendly smile. "I couldn't help but notice your project. Are you a florist?"

She looked up, startled at first, then relaxed. She returned his smile, though hers was more shy.

"Oh! Yes, actually. Well, I own a small flower shop over on Carmichael Street. I'm just finalizing some arrangements for a wedding tomorrow." She gestured to the empty chair across from her. "Please, sit if you'd like. I could use a break anyway."

Alister sat down and introduced himself. "I'm Alister, by the way. Alister Finch."

"Lily Harper," she said. "I know, I know—a florist named Lily. It was destined, I suppose."

He laughed at that. A genuine laugh, surprisingly. "The universe has a sense of humor sometimes."

"Do you have an interest in flowers?" she asked, carefully moving some of her supplies to make room for his drink.

"Actually, yes," he said, thinking about his apartment. "Though I'm certainly no expert. I've been wanting to add some plants to my apartment but haven't known where to start."

He did have a few plants in his apartment already, maintained by a service that came twice a month. He'd never had much of a green thumb himself, and his busy schedule at the hospital didn't leave much time for plant care.

But Lily's face lit up, and he knew he'd chosen correctly.

"Oh, that's wonderful! Bringing plants into your living space can completely transform it. Not just visually, but they improve air quality, and studies show they boost mood and productivity." She leaned forward, getting enthusiastic. "What kind of light does your apartment get? And how much time do you have for maintenance?"

For the next twenty minutes, Alister listened to her explain the difference between succulents and tropicals, finding himself more engaged than he expected. He asked about care requirements and light preferences, questions that seemed to delight her. He learned that Lily had inherited the flower shop from her grandmother three years ago, that she specialized in native British wildflowers when possible, and that she lived in a small flat above the shop that was "basically a greenhouse at this point."

"I'm sorry," she said eventually, looking embarrassed. "I tend to go on about plants. My friends always tease me about it."

"Don't apologize," Alister said, touching her hand briefly. "It's refreshing to meet someone so passionate about their work. At the hospital, most of my colleagues just count the hours until their shift ends."

"What do you do?" she asked, taking a sip of her white wine.

"I'm a medical researcher," he said. "I have a Ph.D. in anatomy and physiology, and I've published several papers over the years. My focus is on cardiovascular anomalies, specifically."

"That sounds fascinating," Lily said, looking genuinely interested. "And important."

"It can be," he agreed. "Though not as immediately beautiful as your work." He gestured to the flowers spread before them. "These are quite stunning."

She blushed slightly, and he noted the way the color spread across her cheeks. It was quite charming.

"The bride wanted something unusual," Lily explained. "These are anemones—they symbolize anticipation. And these," she pointed to some deep purple blooms, "are lisianthus. Many people mistake them for roses, but they're actually more delicate. They represent charisma and long-lasting feelings."

"You know the meanings of all these flowers?" Alister asked, making his voice sound impressed.

"Most of them," she said with a small laugh. "The Victorians had an entire language of flowers. Every bloom meant something specific. It's called floriography." She picked up a small white flower with a yellow center. "Like this feverfew. It means protection."

"Protection," Alister repeated, finding the concept interesting. He smiled.

"I'd love to hear more," he said, leaning forward. "But perhaps somewhere quieter? The bar is getting rather crowded."

Lily hesitated, looking around. The bar had indeed filled up, with people now standing two deep waiting for drinks. The noise level had risen considerably.

"I should finish these arrangements..." she began.

"Of course," Alister said smoothly. "I wouldn't want to interfere with your work. Perhaps another time."

He began to stand, giving her space to make her decision. He found it was better not to press too hard when first meeting someone.

"Wait," she said, making up her mind. "Actually, I can finish these in the morning. The wedding isn't until four." She smiled up at him. "Did you have somewhere in mind?"

"My apartment isn't far," Alister said. "I could show you my sad plant collection, and you could give me some professional advice."

Lily laughed and began packing up her flowers. "That sounds lovely."

As they left Winston's, Alister placed his hand lightly on the small of her back, guiding her through the crowds. She leaned into his touch slightly. He was pleased that the evening was going so well.

Outside, the October air was crisp and cool. Lily shivered slightly, and Alister offered her his jacket. It seemed like the gentlemanly thing to do. His mother had raised him with old-fashioned manners, and they'd served him well over the years. He tried to be attentive without being overbearing, and people generally responded well to that.

"I'm just on Blackwood Terrace," he said as they walked. "About ten minutes."

"I love that area," she said. "Those old Victorian townhomes are gorgeous."

"They are," he agreed. "Though the plumbing leaves something to be desired."

They chatted easily as they walked, their breath visible in the cool night air. Alister kept the conversation light, asking more about her shop, telling her sanitized anecdotes about hospital life that made her laugh. By the time they reached his townhouse, she was completely at ease with him.

"This is me," he said, leading her up the steps to a handsome brick building with a glossy black door. He unlocked it and gestured for her to enter first. "After you."

"Oh, it's beautiful," Lily said as she stepped inside.

Alister's home was immaculate, tastefully decorated in a modern style with nods to the building's Victorian heritage. Everything was in neutral tones—whites, grays, dark woods. Clean lines. Nothing out of place. He'd always been particular about his living space.

"Thank you," he said, taking her coat. "Can I get you a drink? I have a decent Cabernet open."

"That would be nice," she said, wandering into his living room to look at the art on the walls. "These paintings are lovely. Very... anatomical."

Alister smiled as he poured the wine in the kitchen. The paintings were antique medical illustrations he'd collected over the years. Detailed renderings of the human cardiovascular system, musculature, the nervous system. They were beautifully precise.

"A professional interest," he explained, returning with two glasses of wine. "Part of my medical background. I've always been fascinated by anatomy."

"It is pretty amazing," she agreed, accepting the glass. "All those systems working in harmony."

"Indeed," Alister nodded. "Each part with its purpose."

He guided her to the sofa, a sleek gray piece that was more stylish than comfortable. He'd chosen it more for its looks than practicality.

"So, about those plants," Lily said after taking a sip of wine. "What have you got?"

"Not much, I'm afraid," Alister admitted. "A few succulents in the bedroom. A rather sad-looking fern in the bathroom."

"Ferns love bathrooms," she said approvingly. "All that humidity."

"Perhaps you could take a look?" he suggested. "Give me some advice?"

He genuinely wanted her opinion. It would be nice to have plants that didn't constantly look on the verge of death.

"Sure," she said, standing. "Lead the way."

Alister led her through his immaculate home, pointing out the few strategically placed plants along the way. She made recommendations—more light for this one, less water for that one. He pretended to be taking mental notes.

In the bedroom, he watched as she examined the small succulents on his windowsill.

"These are doing really well," she said, turning to smile at him. "You have a good spot for them here."

"I got lucky," he said, moving closer to her. "Right light, right temperature."

She didn't back away as he entered her personal space. Instead, she looked up at him with warm, inviting eyes.

"You know," he said softly, "I'm finding myself less interested in the plants and more interested in the botanist."

She blushed that lovely blush again. "Is that so?"

Alister leaned down and kissed her, gently at first, then with more intensity as she responded. She tasted like wine and something sweet. Vanilla lip balm, perhaps. Her hands moved to his chest, then around his neck, pulling him closer.

The chemistry between them surprised him. It had been a while since he'd felt this kind of immediate connection with someone.

They moved to the bed, shedding clothes along the way. Lily was enthusiastic, uninhibited. She had a small tattoo of a daisy on her left hip. Alister traced it with his finger, admiring the delicate design.

Afterward, as she lay beside him catching her breath, Alister felt content. The evening had turned out better than he'd expected.

"That was..." Lily started, turning to smile at him. "Unexpected. But nice."

"Very nice," he agreed, stroking her hair. "Would you like another glass of wine?"

"Please," she said. "And maybe a quick tour of the rest of those plants?"

Alister laughed. "Always the professional."

He got up, pulled on his boxers and undershirt, and went to the kitchen. He reached for the wine bottle and poured two fresh glasses. As he stood there, his gaze drifted to the cabinet above the refrigerator. He paused for a moment, then took the glasses and headed back to the bedroom.

Alister returned to the bedroom with the wine. Lily was sitting up in bed, the sheet pulled around her, looking at her phone.

"Just texting my roommate," she explained. "Letting her know I won't be home tonight."

"All good?" he asked, handing her a glass and sitting beside her on the bed.

"I was thinking," he said conversationally, "about what you said regarding flower meanings. Floriography, was it?"

"Yes," she said, putting down her phone. "It's a lovely tradition. People used to send coded messages through bouquets."

"Fascinating," Alister said, leaning closer with genuine interest. "What would be the meaning of a final bouquet, do you think? Something to say goodbye?"

She looked thoughtful. "Like for a funeral? Well, lilies typically represent the restored innocence of the soul after death. Chrysanthemums symbolize death in many European cultures. But in America, they're more about—"

He moved quickly, grabbing something from behind the nightstand. Her eyes widened in shock and fear as he revealed an axe.

"What—" she began, looking at the axe in horror. "What are you doing with that?"

"I've been waiting for this," Alister said, his voice suddenly cold and distant. "You have no idea how special tonight is going to be."

She tried to scramble away, but he was too fast. The fear in her eyes was unmistakable as she realized what was happening.

"You talked so much about the beauty of flowers," Alister said, his demeanor completely transformed. "Let's see how beautiful they look with blood. Your blood, specifically."

Her eyes closed as the drugs took full effect. Alister checked her pulse—steady but slow. Perfect. He had about twenty minutes before she began to come around. Just enough time to prepare.

He dressed quickly in a plastic coverall suit, the kind used for painting. Then he laid out plastic sheeting on the floor around the bed. Efficiency was important. He took the small containers of flowers she'd brought with her—left in the living room—and arranged them carefully on the bedside table. The anemones, the lisianthus, the feverfew. Protection. How amusing.

When everything was ready, he retrieved the axe.

Lily was still unconscious, her breathing shallow. Alister positioned her on her back, arms out to the sides like wings. Or flower petals. He liked that image.

"A shame to wake you," he said to her still form. "But I do need you conscious for this part. It doesn't work otherwise."

He administered a small dose of a stimulant, enough to bring her around but not enough to counteract the paralytic effects of the earlier drugs. He wanted her aware but unable to fight back.

Her eyes fluttered open slowly. Confusion first, then dawning horror as she saw him standing over her, axe in hand, dressed in plastic. She tried to scream, but only a weak moan escaped her lips.

"Good morning," Alister said pleasantly. "Or good night, I suppose. Semantics." He lifted the axe. "I want you to know that this isn't personal. You seem lovely, truly. But I've been feeling this... need. And you were available."

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She managed to whisper, "Please... don't..."

"I'm afraid I must," Alister said, genuinely apologetic. "Think of it as becoming art. Your blood and these flowers... it will be beautiful. A unique arrangement."

He brought the axe down hard, aiming for her sternum. The sound was wet and crunching, satisfying in its finality. She convulsed once, a gurgling cry escaping her lips, then went still. Blood bloomed across the white sheets, a crimson flower of its own.

Alister worked methodically after that. More blows with the axe, strategic positioning of the body. He placed flowers in the wounds, arranged them around her head like a halo. The contrast of vibrant petals against the dark red of congealing blood was indeed beautiful. Just as he'd imagined.

When he was satisfied with his creation, he took several photos with a disposable camera. Old-fashioned, yes, but untraceable. He'd develop them himself later, add them to his collection.

The cleanup took longer than the act itself. He wrapped the body carefully in the plastic sheeting, tied it securely, then carried it down to the basement. His townhouse had an old coal chute, modified years ago for his particular needs. It led to a sealed-off portion of the basement where he could work undisturbed.

Last night, he had taken her to the old observatory on Milner Hill. It was abandoned years ago when the city lights became too bright for effective stargazing. He'd been saving that location for something special. A flower girl surrounded by flowers—it was too perfect. He had arranged her body carefully, his newest masterpiece on display for whoever would find it.

By the time he returned from the observatory, showered, and disposed of the plastic coverall, it was nearly four in the morning. Alister felt that pleasant weariness that came after completing a project. Satisfied. Fulfilled. He was eager to see the news reports that would surely follow when someone discovered his artwork.

He slept dreamlessly until his alarm woke him at seven. Another day, another mask to wear.

At precisely eight-thirty, Alister walked into St. Thomas Hospital, nodding politely to the security guard at the reception desk. His office was on the third floor, in the research wing. A small space, but private. He didn't actually conduct much official research anymore—a few token studies to maintain his position and access to the hospital's resources. Mostly, he consulted on rare cardiovascular cases and taught the occasional seminar to medical students.

He had just settled at his desk when there was a knock at his door, followed immediately by it swinging open. Only one person didn't wait for an answer.

"Morning, Finch! Got your coffee just how you like it—black as my soul!"

Marcus Kingsley bounded into the office with his usual excessive energy, two coffee cups in hand. His tie was already askew despite the early hour, his dark blond hair sticking up in the back as if he'd been running his hands through it. Which he probably had.

"Thank you, Marcus," Alister said, accepting the coffee with a small smile. Marcus was exhausting but useful. The son of Chief Superintendent Victor Kingsley of the Metropolitan Police, Marcus worked in hospital administration and somehow knew everything about everyone. A natural gossip with a policeman's son's instinct for information.

"You look tired, mate," Marcus said, dropping into the chair across from Alister's desk. "Late night?"

"Research," Alister said vaguely. "Lost track of time."

"All work and no play," Marcus shook his head. "You need to get out more. Find yourself a nice girl. Or guy. Or whatever you're into. I don't judge."

Alister sipped his coffee. "I manage to entertain myself adequately, thank you."

"Sure, sure," Marcus waved a hand dismissively. "Hey, speaking of entertainment, guess what my old man told me last night?"

This was what Alister was waiting for. Marcus couldn't help but share whatever tidbits he gleaned from his father. Especially anything dramatic or sensational.

"What's that?" Alister asked, leaning back in his chair, the very picture of casual interest.

"So you know that old observatory on Milner Hill? Abandoned place, kids go there to smoke weed and whatnot?"

Alister felt a small thrill. Yes, he knew it very well. "Vaguely," he said.

"Well, someone called in a disturbance there last night. Said they heard screaming, weird noises. Patrol went out expecting to find some teenagers having a laugh." Marcus leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Instead, they found jack all. Place was empty. Not a soul."

Alister froze, coffee cup halfway to his lips. That couldn't be right. He had definitely taken Lily there last night. He remembered arranging her body so carefully, his greatest work yet. She couldn't just be gone.

"Probably just some drunks making noise," Marcus continued, oblivious to Alister's growing panic. "Officers said there was a weird smell, though. Like ozone? And some kind of humming sound they couldn't identify. But no body or anything suspicious. Spooky stuff!"

Alister set his cup down carefully, his hand trembling slightly. "When was this?"

"Last night," Marcus said. "Around eleven, I think? Right after they got the call. Dad was annoyed they wasted resources on it. Especially with all the other weird stuff happening lately."

"Weird stuff?" Alister echoed, trying to keep his voice neutral despite the fear churning in his stomach. Where had the body gone? He remembered placing her there, positioning the flowers just so.

"Oh yeah, city's going mad lately. People reporting strange lights, missing time, odd noises. Dad says it's mass hysteria, but who knows?" Marcus shrugged. "Anyway, just thought it was funny. Ghost hunting on the taxpayer's dime, right?"

Alister managed a smile that felt wooden. "Indeed."

Marcus launched into another story, something about hospital politics that Alister couldn't focus on. His mind was racing. The observatory. His display was gone. But how? He remembered taking her there, arranging everything perfectly. He could still feel the weight of her body as he carried it up the old stone steps. The way he positioned the flowers in her wounds. Someone must have moved her. Another killer? A copycat? But no one knew about his work. He was meticulous, careful.

It wasn't a coincidence. Someone or something had taken his artwork. Stolen his masterpiece.

F#cking thief! Alister was furious. someone has stolen his "painting"!

But how. He told about that, no one... The uneasy feeling grew stronger, settling in his stomach like a cold stone. For the first time in years, Alister felt afraid.