All for a Rose by Jennifer Blackstream

rosse, as well I ssuspect you know.” He tightened his grip again in small increments, the blood under the man’s skin turning his flesh purple. “You will tell me what your mistress is planning. Or you will die here in great agony.” He released the pathetic intruder, letting him crash to the stones. Part of him wanted the man to try and run, wanted the thrill of the chase he hadn’t experienced in far too long, a release for his perpetual rage.
    “I didn’t know it was magic!” the man gasped, body curling in on itself in pain. “I swear! I have no mistress! I know no witch!” Tears streamed down the false beggar’s face and he scrambled to kneel at the base of Daman’s body, his entire frame trembling as his knees left a smear of blood on the stone through his thin clothing. “My daughter asked for the rose, she showed me a picture. I only wanted to bring this gift back to her—she asked for so little.”
    His voice was hoarse, every other word nearly lost as it was forced past the bruising of his throat, but he continued to ramble. He pressed his forehead to the ground, abasing himself in front of Daman. “I thought my fortune had returned and even though she said she needed nothing, I demanded that she ask for something—anything. I’ve been such a failure, I only wanted to prove that I could still give her the life she deserves.”
    “She has given you a pathetic story that will seal your fate if you do not abandon it.” Daman slid back a few paces, giving the man some space to collect himself. His story was a bald-faced lie—the Rose of the Mist was as well-known among magic users as it was rare. The potential in its delicate blossom was enough to make even the most moral of witches salivate and think thieving thoughts.
    He cursed himself. He should have known something was amiss after the man had left through the back door to leave through the gardens instead of leaving out the way he’d come. He should have scented the witch on him sooner. He should have known she would try something again. His temper rose higher, choking him until it was all he could do not to crush the thief where he lay.
    “I thought one of my ships had escaped the misfortune of the others—that perhaps the pirates hadn’t taken everything from me,” the man rambled. “We lost our house, our home. I was such a wealthy man, a provider. Now I am too poor to buy nice dresses for my daughters, to offer a proper dowry. I’ve failed at so much.” He sobbed. “It was only a rose.”
    Every word out of the man’s mouth confirmed Daman’s suspicions and he leaned over the man, claws tingling. He’d heard that story before, listened to a woman give him that same sorry recounting of her fate. He eyed the old man. Yes…now he remembered. This fool was the witch’s father. He’d seen him when he’d gone to investigate her tale of woe, the day he’d discovered her lies.
    His tail lashed from side to side and he pushed himself higher into the air, towering over the simpering beggar. His forked tongue flicked out of his mouth.
    What color the man had left drained from his face and left him white as a ghost. A tiny voice of doubt whispered through his mind. Perhaps… Perhaps the fool truly hadn’t known about the rose. Considering who his daughter was, the poor man could be an innocent patsy, someone to take the fall for the theft if caught. His fear was real enough.
    Daman clenched his clawed hands into fists, concentrating on the bite of his own talons as they dug into his flesh. He didn’t want her father. He wanted the witch. For the thousandth time, he wished he could go after her himself. If only he could take his human form one more time, just long enough to pass through the town without frightening innocent villagers. He wanted to see her face before he stained his hands with her blood.
    But she would never come back here, never risk his wrath. Daman paused, gaze sliding to the man groveling on the ground.