(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 12; oleander

"Did you know nutmeg is a psychotropic?" he said, finally. "A high enough dosage can cause hallucinations."

"Hey," Jaylin hissed again. "You need to go. You're not even technically supposed to be here this late."

"Nutmeg," Quentin said, baffled. "Huh. Amazing what you can learn when you open your mind to it." Finally, he looked up to Jaylin, and the book clapped closed in his hands. "Did you know that apple seeds contain cyanogenic glysosides? Or that the smoke of an oleander could kill a grown man? A simple everyday garden staple... a flower weeding its way into most every elementary school playground in America. One bite. That's all it takes, one bite." He was standing now, his long fingers following the edge of the table as he moved around it, drawing imminently closer to Jaylin. "Foxglove, larkspur, monkshood, snakeroot..." That friendly smile Quentin usually wore was gone. Now he was prowling forward, head tilted, brown hooded eyes fixed to every movement Jaylin made. "...nightshade, rosary pea..."

The scent of Quentin rushed him like a storm—whiskey, and something mint. A sheen of metal glinted from the breast pocket of his jacket. A flask, Jaylin thought. A shudder scurried up his spine and he retreated a step back until the table dug into his tail bone.

Then Quentin's eyes swept down, flickered back up to pin Jaylin's gaze. "... dolls eye," he added, and the depth of his voice crawled into Jaylin, settled somewhere deep in his stomach.

This wasn't what Jaylinhad come to understand of Quentin Bronx. What he had expected was a peaceful exit. A self-assured comment and a polite "Okay, see you tomorrow," But this was different.

There was a dark cloud around Quentin Bronx, and Jaylin couldn't take his eyes off the storm.

"Deadly things don't come with cautionary cross-bone signs or a consumer warning taped to the side, Jaylin. They're fragrant and vibrant and beautiful. They lure you with songs and smells and innocence."

Quentin had his hands pressed to the table top on either side of Jaylin. He was leaning away, as far as he could from Quentin Bronx, but if Jaylin truly wanted to, he would have made his escape. He would have ducked and ran. He would have thrown a punch or kneed him between the legs. But nothing like that even came to mind. Quentin was like the moon, luring the ocean waves, pulling them closer and closer. And Jaylin was trapped in the white caps, swimming willingly from the sharp jutted stones, but clinging to the reefs beneath his toes so he wouldn't lose sight of the shore.

"And you," Quentin's breath blew against the strays of Jaylin's hair, fallen disheveled over his eyes. He was pulledhalf way onto the tabletop to avoid the force of his gaze. The hungry power in his wolfish stare. And it wasn't only that he could feel Quentin's breath, but taste the perfume of liquor that followed his words. "You seem so set on eating the oleander."

Then Quentin pushed off of the table. He was walking away, giving Jaylin the air to breathe again. And for some reason, Jaylin wanted to stop him from going.

Quentin swept his book from the table and shook it in the air, that friendly smile of his back in play. "Mind if I take this with me?"

Jaylin felt like his face was on fire, his feet frozen. Like he was standing on the Himalayans and peeking into the gates of hell. He slid down from the edge of the table and it took a good moment to find purchase on the ground. It was almost like he had to remind himself that his body had bones.

"Just... bring it back," he managed.

Quentin looked him in the eye so easily, like none of it had ever happened. "Thanks," he told him. Then he made his way towards the doors, stopping only for a moment to look back at Jaylin, to take in the empty library with a slow analytical sweep of his eyes. His gaze traveled to the cookies on the counter and he nodded.