Roses, cliched, or classic? I lean toward the latter view myself, but who know how demented Sang Sacre judges are - or in what way.

I judiciously trim a few leaves from the big white and check for aphids. I find none. This may be because I fertilize with a substance of my own creation which is supposed to give pests horrible dreams - but how do you check something like that?

One of the fat buds has already opened. The bloom is pearly white with a berry-pink center. I generously water the roots, then hold my glass to the single flower. Within a few seconds my glass is half-full.

I swirl the contents of my glass and take a sniff. Flowery. That seems appropriate. There's a bit of a honey scent, some acid undertones. I hesitantly bring the glass to my lips.

Damnation! It's too sweet! This crap is more fit for a high school hen party than a Sang Sacre flower show.

I give the rose bush a moody pat and a few words of encouragement. After all, it's my fault the wine sucks. I look at the Shiraz Red which has yet to bloom. Sigh. Back to the drawing board.

"Honey...a giant, walking tulip just ate the mailman." I turn away from the mail slot, still crouching.

She calls down from her bubble-bath. "Did he have mail for us."

I look out again.

Chomp...chomp...chomp

"Yep. Looks like bills though."

Water splashes and bubbles float down the stairs. She giggles, so I assume she is reading her Interactive Harlequin Romance Firefly books TM again.

"Just as long as it wasn't my Nathan Fillian Pillow Slips TM," she says.

I don't know what to say to that, so I shrug. I let the mail slot close on the gruesome carnage, and retire to the kitchen. Maybe I should whip up some Gina Torres cheesecakes...

"I thought you didn't want him gardening." Phred tossed back the last of his ice tea.

"I got tired of the whining. A whining penguin is one of the most obnoxious sounding things ever. So I told him he could dig his own garden in that little patch over there. There'll be turnips, oh, and those stupid beans he got with my twenty bucks."

"Well, maybe it'll work out. I like turnips."

"Yeah, I figured he couldn't get into too much trouble. What could possibly go wrong with beans?"

Being a shadow is not as much fun as you might expect. Oh sure, you can lurk around and eavesdrop on conversations, learning all sorts of insider information that would be really useful if you could get a broker to take your calls. They won't, though. You're a shadow.

"Thank you for calling Fidelity. How may I direct your call?"

"…"

"Hello? Who did you wish to speak to?"

"…!"

click

But, hey, it isn't all downside. There is all the cool stuff about being two-dimensional, without the hassle of not being able to figure out what is going on in that tricky third dimension. Cruising along walls is fun. Bricks are a tickly.

Sang Sacre is just loaded with textures to slide around on. I'm hanging out in a garden, wallowing through the roses. Hitched a ride on a penguin. He's planting some beans. I'm hoping it's going to be one of those Jack and the Beanstalk type of deals. Being a giant beanstalk shadow would just have to be great. I'm looking forward to sweeping across the whole city like the hour hand on Dog's Own sundial.

I should have done this at night, when I'd have Bob's company, but, damn, this is spooky enough in broad daylight.

The Blood is empty. Well, no, not "empty", per se, but what's roaming about is not necessarily pleasant. The Pack are making the rounds, but they look baffled and over-worked. I spent ten minutes trying to convince a nerve-wracked Border Collie that I wasn't set up to manage things in the absence of all the other people. He finally gave me a look of utter canine distrust and took off after some ambulatory tulips that must have escaped from somebody's experimental garden.

Nothing looks damaged or broken into, it's just ... empty. And there's a weird disorientation, as if the city had been picked up bodily and moved somewhere ... else. Everything looks the same, but there's a different feel to the air. It's a better feel, though. I never realized it, but there had been a feeling of tense threat growing in the past couple of months, and it had nothing to do with eviler-than-usual politicians or invasions.

Still, for all the sun is especially bright and the winds off the Lagoon are especially fresh, I'm coming back out tonight with Bob to check the constellations. Just to be sure.

"No! No No NO!" Edward squeaks. "Give me the hammer!"

"It's larger than you are," I reply, as reasonably as I can. "Besides... oh, FUCK!"

"See? You couldn't build a wooden box if it..."

Okay, that's enough. I stand up to my full five foot seven and three quarters, square my shoulders, look menacing, and say, quietly but firmly, "Listen here, Edward Fhtagn, Minon of Clovis and Descendent of the House of Little Piblington. I am the one attempting to house a..." I wave my hand vaugely in Jossica's direction, "a creature from some alien world. I am the one in charge around here. I am the one who, err, who has to save the world. I have to get this done, and get it done tonight!"

"Tonight, huh? Fat chance of the that happening! You wouldn't get this stupid hutch built if you had a million years!"

"Not so!" I declare, wave my hand in random and mystical passes over the wood and nails, and conjure them to form the desired dragonabbit residence.

Unfortunately, I forgot to allow for the energy required. A large hole appares beneath my feet, and as I fall, the last thing I hear is the sound of Edward giggling.

That'll teach me to play around on a ley line.

The taxi pulls to the curb in my street, and I get out with a relieved sigh. Damn, it's good to be home.

But I don't get a good look at the house until I've got my luggage out of the trunk and the taxi's gone. And that's when I realize that I don't have a house anymore, so much as I have a giant rosebush.

Really, it's a lucky thing I learned so any new and inventive curses from Firefly.

"Aargh! Fertilizer spells are not meant to go untended for two weeks! I do not want to live in Sleeping Beauty's rutting castle! Damn yoooouuuu, Hostrocket!"

Maybe someone can lend me a chainsaw. On the other hand, I'm a shoo-in for the Giant Plants competition.

I pull my midnight black Hummer to a stop in front of the old factory that I purchased after pursuading the former owners to a suitable price. It's old and menacing just as promised. The daylight isn't helping, but that can be addressed.

"What's the plan boss?" Asks my minion.

"Set up shop."

"Then what?"

"That is what, you idiot. This will my new evil super store. A one stop shop for all your evil needs. I've decided to go into business, It's what one does in this world after public service. The tough part will be coming up with the name, I thought of 'Evil-Mart' but it seems done." I pull my briefcase out of the car and head for my new store. "Come along Deimos, there is much work to be done."

For a brief, hallucinatory moment it seems like the water has been suspended, frozen on it's way to the tomatoes. I shake my head. Just a weird moment.

No, wait, something is wrong. Something is definitely wrong. I head into the house and call the Time and Date service. Dammit! More lost time, but at least I don't need a haircut this time. The house seems to be just as I left it and the cat is not acting out in any way.

I think I need a break. Maybe I should head into town for more garden tools, and catch up on the gossip.

Achmed is waiting for me at the door when I get home. "You have that 'Life is not supposed to get stranger' look on your face again, Achmed. What's happened?"

"It's Bob, sitt. If you'd just go peek into the office ...?"

"If there is a large pile of dust on the Persian carpet, Achmed, I may have to re-think that employment for life contract you have."

"Oh, he's still--non-alive, sitt, he's just--he's been doing it for the last hour, and I know you love your flat screen plasma monitor--"

"AHH!" If he's fucked up the computer, dust will be too good for him.

I skid to a halt in the office doorway. Bob is at the desk, pounding his head onto the desktop, not the monitor, which he is just clutching with both hands.

"Bob?" I ask cautiously, going in? "Bob, you've got splinters in your forehead, you might want to stop that."

"No no no no no," I hear him mutter.

"No no no etc. what?"

"He's back."

Never words you want to hear. "Who's back?"

"Aeshma."

"Oh, god, no--are you sure?"

One hand unclenched from the monitor and pointed at the image. He was still pounding his head.

"Mother blessed goddess, no."

It's an ad for a new store in town. "Aeshma's! Your one-stop shop for all your evil needs! Minions to punish? We have new torture implements every week! Regimes to overthrow? We've got fill-in-the-blank smear campaigns! Neighbors to harrass? Rent-a-creature of all kinds! Cheaper than anything you can get from the neighborhood mad scientist! 10% off to the first 100 evil-doers!"

"Well ..." I think of how to phrase it. "You can never have too many stores that sell leather pants."