Page 3 of Beneath the Desert Bloom (Of Beasts and Bloom #1)

THE MORNING LIGHT spilled across the cracked desert like a crime scene photo, harsh and revealing.

Even through her sunglasses, the sky looked scorched, bleached to the edges.

Nora decided that she’d been overtired yesterday.

There had been far too much travel, stress, and heat stroke.

Today would be a new day. A monster-free day.

A day filled with rational thought and scientific explanations. But first, she needed some coffee.

She drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping a sweating bottle of water.

The air inside the car was stale, thick, and metallic.

The AC wheezed out pathetic puffs of barely cool air, fighting a losing battle against the oven-dry heat outside.

Sweat trickled down her back as the radio host declared that the day would be a real scorcher.

Nora felt dead on her feet. Last night’s dreams wouldn’t let go, the strangeness and electricity still lingering.

She’d woken up wet between her thighs, with the vague memory of gold eyes whispering things that bypassed her ears and sank straight into her bones.

She was having a hard time shaking them off.

She still hadn’t checked in with the university, or Eli. She’d do it later, when she didn’t feel so personally tangled in all of this. When the desert didn’t feel so heavy around her.

The road twisted through dust-choked streets, past the same bleached-out trailers and rusted fencing she remembered from childhood.

Stacks of boulders bore the graffiti of visitors passing through.

The taxidermy shop still displayed that desert fox with the chewed ear, its eyes looking a little more faded but just as dead.

The Hollow Saloon was shuttered, windows dark behind warped plywood and faded hand-painted signs.

A cracked “OPEN” sign dangled on one rusted chain, swaying softly in the heat.

Her grandfather had called it the gossip hive, a place where stories festered like cactus rot.

She half-expected to see him leaning against the doorframe, squinting into the sun.

The Desert Spoon diner looked worse for wear, the sign half-dead and listing to one side. Only half the neon tubes worked, so it just read:

DE_RT _POON

Nora parked under a frayed tarp that looked like it had given up trying to shade anything years ago. The heavy smell of frying oil, scorched coffee, and lemon-scented cleaner hit her as she walked in and looked around the familiar place.

Two ranchers sat hunched over coffee in sweat-stained hats, murmuring about cattle going missing.

A woman with three toddlers was fighting a losing battle with a bottle of ketchup.

And behind the counter stood a woman with the kind of presence that filled the whole room without even trying.

Nora hadn’t seen Gloria in years, but the woman hadn’t changed.

Same lavender hair. Same old apron. Same no-bullshit stare that had once caught Nora sneaking mezcal from Orin’s cabinet.

Gloria glanced up, not missing a beat. “Figured you’d show up sooner or later.”

Nora stopped halfway to her booth and shot Gloria a look. “Still got your sixth sense, huh?”

Gloria was wiping down a coffee carafe with a threadbare rag. “I’d know that slouch anywhere. Same eyes. Same shoulders. Like you’re always about to fight or bolt.”

Nora gave a crooked smile and slid into the corner booth, her legs squeaking on the hot vinyl.

“He passed three weeks ago.”

“I know.”

Gloria poured coffee into a chipped white mug, sliding it across the table with a practiced flick. “You’re gonna want the huevos rancheros, unless your stomach’s gone fancy since you left.”

Nora couldn’t help the dry chuckle. “Some things don’t change.”

Gloria winked and walked back behind the counter, hollering the order to the cook. Ten minutes later, Nora was halfway through the best greasy breakfast she’d had in months, staring out the window at a field of brittle scrub grass and old tires.

Gloria joined her, black coffee in hand, leaning on the table like they’d done this a thousand times before.

“He used to come in every Thursday. Black coffee and two hard-boiled eggs. Then he’d leave some kind of clue on the counter. Like a photo or a newspaper clipping.”

Nora looked up. “Clues for what?”

“Whatever he thought was lurking out there. Mysterious lights, footprints he swore were shifting at night. Once he left a cassette tape and told me to listen to it with the lights off.”

Nora’s eyebrows arched. “Did you?”

Gloria gave her a long look. “Of course I did.”

Gloria caught Nora up with all the gossip in the little town, and Nora filled her in on what she’d been doing, but Gloria stopped her mid-sentence, reaching out and putting her hand on Nora’s arm.

“Honey, I know it all so well, I feel like I was there. Your grandfather never stopped talking about how proud he was of you. You followed your dreams and got out of the desert, just like your mama.”

“Really? He never told me much. I always felt like I abandoned him,” Nora said, her chest tight.

“Sweetheart, your grandfather was always going to be himself, no matter what. He had one passion since your grandma left us. That desert. The history, the stories… it was all he cared about in the end,” Gloria gave her a meaningful look.

“Don’t go chasing ghosts, honey. He did what he did. So did you. That’s just life.”

Nora stepped out into the sun. The air was still heavy, but something inside her wasn’t. Gloria hadn’t tried to fix her. She just reminded her that she wasn’t alone. And somehow, that was enough.

The rest of the town felt like it was waiting for something to happen.

Nora passed a barbershop with a sign reading “CLOSED DUE TO APOCALYPSE” and a mural of a jackalope painted on a crumbling wall.

An old woman shuffled by, hunched over a walker, muttering, “Your shadow walks behind you,” before crossing herself and shuffling away.

Nora just kept moving. She didn’t want to know what that meant.

She picked up groceries at the tiny market.

It had all the charm of a neglected fallout shelter.

Four aisles, buzzing fluorescents, a smell that lived somewhere between old gum and cat food.

She grabbed water, chips, pasta, ice cream, chocolate.

Wine. The essentials. She could feel eyes on her.

The locals were pretending not to stare while absolutely clocking the unfamiliar face in town.

One man saw her turn down an aisle and pivoted so fast he knocked over a can of beans. She offered him a polite nod. He did not return it.

The cashier was a gangly teenager in a Metallica shirt, the sleeves hacked off and a rattail hanging down the back of his neck. He scanned her groceries like they were contagious, barely glancing up.

When he finally handed over the receipt, he paused, like he was thinking of whether to say something or not.

“You’re her, huh?” he said, voice low.

Nora raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Orin’s granddaughter. The one who came back.”

She nodded slowly. A strange chill tickled the base of her spine.

He leaned in slightly, glancing toward the front windows like he was afraid someone might be watching.

“You be careful out there,” he said. “I know where that house is.”

Then, almost whispering: “Don’t look at the horizon after midnight.”

Her pulse flicked upward. “Why?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave her a quick, tight look, part warning, part apology, before turning to help the next customer, like he hadn’t said anything at all.

***

Back at the house, Nora yanked open every window, letting in the evening air. The journals were still spread out on the table, pages yellowed and crinkled from the dry heat. She picked one with a bundle of pressed flowers tucked inside and flipped to the last entry.

She will return.

He will know her before she does.

She turned the page over.

He watches still. I’ve seen him.

Not just a shadow, but a man remade.

There’s pain in him. A hunger I don’t understand.

Her skin prickled, cold despite the heat.

Calm down, Nora, she told herself. You’re just tired. Too much sun, too many old stories. You need to focus.

She dug out her laptop and opened a saved document, the unfinished thesis glaring back at her like it was judging her. She was supposed to have a draft by now, supposed to be charting cultural mythologies and their impact on modern folklore. Instead, the words felt slippery, hard to pin down.

Coming out here was supposed to ignite something. Get her out of her head, back into her research. But the desert seemed to want something from her, rather than offering anything up.

A notification pinged. Eli’s name popped up in her inbox.

Just checking in…

Hello??? Nora, are you there?

Just want to know that you made it safely… Let me know you’re okay, alright?

Nora groaned and shut the laptop. Eli. Safe, predictable Eli. He always acted like she was some unstable, wild thing he needed to tame. After they broke up, she’d promised herself she wouldn’t settle again. She wanted someone who didn’t make her feel like she had to soften her edges.

She stretched out on the bed, trying to relax. Maybe she just needed to breathe through it. Maybe once she got some rest, the desert would feel less like it was watching her. But she needed to shake that feeling. Thinking a shower might help, she grabbed her robe.

She lingered there, letting the cold water cascade over her, trying to wash away the tension that had settled into her shoulders.

She stepped out of the water, her skin still warm and damp.

She toweled off and slipped into a light tank top and boxers, letting the cool fabric soothe her flushed skin.

She gave herself permission to stop worrying for the night and enjoy the solitude.

The house felt different now, cleaner, more alive.

The floor was cool against her bare feet as she wandered to the kitchen.