Page 7 of Beneath the Desert Bloom (Of Beasts and Bloom #1)

THE WIND THAT morning wasn’t loud, but it spoke to Nora.

Not in a clear voice, but in the soft rustling through the Joshua trees and the call of the mourning doves.

She didn’t know where she was going. Only that she had to go. She had packed some water, a compass, and the map she had found between her grandfather’s journals. Then, she stood at the front door, hand on the knob, and waited just long enough to hear the silence say yes.

Nora paused in the driveway, one hand on the car door, the other curled tight around the obsidian stone in her pocket. She hadn’t realized how often she touched it now, as if by reflex. It felt like a part of her, the way a heartbeat is part of living.

I should at least tell Gloria I’m going, she thought. Leave a breadcrumb. In case this was the last trip she ever made.

She slipped her grandfather’s map onto the passenger seat.

The map was hand-drawn, topographical, and utterly confusing, a red line the only thing that really stood out in the myriad of symbols.

She started the car, the engine coughing once, but then settling into a low idle.

She rolled down the windows and let the desert bleed in, dry heat and sun-baked dust. It filled her lungs, scraped at her throat, and smelled like possibility and danger.

The road unspooled in front of her, pale and flickering in the heat.

Ten minutes in, the engine hiccuped.

Then died.

No warning. No helpful beeps or dashboard lights.

Just a slow exhale from the machine and a shudder, like it had been holding its breath too long and finally gave up.

Nora coasted to a stop. The car sat heavy in the dust, heat glinting off the hood.

The only sound was the faint tick-tick of metal settling in the sun.

She turned the key twice. Nothing.

She checked her phone. No bars.

Of course. Perfect.

She climbed out, the heat scorching. One hand braced on the hot roof, the other wrapped tight around the stone as she stood in the middle of nowhere. The map flapped on the seat beside her, like it was trying to fly away and leave her here.

Her grandfather’s notes danced across the page, messy and looping.

No metal past this point.

Avoid if the wind changes.

Yeah, well. It already had.

The desert didn’t feel empty today. The Joshua trees leaned in closer. She swore they were listening.

The sun wasn’t even at its peak, but it pressed down on her scalp, heavy and sure. Her skin prickled. Sweat slid down her spine, sticky as it pooled at the small of her back.

Ahead, the road forked. One way wound back to town. The other twisted into the low foothills, the land that shimmered like a half-formed thought. There was an old wooden post with two rusty nails and no marker, like someone had torn the directions off and left her to guess.

She didn’t guess. She knew. Not in her head, but somewhere deeper, like the land was nudging her toward the hills

That’s when she heard it.

Footsteps. Soft, steady, not in a rush.

There was no trail in that direction. Just brush, dry ravine, and long shadows.

She turned.

A man emerged from the scrub. He moved like he’d been standing there a while. Waiting.

Lean and weathered, he wore a faded green ranger uniform, sun-bleached and threadbare in places. The name stitched on the chest read G. MORALES. His forearms were tan and dusted with grit, sleeves rolled to the elbows. His boots were tight-laced and caked with dried mud.

“Hey there,” he said, raising his hand in greeting. “You lost?”

“Car died. I was heading into town.”

He moved past her, straight to the hood like he’d been summoned.

“This stretch of land does that,” he said, popping the hood and poking around with sure, practiced hands.

“Sensors get scrambled. Something in the minerals out here. Nothing stays calibrated for long.” He glanced up. “Did you try a hard reset?”

She blinked. “No. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

A faint smile twitched his mouth. “It is out here.”

He moved with the ease of someone who belonged to sun and dust. Heat shimmered off the metal, and around him too, more than it should have. Like he pulled it with him. Or pushed it away. Her skin flushed. The stone in her pocket burned against her palm, a steady thrum beneath her fingertips.

Morales looked up. “Desert’s been waiting. You look like him.”

Nora blinked. “You… knew my grandfather?”

Morales nodded. “Orin taught me things out here. Tracking. Listening. The kind of stuff that doesn’t show up in books.”

Nora’s throat tightened. “He passed last month.”

He nodded slowly, eyes flicking away like he’d lost something too. “He used to say the desert kept its own calendar.”

She swallowed. Words stuck in her throat.

He nodded at the map. “You heading somewhere specific?”

“I was just going to… follow the map.” She almost laughed at how ridiculous it sounded. She didn’t care.

“That where the red string trails off into the hills?”

Nora stared. “You’ve seen the map before?”

He straightened, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Your grandfather showed me some of it. Said there were places out there that didn’t stay put.”

He gestured toward the map. “That won’t get you there.”

Nora raised an eyebrow, unsure if he was serious.

“The path isn’t fixed. You don’t follow it. You interpret it. Out here, a straight line’ll loop back on you if you’re not paying attention.”

Nora glanced down at the map, the red line suddenly looking less like a guide and more like a test.

“People get turned around,” he said. “Even locals. Some don’t come back.”

Her voice was thin. “What happens to them?”

He shrugged. “Sometimes the desert keeps what it wants.”

She looked past him, out to the hills. “Do you believe that?”

“I’ve seen enough to know it doesn’t matter if I do,” he said. “It believes in itself.”

He tapped the battery. “Try it now.”

She slid into the driver’s seat, pulse hammering at her throat. She turned the key and the engine roared to life like nothing had ever been wrong.

She looked up at him. “Thank you.”

He nodded once. “Your grandfather left you that map because the desert knew you were coming back. It doesn’t waste time on the wrong people.”

He met her eyes. “And it doesn’t give them back, either.”

She wanted to ask what he meant, a million questions flooding her brain. But when she turned to speak, the road was empty. No footsteps. No dust trail. Just heatwaves on pavement and the sound of the engine purring like it had never stopped.

She stared at the empty place where he’d stood. Then down at the stone in her hand.

“Classic desert hospitality… mystical park rangers and unsolicited prophecies. Don’t really know what to make of that,” she muttered, shaking her head.

She shifted into drive and pulled away without looking back.

***

The diner was closed when she got to town.

A paper sign hung crooked on the glass:

GONE TO THE WELL. BACK LATER. MAYBE.

Nora stared at it, blinking once, twice. Of course. Perfect. She didn’t even bother knocking.

Next door, a storefront she could’ve sworn hadn’t been there yesterday caught her eye.

MOONDUST MERCANTILE

Charms, Curios, Antiques

The letters looked sun-faded and freshly painted at the same time, like the place couldn’t decide how long it had existed either.

She stepped inside, mostly chasing the promise of air conditioning. The bell over the door gave a choked little jingle. Inside, it smelled like sandalwood, old paper, and something faintly metallic.

It was dim and cluttered. Crystals swung in the window like pendulums. The shelves were jammed with desert junk: vials of coyote teeth, bone-handled knives, bundles of herbs wrapped in copper wire. A half-melted wax skull sat beside a jar labeled Definitely Not Bees . Nothing had a price tag.

A faded wooden placard above the register read:

Yes, I read tarot. No, I will not tell you if he’s coming back.

Behind the counter sat a woman with sun-leathered skin and wild gray hair streaked with hot pink.

She wore a long denim duster over a tank top that read: PROBABLY A WITCH .

Her rings clacked as she shuffled a deck of battered cards.

A half-drunk mug of something deeply suspect steamed beside her elbow.

A buzzing phone lit up under the counter. She glanced at it, sighed, and texted back with one hand.

“Ah,” she said, without looking up. “The granddaughter returns.”

“Is there anyone here who doesn’t know me on sight?”

The woman smiled, thin and knowing. “Not since you came back.”

She looked up. Her eyes were dark and amused, sharp as broken glass.

“I’m Opal,” she added.

“Nora.”

“I know. The desert’s been whispering about you since you pulled into town.” She paused, cocked her head. “Or maybe that was just the mailman. People around here gossip loud.”

“I knew your grandfather.” Opal gestured to the lone stool in front of the counter. “He used to sit right there every Thursday, drink instant coffee, and argue with me about metaphysics and water rights. Orin was the only person who could call me full of shit and get away with it.”

She leaned forward, gaze flickering down toward Nora’s pocket, where the obsidian pulsed warm against her thigh.

“You’ve still got it,” Opal said. “Brave or stupid. Could go either way.”

Nora’s spine stiffened. “The stone?”

“It’s not just a stone. It doesn’t show itself to just anyone.”

She slid a photograph across the counter, yellowed with age, a frozen moment in desert heat. A group of women stood beneath a gnarled Joshua tree. Behind them, half-lost to light and blur, loomed something too tall, too wide, and not quite man-shaped.

“I’ve seen this before,” Opal said softly. “This cycle. This pull. One to guard, one to bloom.”

Nora looked at her sharply. “What does that mean?”

Opal didn’t answer right away. She just looked at the photograph.