The petal-storm had bought us a heartbeat—barely. Zahir's mist surged around me, cool and jasmine-sharp, as we bolted from the alley, the hunters' curses fading behind the howl of my makeshift tea-wind. Fernie Junior—my sink vine turned sidekick—whipped vines like a tornado, thwacking their legs and booping their faces, a comical shield born of my unwished magic and writer's chaos. The black van's headlights flared, tires screeching as it circled back, but the glowing petals swirled thicker, knocking bins over, rattling windows, giving us just enough cover to slip into the night. My sneakers pounded pavement, the tin clutched in my sweaty grip, its glow pulsing like a frantic heartbeat against my chest.
Zahir floated beside me, bells jingling through his panting, braids swinging wild. "Madness!" he shouted over the wind, grinning despite the panic in his ember eyes. "You've turned the Bloom into a weapon—and that oaf's still on your mind, isn't he?!"
"Not now!" I yelled, ducking under a low awning, the vine in my bag—swish—high-fiving the air like a hype man. "We're alive—focus on that!" My lungs burned, legs aching, but adrenaline kept me moving, Jen's latest text—"Dave thinks you're cute!"—a ridiculous echo in my skull. The hunters' voices lingered, faint but furious: "She's the key—get her!" I smirked, tossing a glance back. "Try harder, creeps!"
We zigzagged through side streets, the city a blur of neon and shadow, until my apartment building loomed—dingy brick, flickering lobby light, my cave of chaos. I fumbled my keys, Zahir hissing, "Faster, Mira—they're tracking the tea!" The tin flared brighter, Fernie Junior poking out—twirl—like it sensed the danger. I shoved the door open, stumbling inside, slamming it shut, and leaned against it, panting, as Zahir materialized fully, his mist coiling tight.
"Safe," I gasped, sliding to the floor, the tin clattering beside me. "For now. That was—"
"A trap waiting to spring," he cut in, pacing, bells clanging like a storm warning. "They're close—too close. Your little stunt slowed them, but the Bloom's scent is loud, my lady. They'll find us."
"Let 'em try," I muttered, smirking despite the dread clawing my gut. "Fernie's got my back—right, buddy?" The vine nodded—swish-swish—then thwacked the couch leg, toppling a cushion like a proud toddler.
Zahir groaned, rubbing his temples. "Your plant's a menace, and you're a fool. We need a plan—not bravado!"
"Plan's brewing," I said, hauling myself up, grabbing the tin. "SereniTea's gone—protectors ditched us. But we've got this—" I shook the tin, its glow flaring—"and my words. They want me alive—means I've got leverage."
"Leverage?!" he snapped, floating closer, eyes blazing. "They want your mind—your writer's soul—it's the key to my magic! You've no idea what's hunting us!"
"Then tell me!" I shot back, crossing my arms, the vine booping my elbow like a cheerleader. "You've been vague—'hunters,' 'seekers'—who's their leader? Spill it!"
Before he could answer, the lights flickered—once, twice—then died, plunging us into dark. A low hum vibrated the walls, the tin's glow the only light, casting eerie shadows. Fernie Junior froze, vine quivering, then pointed—swish—at the window. Zahir whirled, bells silent, mist tightening. "Too late," he whispered, voice a blade. "They're here."
The door rattled, a sharp thud echoing, then another—deliberate, heavy. Voices seeped through—low, clipped, familiar from the alley. "She's inside," the gravelly one growled, muffled but close. "The Bloom's strong—break it down."
"She's the key," the woman's voice snapped, sharp and impatient. "Alive—leader's orders. Her mind's what we need."
I backed up, clutching the tin, Fernie Junior wrapping my ankle—squeeze—like a scared kid. "Zahir," I hissed, "trap—now!"
He nodded, mist surging, but the door splintered—wood cracking, hinges screaming—as three figures burst in. The tall one, blade in hand, led; the shorter woman, jar glinting, flanked him; the gravelly man, broad and hulking, brought up the rear. Their cloaks billowed, faces shadowed, but their eyes glinted—hungry, cold. Behind them, a fourth stepped forward—smaller, poised, dark hair spilling from her hood, voice a velvet blade that cut the air: "Enough running, Mira Patel."
I froze, the tin's glow flaring, Fernie thwacking the floor—bang—in defiance. Zahir stiffened, bells clanging once, then falling silent. "You," he breathed, mist coiling tight, eyes wide with recognition.
"Me," she said, stepping into the tin's light, hood falling back. Her face was sharp—high cheekbones, almond eyes, a beauty carved from stone—dark braids framing a smirk that twisted my gut. "Jasmin, daughter of the cultivators, claimant of the Peace Bloom—my birthright, stolen by him." She pointed at Zahir, her voice dripping venom.
"Jasmin?!" I sputtered, backing into the couch, Fernie Junior swishing like a pissed-off cat. "You're—you're his ex? The betrayer?!"
"Betrayer?" she laughed, low and bitter, stepping closer, her trio fanning out—tall guy at the window, woman at the kitchen, gravelly man by the door. "He's the thief—cursed me, cursed us, with his petty spite. And you—" Her eyes locked on me, piercing—"you've awakened what's mine."
Zahir floated forward, mist flaring, bells trembling. "You sold me out, Jasmin—for gold, for power! The Bloom was ours—until you chose a warlord over me!"
"Ours?" she sneered, hand flicking, a shimmer of dark energy crackling at her fingertips—anti-magic, sharp and wrong. "It was my family's—Lashame's gift to Hiva, tended by my kin. You were a tool, Zahir—a Djinn to amplify it. I took what I deserved—until your curse turned me into this."
"This?" I cut in, tin glowing hotter, Fernie booping my leg—thwap—like a hype man. "What's 'this'? You're hunting us—why?!"
She smirked, stepping closer, her trio tightening the circle. "Look at me, writer. No mist, no bells—just flesh, warped by his spite. My betrayal—yes, I chose gold—cursed me and my lover. He became dust; I became… an anti-Djinn. No magic of my own, just a hunger—a need to absorb it from others. Two thousand years, I've hunted essence, fading as magic dulled in this world—until you."
"Me?!" I yelped, Fernie Junior whipping a vine—swish—at her, which she dodged with a flick of her wrist, dark energy snapping it back.
"You," she said, eyes glinting. "The Peace Bloom slept—its protectors hid it—until your fame woke it. Your words, your open soul, spread its magic—vicariously, chaotically—through every reader, every sip. I felt it—centuries of silence, then a flare. You're the key, Mira—the only one who can unlock its full power, show us how to wield it as I once did."
Zahir lunged, mist surging, but the woman hunter raised her jar—symbols flaring—and a dark pulse shot out, pinning him midair. He grunted, bells clanging, struggling. "You'll not have her, Jasmin! She's mine—my freedom!"
"Yours?" Jasmin laughed, stepping past him, her anti-magic crackling as she neared me. "She's my salvation. Her mind—her writer's chaos—holds the Bloom's secrets now. My clan's waited—centuries of scraps—until this miracle. Take her."
The tall one charged, blade flashing, but Fernie Junior sprang—thwack!—smacking his face, leaves fluttering like a slapstick gag. He stumbled, cursing, "Damn plant!" The gravelly man lunged, arms wide, but the tin flared—petals swirling up—knocking him back into the wall with a thud, bookshelves toppling. I smirked, adrenaline pumping. "Nice try, losers—my tea's got opinions!"
Jasmin's smirk faltered, dark energy coiling tighter. "Your wishes—unused—shield you. Clever, writer—but not enough." She flicked her hand, anti-magic lashing out, but Fernie booed it—thwap—deflecting it into the ceiling, plaster raining. The woman hunter darted in, jar raised, but a vine tripped her—whap!—sending her sprawling, jar skittering.
"Get her!" Jasmin snapped, stepping over the chaos, her trio scrambling. "Alive—her essence is mine!"
"Essence?!" I yelled, ducking as the tall one swung again, Fernie high-fiving his blade away—slap! "What's that mean?!"
"She feeds," Zahir grunted, breaking free from the jar's pulse, mist flaring. "Absorbs magic users—steals their spark! You're her prize—your chaos fuels the Bloom!"
"Feeds?!" I gaped, the tin blazing as I tossed leaves—petals erupting, a glowing wall flickering up. "I'm not dinner!"
"You're more," Jasmin said, anti-magic slicing the wall, stepping through as Fernie thwacked her shin—bang!—undeterred. "You're the Bloom's voice—its new cultivator. My clan needs you—to me, to my power."
The gravelly man roared, charging, but the petals swirled—whoosh—lifting him off his feet, slamming him into the couch, springs groaning. The woman grabbed my arm, but Fernie wrapped her wrist—squeeze—twirling her into the tall guy like a dance gone wrong. I laughed, wild and raw, "My magic's a mess—good luck!"
Jasmin's eyes narrowed, anti-magic flaring, pinning Fernie's vines—crack!—as she closed in. "A mess I'll tame. You'll come—or I'll drain you here."
Zahir surged, bells clanging, mist slamming her back. "Never!" he roared, shoving me toward the window. "Mira—run! She'll not have you!"
I bolted, tin in hand, Fernie Junior pointing—swish—at the fire escape. The hunters lunged, Jas_bulk anti-magic slicing, but the Bloom's chaos—my chaos—fought back, petals and vines a riot of protection. Jasmin's voice chased me, cold and sure: "You can't escape your gift, writer—I'll claim it, birthright or not!"
The window shattered under my elbow, Fernie high-fiving—slap!—as I climbed out, Zahir's mist surged around me, the trap snapping shut behind us. Jasmin's curse—her hunger—was real, and my words had lit the fuse. The Bloom's miracle was mine—and hers—and the fight was just beginning.