The Kitchens

“What do you mean you’re learning to cook?” Eve’s incredulous question carries loudly through the library.

Lifting my gaze from the book upon the table before me, she stands opposite of me, across the table. The expression upon her face one of sheer unamusement.

The light streaming through the stained glass window above casts her in a bright red glow, adding to what others might view as a threatening presence. Of course, the scowl she wears isn’t helping matters.

I heave a small, resigned sigh. “Cooking is one of the things all mortals should be able to do,” I say with a shrug. “If I’m to be mortal, cooking is a skill I should possess. I don’t need nor want staff to attend to my every need.”

And being mortal means doing mortal things.

I should be capable of most, if not all skills required to remain alive.

Thus, feeding oneself, and by extension cooking, is a necessary skill. The logic couldn’t be easier to follow.

“Okay, so set up time with the head chef,” Eve retorts, leaning over the counter, flattening her hands upon it. Menacingly. “You don’t need to read a gods-know-how-old cookbook you’ve managed to dig up in here.”

Leveling a flat glare at her, she returns it with one of her own.

“Don’t give me that look,” she drawls.

“I’m not going to ask the head chef to teach me,” I say, bristling with the suggestion I learn from a mortal man. “I’m perfectly capable of reading and following directions. Blood magic spells are cast the same way.”

Eve’s glare goes from flat to utter disbelief.

“You did not just compare cooking with blood magic,” she laughs, straightening herself.

Her words leave me feeling judged.

Waving a hand over the open book, I retort, “There’s little difference!” I point to the page. “Ingredients, how to prep, how to combine, and the end result. Tell me, am I referring to cooking or blood magic?”

I wait for her to answer.

She doesn’t.

Instead, she groans, rolling her eyes, and lets her head fall back.

As she stares up at the ceiling, she asks, “And what recipe are we attempting to kick off this new, sudden cooking crusade?”

She sounds less convinced and more resigned.

I can’t help but laugh.

I’m doing this with or without her company and she knows it.

“I believe I’ve found a simple one,” I answer, pushing the book across the table toward her. “Or at least, simple enough.”

Her head swings down, returning her ice blue gaze to me and reaching, she snags the book, giving it a fluid twirl to read the recipe.

“Stew,” she says, sounding strangely surprised. “You want to make stew?”

Whether her surprise is meant to be a good thing, I’m not sure.

I shrug. “It seems the easiest option from what I’ve seen. Most of the difficulty lies in the prep before any actual cooking takes place.”

Thanks to my short time in the Moon Temple, I’ve washed and cut carrots, potatoes, and other vegetables before. There’s absolutely no reason I can’t handle making a stew.

Eve returns the book to me, giving it a firm push and it glides across the short distance between us. It halts against my folded hands.

“We’ll have to pick up ingredients in the South Ward,” she says. “I assume ingredients and supplies here are accounted for on a weekly basis.”

“Fine enough,” I reply. “We can do that now.”

Dipping her chin, Eve arches a dark brow. “Now? You want to do that now? Don’t you think we should wait?”

Rising from my seat, I flash her a genuine smile. “Wait? What for? I see no reason to unless Cyran needs you for more training,” I jeer the word, knowing the wrath I’ve just welcomed.

“Training you’re supposed to be at, too,” Eve echoes my mocking tone. “And allude to anything sexual between me and any male fae again and I’ll drown you at the North Docks.”

I burst into laughter as I walk past, headed for the door.

She falls in beside me.

“Spoken like a true demon,” I tease.

Eve grins. “You are the company you keep.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

As we approach the South Ward district, the reason for Eve’s questioning the timing of our excursion becomes crystal clear.

It’s midday.

And the South Ward is packed.

The ebb and flow of the city is something I’m still struggling to get used to. In the hells, barter blocks—specific layers of the Tower akin to these shopping districts—are persistently busy. Here, there are at least key times of the day to visit if one seeks to avoid crowds.

Midday is not one of those times.

Broiling sun overhead, bustling bodies, and bright colors everywhere—summer has officially arrived in Ollora and its people are eager to welcome it.

I find myself not minding the heat as much as the bustle.

I’ve made the mistake of venturing out of the castle when the streets are busiest, vendors are bullish, and the scents beguiling. Seems I’ve made the same mistake today.

Eve, walking quite casually beside me, unfolds the hastily written shopping list I copied from the pages of the cookbook.

Her face pinches as her eyes land upon the ink.

“You wrote it in Malbolge?” she asks, keeping her voice low.

I glance at the list.

Lines of demonic runes stretch down the page.

She quickly refolds it, shoving it into a breast pocket with a sigh.

“It takes longer to write in common tongue,” I say, trying not to sound defensive and failing. “Has Druka not taught you how to read it yet?”

Eve huffs. “No, she’s teaching me. But something feels off. It’s like she’s growing increasingly distracted, and she’s not as quick to answer through our channel.”

“It’s only been a week since Vaelyn has settled into his role,” I reply with a sigh. “There’s bound to be changes and shifts in power. Miiphirys’ House may have been re-invited to the Tower.”

That would certainly leave Druka distracted.

Should that be the case, she’ll be able to reintegrate into the hellish courts—something she loved. And truthfully, slipping through devils and demons learning their darkest desires to exploit comes incredibly naturally to her.

I was always in awe watching her work.

Until Kassil took notice of my lingering stares.

“Do you miss her?” Eve asks, her voice quiet as we continue to walk along the street, drawing close to the large square of the South Ward district.

Surprised by the simple question, I huff a small bewildered laugh. “No…” I trail off, my brows creasing. “I’ve had centuries to sit with what we once were. There’s no mourning, or longing… but there is regret.”

Regret that had I been anyone else she wouldn’t have suffered the way she did. Regret I couldn’t shield her from that.

Eve links her arm through mine, peering down at me with silent sympathy painted upon her face.

“I get it,” she says with a slow nod. “It was good for what it was.”

Eve’s understanding doesn’t surprise me.

We all carry our own vast and varied regrets.

With a quiet huff, I shove the centuries back into the dark. I’ll never see Druka again, and I’ve long been at peace with that. What we had in the hells only worked because of the hells.

A grin curls her lips. “And now you have an obsessed fae,” she teases, and quickly glances over her shoulder before returning her eyes to me. “How much longer do you think we have until he’s noticed you’re missing?”

We pass a couple empty vendor stalls.

A subtle reminder of the city’s scars.

“He won’t,” I answer. “Not for a while.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Waltzing into the kitchens during waking hours with a canvas bag filled with ingredients for beef stew was deemed a poor idea by the both of us. It would be filled with staff busy with their own tasks for the day.

I might be a menace, but I’m not a nuisance.

Without a doubt we would be ushered out of the kitchens and made to be on our way elsewhere. I’ve not spoken with the head chef myself and I’ve only seen him in passing a handful of times.

He’s a severe-looking man with a head of graying hair and a well-groomed beard. And Oraphia tells me he possesses the mouth of a demon.

Whether she means crass, disrespectful, or insufferable, I didn’t ask.

I’ll assume all three.

Padding through the darkened castle halls well after midnight, I hoist bag straps higher on my shoulder, clutching the bulk against me.

“How did you convince Oraphia to hide the bag in the cooler?” I ask in a whisper as we begin our descent down the foyer stairs.

“I didn’t,” Eve whispers in return. “A few new hires started earlier this week. One was easy enough to convince, especially when I said it was for the future queen.” Eve chuckles to herself. “Mousey-looking thing. Wears her hair in a pair of braids.”

More replacements for those lost during the eclipse.

From what I understand, the death toll following that night was high, but miraculously not as high as Ryc expected. While what happened was a tragedy, considering how little warning Ollora was given… it could have been far worse.

As we round the first of the landings, I heave a sigh.

“Don’t tell me you’re tired,” Eve quips, springing ahead a few feet to peer over the banister. She gestures for me to hurry. “Come on, foyer’s empty. But not for long.”

We’ve a few minutes while guards change shift.

Picking up my pace, careful of my own feet on the dimly lit stairs, I huff a laugh. “No, not tired. Slept earlier and I think that’s all the sleeping I’ll get tonight.”

“Still having trouble adjusting?” Eve whispers as she rounds the second landing ahead of me.

I nod, but it’s an answer she misses as she peers over the banister again, pausing to stare down the length of the foyer.

I may not be tired right now, but I certainly will be come morning. No, the hardest part of tonight was slipping unnoticed from my quarters.

With everything Ryc has going on, the last thing I wanted to do was wake him. But when I shut my door behind me to meet Eve in the hall, he was fast asleep in my bed. Deep, even breathing and all.

At the bottom of the stairs Eve waits, snatching my hand as I descend. Without a word, she sets off at a near running pace, pulling me in tow. I’m forced to clutch the bag tighter, pinning it between my arm and side, else lose a few potatoes along the way.

After a few turns down halls narrower than the grand foyer and the push of a swiveling door, Eve releases me. Upon our entry, several magelights spring to life, revealing the empty and all too white kitchen.

White tile, white countertops, white floors, and ceiling.

Gods, there are even sheer, white curtains hung in the few windows over the sink and near the stove.

The lack of real color makes the space feel oddly sterile. Which I suppose is key when tasked with prepping food. Mortals are subject to a vast array of illnesses.

Demons are not.

I relieve my shoulder of the bag’s weight, letting it thud upon the island counter and immediately withdraw the cookbook. As I thumb through the pages, looking for the ear-marked recipe, Eve pulls a deep, steel pot from the hanging rack overhead.

“I’ll need knives, a cutting board, and a waste basket,” I say, pushing the book aside to empty the bag.

With a quick tilt and a pull upon the canvas, potatoes, carrots, a tightly wrapped portion of beef, and everything else we acquired earlier spill onto the countertop—the tumbling sound filling the kitchen.

Eve shoots upright from one of the lower cabinets, her eyes pinning against me in a scathing scowl.

“Really?” she asks in a hushed whisper. “A guard is going to walk past, hear you, and then we’re done.”

I meet her scowl with a flat glare.

“You act like they’re not going to see the light seeping beneath the door,” I retort with a roll of my eyes. “If someone shows up with questions, I’ll handle it.”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned a week into my return, it’s Eve, Cyran, and Ryc are the only ones brave enough to tell me no.

And both Ryc and Cyran are fast asleep.

Thus, not a concern to be had.

With a sharp, dry huff, Eve returns to her search in the lower cabinet.

I reach for the upper cabinet doors beside her as I swing around the counter island, pulling open the doors with ease.

Dishes.

White dishes no less.

It’s not until I open the fourth cabinet that I find what I need.

Drawing down a large cutting board, I place it beside the stove and snatch the steel pot from the island, placing it upon one of the burners. Moving swiftly, and referring to the cookbook as needed, it isn’t long before I have a pot with a mixture of beef broth, herbs, and chopped vegetables simmering gently over a less-than-crimson flame.

As I slide the cubed beef off the cutting board into the bowl with the seasoned flour mixture using the knife, Eve leans against the counter beside me, watching with a smirk on her face.

“Alright, credit where credit is due,” she muses with a chuckle. “This is starting to smell amazing.”

I’m inclined to agree.

The pungent aroma of garlic and spices rises with the steam coming from the pot and it’s tantalizing enough to earn a small twist of my stomach.

I peek at the open cookbook propped up against the back of the counter.

“Season by coating,” I read the next step aloud and my brows furrow. “Coating?”

“Get your hand in there and mix it about,” Eve says, laughing.

“My hand?” I give her an incredulous look. “Does a spatula not work?”

I had a hard enough time touching the cold beef to cube it, which Eve thoroughly enjoyed watching. Flesh shouldn’t be cold. And touching it was rather unnerving.

I don’t know how necromancers do it.

Nor do I want to learn.

Eve laughs harder, pulling herself from the counter. “It does, just not as well.” She sweeps past me, snagging the bottle of olive oil from the island on her way.

And it’s then I truly realize the mess we’ve—I’ve—created.

The countertop lies littered with carrot greens, potato skins, and the remaining crudely unfurled bulbs of garlic, its white husk shed nearly everywhere.

I’ll clean after.

To my right, a few clicks sound as Eve lights a second burner with the turn of a knob. She places a cast iron pan upon it and adds a fair dollop of the oil.

She’s not required to help, but it’s clear she knows her way around a kitchen better than I do.

Plunging my hand reluctantly into the bowl, my fingers and palm meet with the cold beef, setting a grimace upon my face as I coat. The process takes more effort and time than I’d like, with most of the flour coating me instead.

I should have just used the spatula.

“Hope you plan on sharing when it’s finished,” Eve says, adjusting the level of the flame.

“Not at all,” I retort teasingly. “I’m going to finish it all myself.”

Leveling a flat glare in my direction, she says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you did.”

With the beef finally coated, in addition to my palm, and fingers, and part of my wrist, I pick up the large bowl and approach the stove.

Eve steps back, eyes wide.

“You’re going to want to—”

Her words are cut short as I drop a handful of the flour-coated cubes into the pan and hot oil splatters, creating a less-than-contained cacophony. Despite jerking myself away and Eve leaping back laughing, the oil pricks at my hand, my wrist, even against the bare skin of my collar.

Malbolge curses fly from my lips and Eve’s laughter continues to fill the kitchens.

“I tried to warn you,” she says and I peer over my shoulder at her as she stands several yards away. Pointing to the frying pan she laughs, “Don’t look at me, you have to pay attention to that!”

Turning back to the stove where the oil pops and simmers, quickly turning the flour golden and the beef brown, I hastily toss the rest into the pan and move toward the sink.

“I set the heat high to prep the oil!” Eve laughs incredulously as I flick on the faucet with my flourless hand. “It’s going to burn if you don’t turn down the heat.”

“It’ll be fine,” I counter, my tone calmer by comparison. “I just need to wash my hand.”

It shouldn’t take long.

If I don’t free myself from this ungodly paste-like concoction, I’m going to sever my hand at the wrist with the knife I used to cut carrots to escape it.

The instant the water hits my hand, the flour congeals causing the sensation to worsen. It’s unbearable, glue-like, and sets my skin to crawling. Tacky and clinging to me, I rub desperately and find it caked beneath my nails.

I’m going to scream.

“Ves,” Eve calls, her voice a low warning.

“I know. I’m hurrying,” I reply, annoyance slipping into my tone.

But it’s not annoyance with Eve.

It’s with this godsdamned shit on my hands.

Finally the water soaks through it all and it begins to slough away, bits swirling down the drain. Heaving a thankful sigh, I absolve myself of the flour and close the faucet.

The pungent scent of burning strikes my nose and I turn.

Eve stands on the far side of the kitchen, brows high and lips in a tight line, arms folded across her chest.

She’s waiting…

For what?

Orange flames ignite in the center of the cast iron pan, lighting a portion of the kitchen in a warm glow. Acrid smoke is quick to follow, a thick plume rising to the ceiling.

“Light fucking take me!” I shout, reaching for the pan’s handle to remove it from the burner.

Mistake.

Palm plunged into hellfire, pain streaks up my arm, and with a scream, the pan clatters against the stove before crashing to the floor. Miniature comets of burning oil spew in various directions as I clutch my hand to my chest, eyes wide.

“Shit!” Eve shouts, sprinting toward me.

She reaches to shove me out of the way, but slips upon the oil-spattered tile, and tackles me in her effort to keep balance. Stars burst in my vision as the back of my head hits the floor, and the air is squeezed from my lungs as I serve to break Eve’s fall.

“The curtains!” Eve cries, the sound largely strangled.

She’s quick to scramble to her feet.

Hand hurting and head half-concussed, it takes me a second longer to sit upright.

The orange glow of the room has grown brighter.

Head swiveling left, I find the curtain panel closest to the stove engulfed by flame.

“How the fu—”

“Help me get this down!” Eve shouts interrupting me and, with a nimble leap, perches herself upon the counter.

She beats frantically at the climbing flame with a hand while reaching for the curtain rod with the other.

The sheer fabric proves to burn faster than a drought-stricken field.

But scrambling to get upright, I take hold of the left panel and yank.

The holding hooks snap, bringing the whole rod down. Dragging the damn thing quickly across the counter, I plunge it into the sink and throw on the water. Smoke and steam rise as flames sputter out.

And gods does my hand throb.

For good measure, I hold my hand beneath the cool water as well. It’s not quite the balm I want, but it’s better than nothing.

Eve heaves the heaviest of sighs.

“Chaos,” she says, lowering herself to sit on the counter, wiping her hands upon her thighs. “You’re sheer chaos.”

She glances up at the ceiling—white marred black by the touch of flames.

A hinge creaks and we both turn toward the door.

Cyran stands silent—likely just coming onto shift for the day—and the kitchen door slows in its swing behind him.

Clamping my mouth shut, I turn the water off.

And for a short-lived moment, only the creaking of the door can be heard. Not one of us breathes a word.

Until it finally stops swinging.

“Cyran, listen—”

A piercing lavender gaze silences Eve.

Jaw tight, Cyran’s eyes dart from Eve to me.

And I echo Eve’s earlier sigh, clutching my scorched hand to my chest.

Well, shit.

Of course it would be Cyran who finds me like this.