Barefoot, Jinx makes her way across the living room as silent as a house cat, releasing my hand to tug her hair into a ponytail. I walk behind her, following her lead to the dining room and the kitchen entry beside it.
Cinder and Sara are tucked along the wall of the dining room, and we nearly bump into them. I take my two friends in with a scowl. Cinder appears unsure, arms crossed and warily observing the kitchen doors while Sara stands with her hands on her hips, sighing dramatically. The smell of bacon, syrup, and orange juice permeates the air, and my mouth waters.
“I see things went better than planned last night,” Cinder says after getting a glimpse of the mark. I look down at my mate and briefly wonder if Jinx put her hair up for that purpose alone. Does she want others to see it right away? Stave off the inevitable?
I prod my own mark and study him sidelong. “This may not end well.”
“Shame,” Cinder says with a touch of a snarl. His eyes flash wolf, and through the pack bond, I can tell he’s at his wits end with the coven. It makes me wonder what he’s endured when I’m not around.
I cock my head to the side. “Shame?”
“Shame that I may not get breakfast this morning.” He tips his forehead toward the closed kitchen door. “Instead, I may get a mouth full of dirt as they throw us to the curb.”
I snort and cross my arms over my chest. Jinx slides her arm around my waist and smiles guardedly while Sara gently pokes Cinder with a hot pink nail.
“I doubt the high priestess would allow it.” Though Marian is a southern spitfire, she’s quickly warmed to the idea of shifters as allies and has a fondness for the two independent girls she helped raise. I’ve been watching the woman closely since we arrived. Out of everyone else, Marian’s verbal jabs are more gentle with Jinx and Sara than the others. I’ve often wondered if it’s the girls she approves of or their lifestyle and determination to have the freedom of choice.
A pot clatters to the floor, muffled by the kitchen’s closed restaurant-style swinging doors. Muted curses follow, and as one, we turn to it.
Jinx and Sara glance at one another. Then, arm in arm, they push the door open and enter. Cinder and I follow, but as soon as my shoulder bumps against his, we halt in the doorway. Halt and stare. Not because every single witch has paused to gawk, dumbfounded, at us. Not because a few gasp as their glaring eyes move to Jinx’s neck and the mark I had left there. No. We stop because out of everything in this house, the kitchen looks the most modern. The most normal. The most clean. And not an ounce of magic pulses in the room.
A gleaming, large, stainless-steel dishwasher reflects the many legs, and two massive refrigerators reflect the faces. There are ovens, toasters, and microwaves which all glare with the bright can lights above. The light brown tiled floor is polished, and it looks brand new, complementing the white marble counters flecked with the same color.
Oiled wooden cupboards hang wall-to-wall, and in the middle is a narrow island that could fit three witches on either side to prep meals. The island reminds me of Chip’s metal lab table, and I suppose for a bunch of serious cookers, it has the same purpose.
I internally groan. If Glenda were to see this kitchen, she’d demand one of her own.
On the far end of the kitchen are rows and rows of potions, each labeled and organized on floating shelves. Various colors and shades of liquid are contained inside the tiny corked glass bottles, and rain pattering on the windows on either side of the shelves add to their foreboding effect.
The potions make my skin crawl. Any one of them could be deadly.
I briefly wonder why the witches don’t update – or hell – clean away the rest of the doom and gloom of the house. Why is the kitchen the only room subjected to such care and cleanliness? But the question falls away as soon as I think it.
I meet each of the mob’s glares and endure their angry vibes, which smother the room. Bacon sizzles, forgotten in the background, and the woman holding the spatula next to the oven turns back to her task of flipping pancakes.
Cinder clears his throat, the sound loud and odd in a room full of silent people.
Snapping from the brief shock of attention, Jinx begins to hum a tune that Glenda has sung in the past. Still arm in arm with Sara, the two women weave between the others until they reach the stacked plates at the far end of the island. They each grab one, the ceramic clinking. Then, Jinx looks at me with a quirked brow.
Cinder and I step into action and mimic their every move, filling our plates with bacon, eggs, and pancakes. Once done, I take Jinx’s plate as she heads to the coffee pots, grabs a brown tray, and fills four mugs with steaming brew. The witches still haven’t said anything, but most have resumed their tasks, save for a few.
Just as I’m putting the syrup on my pancakes at the far end of the counter, Greta finally moves – speaks, actually.
“What the hell did you do?” Greta demands, her fingers clenching the edge of the island. Under the stark kitchen lights, I notice her wild, unbrushed red hair is greying at the roots.
Glancing over her shoulder, Jinx smiles sweetly at the hissing voice directed at her back. She abandons her tray and slowly whirls to face the woman. “Good morning to you too, Greta.”
Greta’s hooked nose scrunches, and she wags a finger at my mate. “You mated with a shifter? A witch! Mating with a shifter!”
“Nope,” Jinx responds, not rising to the woman’s tone. She relaxes her hip into the counter’s edge while I set the bottle of syrup down, preparing to defend my mate and our choice in life. “I’m not a witch, Greta, and I sure as hell don’t need your approval for who I sleep with and who I choose to have in my life.”
“Skinwalker or not,” Greta spits, “you’re still a member of this coven and –”
Her mouth snaps shut as Marian pushes through the kitchen door. Cane aiding her every step, the old woman waddles into the spacious room. Silence falls over the entire group, save for the clink of plate against plate as Marian selects one for herself.
Marian doesn’t look at any of them. She doesn’t greet a single witch, but after dishing eggs for herself, she says, “These two shiftas deserve respect. More respect than ya show nature itself. More respect than ya show ya sista’s.” She turns and leans against her cane. “These two men fought to keep ya safe whi’ we cowered in our home during the Realms War. Whi’ we decided not ta fight along our kind ta save the realm we call home. They did not come here ta demand ya respect. They came here for answers, and not once have they bucked against ya lack o’ hospitality. They came here with the two women they love, and ya drownin’ it in prejudice.”
The witches say nothing, but Greta’s jaw visibly flexes as she looks angrily at the floor.
“Don’t think I don’t know ya been rallyin’ against this from the start,” she says to Greta. “That ends today.”
Marian turns, glimpses Jinx’s mating mark, and then looks at mine. A satisfied smile lifts her wrinkled face. “Love is ta be cherished an’ nurtured. Not punished. It is blind an’ therefore shall be treated as such.” Her voice turns cold toward the group of women. “Not shunned. No matta’ the species, we do not shun those who ah blessed enough ta be loved.”
Jinx’s eyes line with silver, and she smiles shyly at me.