16. A Quiet Evening
16
A Quiet Evening
Dorian
“Where on earth did I put the rosemary?” I muttered, scanning the countertop cluttered with vegetables and herbs.
Gran's recipes were spread across the kitchen counter, her spidery handwriting accompanied by tiny protection runes in the margins. She always insisted good cooking was its own kind of magic. The spirit lights in their mismatched mason jars cast a warm, welcoming glow. The scent of garlic and a rich vegetable broth filled the cottage. Even the cooking implements had stories, each pot and pan collected from different centuries, seasoned with memories and magic.
I searched through the components of tonight’s dinner, flitting back and forth through the kitchen, while Bones padded along beside me, nose in the air as if he were searching too.
Bones paused, his hollow eye sockets fixed on the spice shelf, and let out a dry, papery bark.
“Ah! There it is,” I said, spotting the rosemary tucked behind a jar of dried mushrooms. “Thank you, Bones. What would I do without you?”
He wagged his bony tail, vertebrae clicking with each little rattle, while I brushed some flour off my hands and tried to stay focused. I wanted tonight’s dinner to be special, but simple, something that wouldn’t be ruined by my nerves. Taking a steadying breath, I caught the scent of roasted vegetables from the oven, earthy and comforting.
“Just breathe, Crowe. It’s a dinner, not a ritual,” I told myself, though the warmth creeping up my neck betrayed just how eager I was.
I was stirring the risotto when I glanced at the clock and nearly dropped the spoon. “Bones, tell me that doesn’t say it’s nearly six already!” I whispered, my heart leaping into my throat. Somehow, I’d managed to lose track of time entirely, and the pears for dessert were still unpeeled, the salad barely touched.
Taking a quick, unsteady breath, I added a splash of broth to the risotto, giving it a frantic stir. “Just a little longer,” I muttered, hoping it would finish cooking itself if I looked away.
Bones cocked his head at me, tail rattling as though amused by my disheveled state.
“Oh, laugh all you want, but it’s important this goes well!”
I turned back to the countertop, grabbing a handful of thyme for the roasted vegetable tart, mentally checking off every little step I still needed to finish. The tart was at least out of the oven, its golden crust fragrant with caramelized onions and roasted roots, but the rest… I was running out of time to make it perfect.
Just as I reached for the pears, I heard a soft knock on the door. My heart stuttered. Ren. Already? I glanced at the clock again, cursing myself for underestimating how quickly an evening could slip away.
Bones trotted to the door, his bony paws tapping lightly on the floor. I wiped my hands on a towel, glancing around the kitchen one last time, as if I could magically make the rest of the meal finish itself. If only I were a kitchen witch. I took a deep breath, trying to keep my excitement and nerves in check, and then I walked to the door.
Opening it, I was greeted by Ren’s wide smile, his cheeks flushed pink from the chill outside. As soon as he saw me, his smile fell slightly. “Sorry. Am I early?”
“Just a bit,” I said, laughing as I stepped aside to let him in. “You caught me in the middle of, well, everything.”
Ren stepped through the door, and I felt my heart lurch. He wore a simple, fitted black sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Dark jeans hugged his frame, worn but well-kept, and a forest-green scarf was draped loosely around his neck, the color bringing out the warm tones in his eyes. Everything he wore was understated, but he wore it well.
Our magic reached for each other before we did. The connection made my skin tingle, awakening every nerve ending with an awareness that was both thrilling and maddening.
There was a nervous energy about him as he stepped inside, one hand reaching up to adjust the scarf, his eyes darting around the room before meeting mine. For a moment, I forgot I was still holding a spoon, risotto slowly congealing in the pot behind me, because all I could focus on was how his shy smile lit up his face.
“You look… amazing,” I managed, realizing the words came out a bit too soft, a bit too awed.
He gave a small chuckle, cheeks turning pink as he looked down, scuffing one foot. “Thanks. Although this is Luca’s scarf. He insisted.”
“You look perfect,” I said, feeling my own cheeks heat as I fumbled to set the spoon down. “But I must apologize for the kitchen disaster you’ve walked into.”
He grinned, glancing at the half-prepared dishes. “Well, maybe I can help?”
I hesitated for a moment, wanting everything to be just right, but the eagerness in Ren's eyes was impossible to resist. “I'd love that,” I said, smiling. “Come on in.”
As Ren stepped further into the cottage, Bones circled him excitedly, his tail wagging so hard that a few vertebrae clattered to the floor. Ren laughed, crouching down to scratch behind Bones' skull. “Hey there, buddy. I missed you too.”
Ren stood back up, a soft smile on his face as he glanced around the cottage. His gaze landed on the pot of risotto, still steaming gently. “That smells amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Well, if you wouldn't mind peeling the pears for dessert, that would be wonderful,” I said, gesturing to the fruit on the counter. “I'm afraid I got a bit carried away with the rest of the meal.”
Ren grinned, rolling up his sleeves further. “I'm on it.”
As he made his way to the counter, a small movement caught my eye. There, nestled in the folds of Ren's scarf, was a plump green caterpillar, its segmented body rising and falling with each breath. Grim, Ren's familiar, had apparently hitched a ride.
“I see you brought a guest,” I chuckled, nodding towards the caterpillar.
Ren glanced down, his expression softening as he scooped Grim into his palm. “Yeah, the little guy insisted on coming along. I think he was excited to explore somewhere new.”
I watched, enchanted, as Grim inched his way along Ren's fingers, his tiny feet creating gentle indentations in Ren's skin. There was something so tender about the way Ren handled his familiar, a gentleness that spoke volumes about his character.
As Ren began peeling the pears with deft, practiced motions, I couldn't help but admire the easy way he moved around the kitchen. There was a familiarity to his actions, a comfort that spoke of many hours spent preparing meals for others.
“You seem quite at home in the kitchen,” I remarked, stirring the risotto once more before moving to his side. “Is cooking a hobby of yours?”
Ren glanced up, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “More like a necessity, growing up. My mom worked two or three jobs most of the time, so I ended up being the one to cook for my sisters.” He paused, his knife hovering over the pear as a flicker of melancholy passed over his features. “We didn't have much, but I always tried to make sure they had a warm meal at the end of the day.”
I felt a pang in my chest, a deep empathy for the struggles Ren must have faced. My own upbringing had been so different. I'd lived a life of privilege and magical legacy, where want was a foreign concept.
“That's incredibly admirable,” I said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Your sisters were lucky to have you.”
Ren sighed and shook his head. “I miss them all the time. My oldest sister, Denise, and I still chat online, but it’s not the same.”
I squeezed Ren's shoulder gently, my heart aching for the longing in his voice. “I can only imagine how hard it must be, being so far from them,” I said softly. “But I'm certain they're incredibly proud of you and all that you've accomplished.”
Ren leaned into my touch for a moment, a silent acknowledgment of the comfort offered, before straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat. “Sorry, I didn't mean to bring down the mood. Tonight's supposed to be a happy occasion.”
“Ah, mo stóirín, there's no need for apologies here,” I reassured him, my accent thickening with emotion. “A shared meal is meant for sharing stories too, the sweet and the bitter both.”
A faint blush crept up Ren's neck as he ducked his head, focusing intently on the pears. “What about you?” he asked after a moment, glancing up at me through his lashes. “Do you have any family nearby?”
I felt my smile falter, a familiar pang of loss echoing in my chest. “Ah, no. I'm afraid it's just me and Bones,” I said, trying to keep my tone light. “My parents passed away when I was a teenager. A rather unfortunate magical accident.”
Ren's eyes widened, his hand stilling on the pear. “Dorian, I'm so sorry. I had no idea.”
I waved a hand, trying to dispel the somber atmosphere that had settled over the kitchen. “It was a long time ago. I've made my peace with it.”
I moved to the stove, giving the risotto a final stir before removing it from the heat. The rich, creamy aroma filled the air, mingling with the scent of roasted vegetables and herbs. “I was born in Ireland, you know. In a small village not far from Dublin. My gran still lives out in County Cork, but it’s been some time since I’ve seen her.”
Ren's eyebrows shot up, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Really? I never would have guessed. You don't have much of an accent.”
I chuckled, picking up the bottle of white wine I'd selected for the evening and pouring us each a glass. “Ah, well, I've worked rather hard to lose it over the years. Academia tends to favor a more neutral tongue. But the Irish lilt still comes out on occasion, usually when I get particularly heated up about something.”
I handed Ren his glass, our fingers brushing lightly, and my heart stuttered in my chest. Ren's eyes met mine, warm and inviting, and I found myself leaning closer, drawn in by his soft smile and the faint scent of his cologne.
I took a sip of wine, savoring the crisp, floral notes on my tongue before setting the glass down. “You know, there's an old Gaelic saying,” I began, my voice dropping to a low, intimate timbre. “‘Is túisce deoch ná scéal.’ It means a drink comes before a story.”
Ren’s eyes sparkled with curiosity as he took a sip from his own glass. “So, what you're saying is, I need to ply you with more wine before you’ll tell me about your childhood in Ireland?”
I laughed, the sound warm and rich in the cozy kitchen. “Ah, mo stóirín, you don't need wine to loosen my tongue. Your company is intoxicating enough.”
The endearment slipped out before I could catch it, the Gaelic term of affection hanging sweetly in the air between us. Ren's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink, and he ducked his head, a pleased smile tugging at his lips.
“Flatterer,” he accused softly, but there was no heat in it.
I grinned, unrepentant. “It's only flattery if it's not true.” I leaned a hip against the counter, my body angling towards his. “But I'm more than happy to regale you with tales of my misspent youth over dinner, if you're interested.”
Ren took another sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving mine. “I'd like that very much, actually,” he said softly, his voice carrying a hint of anticipation.
Feeling emboldened by the wine and the warmth of Ren's gaze, I reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead, my fingers lingering for a moment against his skin. Then, with a playful wink, I grabbed the risotto and the tarts, carrying them to the small, rustic dining table I had set earlier with candles and sprigs of fresh herbs. Ren followed close behind, the peeled pears and salad in hand.
As we sat down across from each other, knees brushing under the table, I couldn't help but marvel at how right it felt to have Ren here in my home, in my life.
“This looks incredible, Dorian,” Ren said appreciatively as I served up the risotto, the fragrant steam rising between us. “You've really gone all out.”
“I wanted tonight to be special,” I admitted, my voice soft and earnest. “It’s not every day I get to cook for Ren Wickens.”
Ren smiled, the candlelight dancing in his eyes as he took a bite of the risotto. A soft hum of appreciation escaped his lips, and I felt a thrill of satisfaction knowing I had pleased him.
“This is delicious,” he declared after a few bites. “So you’re an excellent teacher, a master necromancer, and a talented chef.”
I chuckled, taking a sip of wine. The vintage was a personal favorite, a delightfully crisp Sauvignon Blanc that paired perfectly with the meal. “Alas, I must confess that my culinary skills are entirely non-magical in nature. Though I suppose one could argue that the alchemy of transforming humble ingredients into a sumptuous feast is a kind of sorcery in itself.”
Ren grinned, spearing a piece of roasted parsnip with his fork. “Careful now, or you'll have me believing that your Irish charm is the real magic at play here.”
“Ah, you've uncovered my secret,” I teased, eyes sparkling with mirth. “It's all part of my grand plan to enchant you with tales of emerald hills and mist-shrouded moors, plying you with comfort food and a lilting brogue until you're thoroughly bewitched.”
Ren laughed, the sound warm and honeyed in the intimate space between us. “Consider me spellbound then.” He took another bite before asking. “What was it like, though? Did you always know you were a necromancer?”
I leaned back in my chair, a wistful smile playing at my lips as memories of my childhood in Ireland rose to the surface. The kitchen seemed to grow cozier, more intimate, as memories of Ireland rose like mist. Spirit lights drifted closer, as if drawn to the stories waiting to be told, and somewhere in the distance, a phantom wind chime played a tune that sounded suspiciously like an old Irish lullaby.
“You know,” I said softly, watching the candlelight paint shadows across Ren's attentive face, “my grandmother always said that magic remembers. It carries echoes of where we come from, who we're meant to be. Sometimes when I'm cooking her recipes, I swear I can feel her presence in the kitchen, guiding my hands just so.”
I swirled the wine in my glass. “My magical abilities didn't manifest until I was about thirteen. But looking back, there were signs even before then—an unusual affinity for the dead, an instinctive understanding of the cycle of life and death.”
I paused, taking a sip of wine as memories long buried stirred to the surface. “My parents were both necromancers themselves, though they didn’t work with the dead. They were pioneers in the field of reanimating dead tissue, treating necrotic limbs, frostbite, and the like. Given their work, I spent much of my early years in and out of hospitals and hospice centers. Even though my parents’ work was with the living, I grew up surrounded by death, but it was never something to be feared or reviled. It was simply a part of life, as natural as breathing.”
Ren listened intently, his eyes soft with understanding. “That must have shaped your perspective in such a profound way,” he mused. “To grow up seeing death not as an enemy, but as an integral part of the cycle.”
I nodded, warmed by his insight. “Indeed it did. When my own powers began to emerge, it felt like a natural extension of everything I had learned. A way to connect with and honor the dead, to ease their passage and perhaps even guide them back, if only for a time.”
Ren leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he cradled his wine glass. “Were you scared, though? When you first realized what you could do?”
I chuckled. “A bit, yes. It's a hefty responsibility to wield that kind of power. But my parents were there to guide me, to teach me the ethics and the limits of what we do. They instilled in me a deep respect for the dead and a commitment to using my gifts wisely.”
“They sound like they were wonderful people,” Ren said softly, his hand coming to rest lightly over mine on the table. “I wish I could have met them.”
A pang of longing mixed with old grief as I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers with Ren's. “I wish you could have too,” I said softly, my thumb brushing over his knuckles. “They would have adored you, I'm certain of it. Your kindness, your integrity, your thirst for knowledge... they're all qualities my parents valued deeply.”
I paused, a shadow passing over my features as memories I'd long tried to suppress rose unbidden. “They were good people,” I said slowly, my gaze fixed on the flickering candle flame. “Principled. Ethical. They taught me everything I know about respecting the sanctity of life and death. Which is why...” I trailed off, a lump forming in my throat.
Ren squeezed my hand gently, his eyes filled with quiet concern. “Why what?” he prompted softly.
I sighed, taking a fortifying sip of wine before continuing. “Which is why it was such a shock to learn that they’d died while attempting soul transference. Attempting to find a way to cheat death by moving their consciousnesses into younger, healthier bodies.”
Ren's eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping his lips. “But that's...”
“Forbidden,” I finished, a wry twist to my mouth. “A violation of the very laws of magic they taught me to uphold. The ultimate taboo for a necromancer.”
I took a deep breath, trying to steady the tremble in my voice. “It was devastating to learn that everything I thought I knew about my parents, about the principles they stood for, was a lie.”
Ren's thumb stroked soothingly over the back of my hand, grounding me in the present moment. “I'm so sorry, Dorian. I can't imagine how painful that must have been for you.”
I nodded, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. “It shattered me, for a long time. I felt like I didn't know who I was anymore, like the foundation I'd built my entire identity upon had crumbled beneath my feet.”
“But you rebuilt,” Ren said softly, his eyes shining with a fierce kind of pride. “You took that pain and that betrayal and you turned it into something beautiful. You became the kind of necromancer, the kind of man, that your parents should have been.”
I lifted our joined hands, pressing a fervent kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you, mo stóirín,” I murmured, my voice rough with emotion. “Your faith in me means more than I can say. Forgive me, I didn't mean to burden you with such weighty matters. Tonight was meant to be a respite from the darkness, not an invitation to wallow in it.”
Ren shook his head. “You're not a burden, Dorian. This is all a part of what makes you who you are, and I want to get to know all of that.”
How did I get so lucky to have this beautiful, compassionate soul in my life?
And yet, even as I basked in the warmth of his presence, a tendril of unease curled in my gut. The spirit attacks, the mark on Ren's forehead, the whispers of a dark ritual... it all felt uncomfortably familiar. Like history repeating itself in the cruelest of ways.
I drew in a shaky breath. “Well, let me clear these dishes and we can move on to more pleasant pursuits.”
I stood, gathering up our empty plates and cutlery, the soft clink of porcelain and silver a soothing counterpoint to the heavy silence that had fallen. Ren rose as well, his hand reaching out to still mine as I reached for his glass.
“Let me help,” he insisted.
Together, we carried the dishes to the sink, our shoulders brushing in the narrow kitchen. As I turned on the tap, letting the hot water fill the basin, Ren's arms encircled my waist from behind, his chest pressing flush against my back. The contact sent a surge of magic through us both, our power twining together in ways that made my breath catch. Every point where our bodies touched felt electric, and when his lips brushed my neck, the dual sensation of physical and magical connection nearly undid me completely.
I could feel his heartbeat against my back, could sense the way his magic pulsed in time with mine, creating patterns of light and shadow that danced around us like cosmic dust. The pressure of his body against mine, the heat of him seeping through my clothes, made my own body respond with an intensity that was hard to ignore.
“Ren,” I breathed, my voice rougher than I intended. My hands tightened on the counter as I fought the urge to turn and pin him against it, to show him exactly what he was doing to me. But this was his pace to set, his boundaries to explore.
I turned in the circle of his arms, the dishes forgotten as I faced him. His eyes were dark and intent, pupils blown wide with a hunger that echoed my own. Slowly, giving him time to pull away, I lifted a hand to cup his cheek, my thumb brushing reverently over the arch of his cheekbone.
“Tell me what you want, mo stóirín,” I murmured, the endearment falling from my lips like a prayer. “I’ll give you whatever you need.”
In answer, Ren leaned forward and captured my lips with his own, the kiss soft and tentative at first, then growing bolder as I responded. A soft sigh escaped him as I pulled him closer, my arms encircling his waist as his wound around my neck. The kiss quickly deepened, weeks of pent-up longing pouring out of us both as we clung to each other.
I let Ren control the pace, matching his fervor but not pushing for more, letting him explore and discover what felt right. His fingers tangled in my hair, tugging gently as he pressed himself closer, his body molding perfectly to mine. I pulled back just enough to catch my breath, my forehead resting against his as we shared the same air.
Ren's eyes fluttered open, dark and glazed with want, and I felt a surge of possessive pride knowing I'd put that look there.
I cupped his face in my hands, thumbs sweeping tenderly over his flushed cheeks. “I've got you, mo grá,” I murmured, the Irish endearment slipping out unbidden. My love. “Tell me what you need.”
Ren's lips parted around a shaky exhale. “Honestly? I think I might need to sit down. I’m a little dizzy.”
I chuckled softly, pressing a tender kiss to Ren's forehead before taking his hand and leading him into the living room to sit on the sofa.