Chapter 13 Toward a Tornado
Zane
Just before lunch, Brumous and I were bombing through the orchard, mushrooms exploding underfoot like nature’s whoopee cushions.
Brumster had just launched into his daily ritual of “ambushing” the apple trees, all two hundred plus pounds of him springing vertically like an over-caffeinated squirrel, snapping at low-hanging fruit with delighted snorts, when the air sprite found me.
The little bastard hovered in front of me, all slender limbs and glitter farts, before slapping an envelope on my face, blowing a raspberry, and vanishing into thin air.
“Real professional, asshole.”
I peeled the slip of paper off my cheek, where it had momentarily adhered with some sort of celestial static electricity, and inspected the damage.
Pristine white paper with edges that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, sealed with pearlescent wax and that familiar crest: A crown cradled in stormfire, threads of starlight twisting through it.
“Oh, that’s just perfect,” I groaned.
Brumous circled back to me, his paws kicking up clods of mud as he skidded to a halt. He cocked his head, blue eyes curious as he sniffed at the letter. His mind-voice pushed into my head, one of the perks—or curses, depending on the day—of my telepathy.
SPARKLE PAPER! SMELL GOOD! he announced at the volume of a klaxon.
“Inside voice, buddy.” I winced and tapped my temple.
OUTSIDE. NOT INSIDE.
“Yeah, but too loud, so chill a little. And it’s not good. It’s my mum.”
Mum? Alpha Fun mum? Brumous’s tail started wagging at hyperactive puppy speed. Good! Mum good!
“Oh, sweet summer child,” I muttered, breaking the seal with my thumb. “You haven’t met Hurricane Doria yet.”
I scanned the letter, written in her distinctive hand, all dramatic swoops and elegant flourishes, like her personality had bled directly onto the page.
Zane,
Caelyr and I will be joining you for
dinner tonight. I’m curious to meet your
beloved.
—D
No “hello.” No “how are you?” Not even a “sorry for the last-minute notice, son.” Just “make it happen, captain.” Classic Doria Starling, Queen of the Sky Realm, High Matriarch of the Swan Maidens, and Champion of Giving Me Stress Ulcers.
“Son of a bat-licking bitch.” I crumpled the letter in my fist.
Bad? Brumous whimpered.
“The worst,” I said gloomily. Dinner. Tonight. With zero warning. Mrs. Wentzel was going to skin me alive, cure my hide, and turn me into fashionable vampire-leather accessories. “C’mon. Better go warn the kitchen czarina.”
Hurt feet! Carry? Brumous whined, holding up one paw.
“Nice try, Drama Llama.” My fingers found the scar tissue under his chin. Smooth now, thanks to our relentless care. “Your paws are dirty, not hurt.”
Shoving the letter into my pocket, I took off at a sprint back toward the house, Brummy loping easily beside me. My mind raced faster than my feet.
“What the fang-rotted fuck does she want?” I growled as we cleared the orchard and the manor came into view. Home. Safe. Except in approximately seven hours, it would be a battleground of awkward family dynamics.
I burst through the back door into the kitchen, where Mrs. Wentzel was elbow-deep in bread dough. She didn’t even look up as I skidded to a halt before her.
“Make sure he doesn’t get into anything, Prince Zane,” she commanded, punching the dough with surprising force.
Brumous instantly sat on his haunches, tail still wagging, but at a more respectable tempo. Smart wolf. Never cross the kitchen witch.
“Mrs. Wentzel,” I began, trying for charming and landing somewhere between desperate and manic, “culinary goddess of Evermere, have I told you lately that your chicken pot pie changed my entire existence?”
She finally looked up, flour dusting her forearms like war paint, eyes narrowing to suspicious slits.
“What did you do?”
“Me? Nothing!” I pressed a hand to my chest in mock offense. “But, uh, hypothetically speaking, how would you feel about two unexpected dinner guests tonight?”
“Depends.” The bread dough received another punishing blow. “Are they carnivores, herbivores, or blood-ivores?”
“Regular food is fine, but one of them might appreciate something celestial?”
“Celestial,” she repeated, and I took a deep breath.
“Mum’s coming.”
“Your mother.” Mrs. Wentzel’s hands stilled in the dough.
“Yep.”
“Tonight.” Each word dropped like a lead weight. “For dinner.”
“Surprise?” I tried with my most winning smile.
Mrs. Wentzel closed her eyes, lips moving silently. I strongly suspected she was counting to a hundred. When she opened them again, her expression had shifted from murderous to merely homicidal.
“And what time shall we expect Her Majesty?”
“The letter didn’t specify, but she usually likes to make an entrance right at sunset. Dramatic lighting and all that.”
“Of course she does.” Mrs. Wentzel wiped her hands on her apron very slowly. “And I suppose you’ll be wanting something suitably impressive? A feast that would normally take three days to prepare? Shall I roast the cockatrice or grill the minotaur?”
“I know she likes those tiny squids in ink sauce,” I offered.
“Calamares en su tinta,” Addison corrected from the back doorway, a tower of heirloom squash balanced in his arms.
“Does it look like I keep cephalopods in stock?” Mrs. Wentzel threw her arms out and looked mockingly around the kitchen.
“Look, I didn’t invite her! It’s Mum!” I flapped the letter like a white flag, which only earned me a squinty-eyed glare for my impudence. “She just declared she was coming! That’s how she operates. But I’m sorry,” I added and meant it. “If it’s too much, I can try to tell her—”
“Tell the Storm Queen she’s not welcome?
Don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Wentzel pulled out a notebook from a drawer and began flipping through it.
“We have that venison. Perhaps with a juniper reduction. And the elderflower honey for the roasted squash.” She glanced up at me.
“Does Her Majesty have any dietary restrictions?”
“No. And her consort, Caelyr, will eat anything you put in front of him, but he really likes fruit.”
“Fruit.” She scribbled furiously. “And how many courses would be appropriate for royal dignitaries from the Sky Realm?”
“I dunno. Whatever’s normal for any royalty.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Wentzel pursed her lips. “I’ll prepare something suitable.”
“You’re a lifesaver.” I released a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Truly the backbone of this whole operation.”
“Save the flattery for your mother,” she replied, but I caught the slight upward twitch of her lips. “Now, unless you’re planning to help knead this dough, make yourself useful elsewhere. And be sure to warn Lady Seri.”
Seri! Bleeding night.
“Right. Yeah. Warn Seri. And Cas. And Ko.” I backed toward the door, nearly tripping over Brumster. “Thanks again, Mrs. W. You’re the best.”
“Mm-hmm. Out.” She shooed me away.
I headed for the door, thinking of all the preparations needed before sunset, and Brumsy trotted beside me, his tail still wagging.
Guests! Excited! he yodeled, oblivious to my mounting panic.
“Yeah, buddy. Excited. That’s one word for it.” I ruffled the fur between his ears.
One crisis averted. Twenty-eight more to go. Piece of cake.
Or, more accurately, piece of my ass if this went sideways.
#
By lunch, I was fidgeting worse than a squirrel in a thunderstorm.
My leg bounced so hard under the table that Cas shot me his patented “cease and desist” glare twice before resorting to a swift kick to my shin.
The silverware rattled with each nervous tap of my fingers, and I’d rearranged my whole plate three times without actually taking a bite.
Not that anyone would notice my weirdness…
except my two overprotective brothers and my disturbingly perceptive wife.
“Zane, you’ve been staring at that tomato slice for five minutes.” Seri’s voice cut through my spiral. “Is something wrong with it?”
“Hmm?” I looked up, blinking like I’d just been caught doing something illegal. Which, given my past, was not an unfamiliar sensation. “No, it’s a perfectly respectable tomato. Top-tier. Gold medal tomato.”
“You’re not talking.” Ko’s eyebrow arched with suspicion.
“I talk all the time! I’m the designated talker of this family.” I gestured wildly with my fork. “I’m talking right now! Words coming out of my mouth, see?”
“You haven’t made a single pop culture reference in twenty minutes,” Cas noted, setting down his water glass. “No movie quotes. No vampire puns. Not even an inappropriate joke about the cucumber in your sandwich.”
Under the combined weight of their stares, I cracked like an egg dropped from the roof.
“Mum’s coming for dinner tonight to meet Seri!”
Silence. Cas froze with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. Koa’s glass stopped mid-air. Seri’s eyes widened to the size of her plate.
“Your mother?” A smile was beginning to bloom across her face. “Queen Doria Starling?”
“The one and only. Bringing her royal consort along for the ride, too.”
“Tonight?” Cas’s voice had that dangerously calm quality it gets when he’s recalculating plans mid-battle.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” Koa reached for his phone, probably to check perimeter security or whatever paranoid thing he did whenever visitors were coming.
“Because I only found out an hour ago! Air sprite.” I flapped my hand in the vague shape of wings. “Slapped me in the face with her royal decree while I was in the orchard with Brummy.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to meet her!” Seri lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her, all sunshine and wonder where there should have been dread.
The three of us stared at her. She was excited. Genuinely, bouncing-in-her-seat excited. As if meeting the living embodiment of a thunderstorm was something to look forward to.