Chapter 7 - Dan
I practically bolt from the room, unable to take another second of the strung-out tension in the room.
Dealing with adrenaline is easy—I just act without thought and give in to it. I’m not designed to deal with slow-burning stress—I’m going to go out of my mind!
I sit down on the couch, putting my head in my hands. I tried really hard to do something nice for her, and now I feel like I made the situation worse.
How, exactly, are you supposed to make hot cocoa? Chocolate dust, hot water, that’s all you need, right?
I hear Grace’s footsteps in the hall, and my anxiety rises a little before I realize she’s gone upstairs to bed.
I haven’t even seen the rest of my new home yet. It can wait, though. I’m not risking another scene like that.
Sitting up, I look around the living room. The guys have done a fantastic job of setting it up. Along with the big, soft couch, there are a couple of comfy armchairs, a small table, and a big TV hung on the wall.
Thank God this place has power and plumbing. Starting from scratch would have been too much torture.
Plenty of times when we were out on missions, we had to live rough, but I always knew there was a comfortable bunk waiting for me when it was all over.
I lean back on the couch, stretching out my legs and letting my thoughts chase each other around my head. I’m caught between duty and circumstance, dropped right into the center of hostile territory without a map.
If she weren’t so weird, I’d feel more comfortable, and I probably wouldn’t screw up so much. Why did I have to get matched with a witch?
A twist deep in my guts tries to force my mind away from the topic, and I rub my temples a little as I try to calm myself down.
Just because you know some evil magic workers doesn’t mean they’re all bad. I’ve got to get a grip. Alisha’s good, isn’t she?
The thought brings an unpleasant memory back to me, and I have to swallow down a bundle of nerves. The night we were attacked by Clover, I was near the front line, and I saw Alisha tear three wolves apart with her magic.
I shake my head and pull out my phone, desperate for a distraction. There are a couple of messages from the others, and I gratefully immerse my thoughts in the conversation, letting the stress fall away from me for now.
You settled in, old buddy? Rex’s message is a couple of hours old, but I text a reply, hoping he’s still up.
Yeah, the house is great.
Good to hear! Rex replies. How’s your wedding night going?
I’m on the couch, thinking about my life choices.
Rex sends a string of laugh emojis, and I chuckle in spite of myself.
It will get better, I promise. Rex replies.
I hope so. I have no idea what I’m doing.
None of us does, old buddy. We’re flying blind when it comes to women.
Well, at least I’ve got a decent wingman.
That you do. I’m always here for you, just like the old days.
I appreciate that.
There’s a pause, and I wonder if Rex has gone to bed, but then the three dots pop up again.
Can you move to the group chat? I’ve got some official stuff to talk about.
Sure thing.
I change apps, opening the group chat with all the black ops boys in it. Everyone’s green light comes on, and I know the gang’s all here.
Thanks for logging on, Brad says. Alisha had a nightmare.
Another one? Shawn asks.
Yes, worse than last night, Brad confirms. She can’t sleep now. She’s so upset, our daughter is restless, too.
Sarah had a dream, too, but it wasn’t a nightmare, Shawn says. It was really vivid, though. All she can remember is the snake was definitely in it, as well as a whole coven of witches in dark robes.
Freaky, Rex types. A whole coven of witches? How many?
At least seven, Shawn responds. They were connected to the snake somehow.
A sharp twist rips through my guts, the fear of witches and magic workers streaking through me like lightning.
We know the snake needs a sorcerer, and it has a thing for witches. Are we playing straight into this thing’s master plan? I think to myself.
What about the snake? I text. Any movement?
Yes, Rex admits. The heat signature is moving. I’ve been chatting with Sloan, and they are monitoring via satellite. She was thinking about moving in, but I reminded her that it needs warrior blood as well as innocent blood.
Shit! I type. They really can’t help us.
Nope, Rex responds. Showing up would be the worst possible thing they could do.
I have to tell you, Eccles first families had some kind of meeting tonight, Brad says.
What? Rex replies. Did they do this right under your nose?
Yes, boss, Brad admits. Gen told me about it, and by the time I got there, they were splitting up with innocent looks on their faces.
There’s a moment of silence as we absorb the news, then the thread crowds with texts, and my phone pings like crazy.
What are they doing?
What the fuck is going on?
Are they still planning on taking the snake’s power?
Brad’s next text silences everyone again.
They disowned Gen.
They threw her out? Rex asks.
Yes, Brad replies. She’s been cast out of her family and their society. They told her not to go back.
Or else what? Rex responds.
We didn’t ask, Brad says. But I’ll get on it. They can’t disrespect me like this.
Agreed, Shawn texts. But they were the ruling class for generations. You’re the new guy. They aren’t just going to give in and do what you say.
You’re right, Rex replies. We might have to do something about them.
Something? I ask.
Keep watch on it, Rex types. If they’re in with the snake, still, it actually makes things easier. Don’t do anything drastic, any of you. Keep a low profile, but eyes on the prize, ok?
We all type our affirmatives.
Excellent. Over and out, Rex texts as a goodbye.
I put my phone on the table, stretching a bit as I take off my boots and get comfortable. The news troubles me, but not enough to disturb my rest.
I’ve slept in some pretty hectic situations. Besides, Rex is the big thinker. He’ll figure out a plan, and we’ll execute it. I don’t have to stress out too much about our scaly friend.
My sleep is deep and restful, without any dreams that I remember. Dawn light has barely tinted the sky when I wake, and I head straight to the kitchen to hunt around and find some breakfast.
I pull out a frying pan and oil it up, deciding to make a big breakfast of bacon, eggs, and sausage. The bread is fresh, an uncut loaf, so I toast it in the oven. I feel like I’m doing pretty well until smoke starts pouring out from under the hood.
“Fuck!” I mutter, pulling out the tray to see completely blackened pieces of bread.
I guess this is what they mean when they say “better than sliced bread.” I never realized that having to slice it myself could mean such a disaster.
I put the bread to the side as I turn off the oven, opening the window to clear the smoke. Just as I start to clean out the grill, there’s a strange wump sound from the frying pan.
“Fuck!” I yell as the entire top of the stove catches fire. I wave my hands at it, fighting the urge to throw water on it.
I know that will just make an oil fire worse, but it’s not like I have a fire extinguisher just sitting around.
Suddenly, Grace shoves me out of the way, throwing a heavy woolen blanket across the top of the stove. She pats it down with her hands, smothering the fire. I just stare stupidly, the lack of oxygen in the room combined with the stress making my head spin.
“What the fuck were you doing?” Grace snaps, turning around.
“Ah… making breakfast?”
“With a flame thrower?”
“I just got distracted. I’m not a great cook, okay?”
Grace bursts out laughing, leaning forward and covering her mouth. The sound is so sweet and joyful, it brings a warm smile to my face.
“Really?” Grace giggles. “I never would have guessed.”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I say, chuckling. “But I’ve survived for most of my life eating food straight out of tins.”
Grace staggers back a step, holding in her stomach as her body heaves with laughter. “Never say those words, or any variation of them, ever again. At least not in front of me.”
“Okay,” I agree, thinking about eating baked beans straight out of a tin with a spoon and trying to figure out how that might be offensive.
“Just get out of the way,” she says, shoving me. “Let me look and see if I can salvage the situation. I hesitate to ask this, but can you make coffee without setting it on fire?”
I swallow hard. “I, ah…”
“Oh, Jesus,” she mutters, shaking her head. “You gotta be kidding me.”
“I don’t know how to use a coffee maker, okay?” I say, a bit defensively. “I can boil a kettle and make instant coffee.”
Grace’s eyes widen, and it looks like she has to hold back a slight gag. “That’s okay,” she says, with difficulty. “You go ahead and do that. I’ll work on breakfast.”
She turns back to the stove, and I go to the opposite side of the counter, setting up the kettle and washing up last night’s cups. Grace’s leftover cocoa has congealed into a solid mass, and for the first time, I realize my version is probably unpalatable to most people.
I’ll have to start following cooking hashtags.
The idea makes me chuckle, and I try to summon a bit of flair as I make two cups of coffee. I use sugar and milk, praying that I’ve finally done something right.
“Okay,” Grace says, putting two plates on the table. “Here you go.”
To my astonishment, she’s salvaged some of the food by cutting off the worst burnt bits and smothering everything in honey barbecue sauce. Instead of toast, she’s stuffed the eggs, bacon, sausage, and tomato into thick burrito wraps.
“These look great!” I say. “Here’s your coffee. I hope you like it.”
We sit down together, and I actually moan with pleasure when I bite into the burrito.
“Oh my God, this is good,” I say. “Thank you, Grace.”
“No problem,” she answers. “It was a pleasure.”
She picks up the cup of coffee, and I watch intently as she raises it to her lips, desperately wanting her approval. When the liquid hits her tongue, her eyes widen, and she very carefully puts the cup back on the table.
“Oh no,” I groan. “You don’t like it?”
“Ah…”
“I put sugar in it.”
“The whole jar?”
“Well, I thought you might like it really sweet.”
“Ants would have trouble with that stuff. Also, it’s really cold—and weak.”
“I thought you liked milk,” I say, disappointed. “I really tried.”
“Yes, I’m sure you did,” she answers, smiling. “But from now on, you’re not to be in the kitchen unsupervised, okay?”
“Okay,” I reply, smiling back.
I may have screwed up again, but it looks like I have actually made some progress—and we’ve found something we can do together at least.