Chapter Eleven Zara
Chapter Eleven
Zara
“Oh my gosh, Dez! You brought us our kitten, yay!”
That happy cry comes from Neo, sitting on the floor near the Christmas tree in a colorful sea of crumpled gift wrap. A vintage Light Fae spellbook—the size of an old-fashioned encyclopedia and his just-unwrapped Secret Santa gift from Ash—is clutched in his careful hands.
“That’s literally so perfect, Dez,” I chime in from my comfy nest on the Christmas cottage’s great room sofa. I’m snuggled under a fleecy Frosty the Snowman throw, still wearing my gorgeous new Christmas crown from Zephyr, like I have all morning.
But I’m heavier on my feet these days, so I don’t jump up right away to greet our new arrivals.
Still, I totally share Neo’s joy, because I’ve been missing our cat like crazy. We all share the feline in our residential college. But our housemate Dez drew the lucky card to take our pet home with her to New England for our extended end-of-term holidays.
“It’s like you’re a mind reader or something,” I say with a wink at Dez.
Because, literally, Dez is that exact kinda witch. She’s a Valyrian telepath, like Ronin. (Only not the kind that hurls fireballs.)
“Hiya, cobbers.” Dez winks back at me and tugs the sparkly pink knitted cap from her dark curls, then gently places the cat carrier on the floor. “Knew you’d be missing our bubby. And she wasn’t in the mood to be left behind this morning at the chalet, was she?”
“Yeah, no.” Dez’s girlfriend Racetrack shrugs out of her camouflage parka and scrubs a hand through her bristly blond buzzcut. “It’s like that cat knew we were coming to get you guys. Hey, do I smell pancakes? We lit out on this rescue mission before we got any breakfast.”
“Help yourself, RT.” I wave a generous hand at the kitchen. “There’s plenty of grub in this joint, believe me. And we can always make more. Merry Christmas, by the way.”
“Back atcha, Z.” Racetrack is already clumping across the floor in her snow boots, her boyish frame fired with purpose, making a beeline for the kitchen. “And, uh, nice crown.”
I love that she’s so casual about it. RT is definitely not the bowing and scraping type.
“Thanks. Santa was good to me this year.” I grin at Zephyr, who’s sharing the couch and the blankey with Vasili and me. The Dark Fae King is still wearing Mordred’s crimson Santa hat and a somewhat bemused expression as his first Christmas kinda explodes around him.
But overall, he’s handling it really well, nibbling warily at a slice of cinnamon toast (way better for him than the rasher of raw bacon he was originally eyeing, because feral).
Mordred, who’s once again decently clad in his Santa suit and emanating contentment from finally hooking up with Lucius, is curled around Zephyr’s legs on the rug.
I’m happy to see our kraken still proudly hugging the magically waterproof sealskin backpack, blazoned with the Icarus Academy crest, that Lucius gave him for Secret Santa.
“Ho ho ho, kids! Happy Christmas!” The front door fills with Senator Theo Mercury’s broad-shouldered frame and famous face, flashing his photogenic white-toothed smile in all directions. Just in case any paparazzi got snowed into this cabin with us.
As if.
Racetrack’s two moms, familiar to me since they hosted us all for Thanksgiving—plus they’re both trustees on the school board—crowd in right behind Theo.
A cheerful chorus of fresh greetings and Christmas wishes fills the air.
Buttoned into his starched shirt and one of the warm cashmere cardigans embroidered with the Clan Aries crest that I got him for Secret Santa, Lucius is once again the classic textbook picture of professorial propriety.
Freshly showered and shaved, chestnut hair tied back neatly at his nape, he hurries to help our new arrivals out of their coats and make them feel welcome.
By now, Dez has opened the cat carrier.
A puffy white floof with enormous blue eyes tumbles into view, an oversized plumey tail swirling in her wake.
“Hi, Gemini! Come here, little bear,” I croon (pointlessly, because that kitten totally has a mind of her own, like everyone else in this household).
Our nine-month-old kitten gazes around the chaos that fills the unfamiliar room, lifts her tiny pink nose for a lofty sniff of air thick with the scent of maple syrup and bayberry candles and multiple shifters, then heads straight for Vasili.
Beside me, my dominant alpha stiffens. His slim hands knot in the blanket.
“Oh, blimey.” Ronin abandons his lazy sprawl on the bearskin rug and rolls up sharply to sit. Pushing aside a clutter of unraveled ribbon and tissue paper, he crawls across the floor like a cat himself to intercept the determined kitten before she reaches the sofa I’m sharing with V.
Undeterred, the kitten scampers out of Ronin’s reach and just keeps coming.
“Here, Gem.” Looking worried, Neo pushes up the glasses that are sliding down his nose, then grabs a corkscrew spiral of discarded silver ribbon and wiggles it invitingly to entice our kitten his way.
Probably not the best idea, since our bookworm is sitting right in front of the ornament-laden Yule tree. That’s an invite to mischief that would be an irresistible lure for any average kitten.
But ours is no average kitten. She’s a kitten on a mission. She leaps fearlessly onto the sofa.
Straight into Vasili’s stiffly unwelcoming lap.
I bite my lip, scrunch up my face, and sneak a worried peek at our Goblin King. He harbors a secret ailurophobia (fear of cats). But we’ve been working really hard on it all semester.
Ever since Gemini unexpectedly entered our lives as a found stray bridal gift from Zephyr.
“Think our kitty’s trying to say Merry Christmas to you, bad boy,” I say softly to V.
“Bah, humbug,” Vasili mutters. But one more Christmas miracle unfolds, because he actually tolerates the kneading kitten in his lap.
Even when she digs her tiny claws into his thighs.
Vasili’s breath hisses in and his pupils dilate. But he doesn’t, you know, hurl her off his lap or levitate.
“Hey, Gem, take it easy with my warlock.” I lean over to rescue V from her clutches.
“She’s kneading,” Vasili says briefly, one wary hand settling over her back to hold her in place. “It’s an emotional need. If you deny her comfort, she’ll be scarred for life. Or something.”
“Huh.” I know better than to stare at him or comment. But I do exchange an incredulous look with Ronin, whose own topaz eyes are wide with disbelief.
Bloody hell, Ronin mutters through our bond, very clearly just for my ears. What’s that kitten done with our bloke, then?
I give Ronin the world’s most miniscule head shake. I don’t know. But for fuck’s sake, don’t say anything.
While Vasili watches my every move, I lean over casually to scratch the silky warm fur behind Gem’s tufted ears.
A deep-throated purr rumbles from the kitten’s chest.
By now, Lucius has gotten everyone outta their parkas. Maxim and Mordred scramble up from the floor and follow Dez into the kitchen to start another batch of buckwheat pancakes and brew a fresh pot of coffee.
“Let’s have a look at our patient.” This firm declaration of intent comes from one of Racetrack’s moms, the one who’s a doctor. A petite woman with a sleek blond pageboy and RT’s same no-nonsense demeanor, she beelines straight for Neo, bearing a first aid kit and a purposeful expression.
Racetrack’s other mom, who heads a construction crew in her day job, has already ducked back outside to help Theo Mercury’s handyman tow our SUV out of the ditch.
“I’m feeling totally fine, Dr. Prynne, really,” Neo insists. “I heal shifty-swifty, you know, thanks to all my mating bites.”
“Your healing process does seem to be enhanced,” the doc murmurs, peering closely at the dwindling lump on his noggin. “I’m not seeing much swelling or bruising.”
I hope Lucius is hearing that, with his sharp shifter senses, as he shovels snow off the porch steps to make it easier for all of us to leave.
Lucius used to be so worried about the effects of biting Neo (who doesn’t have a shifter chromosome in his whole DNA, which makes the whole process a little less studied).
But those bites we all gave him turn out now to be a totally good thing for Neo.
“We all took really good care of Neo last night—in ways he seemed to be fine with,” I say helpfully, just to see our bookworm blush to his hairline.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” Dr. Prynne says briskly, but remembers to add, “Your Majesty.”
“You just do your thing, doc. We definitely wanna know for sure he’s okay. And no need to kowtow,” I add.
That’s actually my cue to take off my crown and prop it on the end table, between an empty Christmas glass filmed with eggnog residue and the set of shiny new throwing knives that Max had commissioned for Ronin as his Secret Santa and sparring partner.
RT’s mom spares me a thoughtful look, then turns back to her patient without argument. I figure she gets it. She gets that I don’t need any “Your Majesties” when I’m just spending time here with my family, sharing our first Christmas.
Unexpectedly, my throat thickens and my eyes water.
I mean, honestly. I spent last Christmas totally alone in Singapore. As the one-woman advance team for the high stakes heist I was planning to pull, with my conniving ex-bestie and our sneaky shared boyfriend, on New Year’s Eve.
No Christmas tree.
No presents.
And, as it turned out, no love.
Definitely no warlocks.
Let’s just say we’ve all come a really long way in a year.
I wrap my arms around the swell of my belly and kinda get lost dreaming about how next Christmas is gonna be even more amazing, with a clutch of dragonets, a wolf pup, and a baby witch or warlock playing under the Christmas tree.
We’re gonna need a bigger tree, I muse, fingers sneaking under Gemini’s furry chin to administer more scratching. Under my fingertips, her tiny throat vibrates with pleasure.