Chapter Three
O nce I entered the kitchen, I realized parts of it were similar to my humble cooking space back home.
A dark, clunky, wood-burning stove was tucked in the corner, next to a long counter with a sink at the end.
Various pots, pans, and other cooking utensils hung from hooks above the counter, and a well-worn antique beverage cart was bursting with potted, overgrown herbs.
A large, sunny window faced the back wall, and through it, I could see rows of witch cottages tucked behind the main village square.
The space was cozy, clean, and welcoming, and it made me eager to dive in and start baking.
Though there were still some parts of the kitchen that perplexed me.
Like the door against the far-left wall with a suspicious number of locks, and the massive, cast-iron cauldron pushed into the far corner.
All things one definitely wouldn’t see in a werewolf kitchen, and it reminded me that a lot more was created here than just food.
I gulped at the thought of what nefarious spells Rowena could conjure up with those tools.
I shook my head. I need to focus.
I dug through my satchel, my fingers feeling around for the familiar worn leather of my grandmother’s cookbook. It was one of my most prized possessions, and one of the few belongings I’d packed when I left Hollenboro.
“Got it!” I proclaimed as I pulled out the bent, yellowed book and placed it on the counter.
Inside were over a hundred pages of my grandmother’s handwritten recipes, including a dozen different desserts.
My grandmother passed away when I was very young, but running my fingers over the original ink from her pen always made me feel connected to her.
Reading her handwriting was like traveling back to when she was alive.
Getting to know the woman I was so closely related to but barely had time to meet.
I found the recipe almost instantly, having memorized the page number for blueberry scones years ago since I made them so often. They were a favorite breakfast treat of my sisters, and with their wolflike metabolism, they could easily devour an entire batch in a single morning.
A tiny needle-prick of longing stabbed at my stomach. I missed them.
My fingers traced the faded ink as I scanned the ingredients list. Flour, sugar, baking powder…
all simple and standard ingredients for baking.
What truly made my pastries stand out was plenty of fresh, cold butter.
It made them rich and flavorful, which was important since scones could easily suffer from being too dry or bland.
The first few ingredients were easy to acquire. Rowena had a tall canister of what appeared to be flour sitting on the beverage cart, and I found sugar and baking powder in the cupboards above the counter.
Ok, now I need butter…
I froze. That ingredient needed to be kept cool. Back on Hollenboro, we had underground cellars for such purposes, but I didn’t see any sign of one here.
My eyes scanned around the room, looking for a possible answer. They froze once they reached the bolted door.
Wolflike curiosity piqued in the back of my brain, and I walked toward the strange door.
To my surprise, the locks didn’t require a key – they simply needed to be unlatched. Clearly, Rowena wasn’t concerned about an intruder coming back here and rifling through her kitchen.
As I reached for the brassy metal handle, it occurred to me the locking system might be meant to keep whatever was inside from – I gulped – escaping .
I opened the heavy door a few inches, and to my relief, no demons or bats or other spooky beasts flew out and attacked me. But what did emerge from the door was no less startling. An icy blast of wind shot out like a rocket, sending a flurry of snow streaming into the warm kitchen.
I panicked and slammed the door shut, pressing my back into it for good measure, and my gaze shot over to the door that led to the café. Through the window, I could see Rowena carefully measuring out loose-leaf tea blends next to the register.
Maybe I should go ask her how to use this kitchen.
It seemed rational at first, but anxious thoughts quickly clouded my brain and made me indecisive. What if she judges me? What if she thinks I can’t handle this?
I groaned and buried my face in my damp palms. My jaw was clenched tight as a bear trap, and nausea weighed heavily in my stomach. My mounting panic allowed for dozens more “what ifs” to cloud my thoughts.
What if I can’t do this? Or worse, what if I can, but Rowena eventually finds out I’m a werewolf? How would a village full of witches react to an imposter? Would I make it out of here alive?
My worries stacked on top of each other like bricks, crushing my anxiety-riddled brain. As I reached my breaking point, a new, much bigger problem appeared.
I reached up and touched my fluffy red ears in disbelief, then wrapped a shaking hand around them.
No. No no no. Not this again.
Once I realized my tail was also out, I wrapped my cloak tighter around myself and retreated to the far corner behind the cauldron. I pulled my hood down over my eyes, and I gasped in breaths like I was starved for air.
Five minutes ago, I’d been worrying about Rowena discovering my secret. Now, it was out in the open. If she walked back here and saw me panicking in a half-transformed state, it would be over.
I swallowed hard. It’s stress. I’m partially shifting when I get stressed.
Why?
In all my years as a werewolf, I’d never seen or heard of this happening. Werewolves were taught to have total control of their shifting from a young age. A fully grown adult suddenly losing control of their abilities like this was unheard of.
But I had no one to ask for help. Hollenboro was dozens of miles away, and I was surrounded by witches who would persecute me if they found out what I really was.
So get ahold of yourself, I scolded. And think.
My eyes flicked back to the locked door. Witches have portals, don’t they? What better place to keep ingredients cold than in snow?
Which meant I needed to open that door to get the butter.
This time, I opened the door a fraction of an inch, peering through the narrow gap to see what was on the other side.
Thankfully, the snowfall had ceased, and all I could see across the horizon was a vast, pristine canvas of white.
It was uneven; dipping and peaking into tiny mountains, and I assumed there were large rocks buried beneath the snow.
It was difficult to tell with the fog how high up I was, but I knew in October there was only one place that would have this much snow so early in the season.
The portal led to a mountaintop.
I chuckled. Cold all year round. It’s genius.
I mustered up the courage to open the door fully, and the blistering cold cut through my thin clothing and sent unpleasant shockwaves down to my fingertips.
I took a deep breath and wrapped my cloak tighter around myself, ensuring it covered my ears and tail.
As I went to take a step into the frigid nothingness, a sudden shift in the snow sent me jolting backward.
I blinked. It looked like an animal of some sort, lifting its head from where it had been buried in the snow. Except… it wasn’t an animal.
The creature was made entirely of ice, cut and smoothed into prisms that gleamed like crystal.
It had a slightly amorphous figure, somewhere between a wolf and a fox, with pointy ears and a long, bushy tail.
It didn’t have distinguishable eyes, but I could tell it sensed my presence.
It cooed, cocked its head, and bounded over to me like a puppy.
Okay… at least it’s friendly.
My father hadn’t taught me much about witch culture, and Hollenboro’s tiny communal library had few books on the subject.
But I had seen elementals before – they were spirits made from various essences of nature that took on vague animal forms. They were known to be helpful and docile, with various folk tales describing heroic acts of saving magical beings in danger.
This ice elemental was clearly accustomed to someone opening this door, and it looked like it was awaiting orders.
Orders… for ingredients?
“Uh… hello, little, um… ice elemental,” I greeted awkwardly. The creature wagged its fluffy tail in response. “Can you show me where I can find butter?”
I feared if the elemental’s purpose wasn’t to assist me, my request for such a menial task would upset it. I knew such creatures could be dangerous when angered. The last thing I needed was a flurry of icicle spears launched at my chest.
Thankfully, I was wrong. It let out a noise somewhere between a bark and a squeak and took off through the snow, bounding and hopping like a rabbit. I followed at a slow, clumsy pace, as my fall boots weren’t ideal for trudging through calf-height snow.
The elemental stopped a few dozen feet away, which was a relief since the mountain was incredibly rocky and my boots weren’t waterproof. I could already feel melted snow seeping through them, and it made my toes feel like ice cubes. I couldn’t stay here long without risking frostbite.
The elemental brought me to a tiny den on the side of a large rock. From this angle, I could tell we really were on top of a mountain. A very tall mountain. I swallowed, forcing my gaze away from the edge to keep my height-induced vertigo in check.
The elemental dug through a pile of ingredients – everything from dairy products to homemade popsicles and even a few frozen pizzas. Just as I began to lose sensation in my toes, the elemental finally emerged with a full stick of butter in its jaws.
“Thank you!” I exclaimed, smiling at the little icy creature. It peered up at me like a dog, its tail still wagging, and I realized it wanted to be petted.