Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
I’m normally not at a loss for words. Or so freaked out at the breakfast table.
It was the empty seat at the head of the table. Actually, it was worse, because for a long moment, the others looked at her like they thought she might take her father’s spot.
Never. Fucking. Happening. She sat so abruptly, the cutlery rattled.
“I can’t remember the last time we all gathered for a meal,” Hilly said brightly.
Her mother’s happy expression and everything-will-be-fine-now air was so startling, Amara nearly choked on her bacon. How long had her mother been in such a state of extreme denial? “Been a while, Mom.”
“But we are always happy to be invited,” Penny put in.
She and Hank were well into the cooing phase of their I-love-you-I-hate-you-I-love you drama.
If the pattern held, they would hold hands all through breakfast, nuzzling and gorging themselves, then disappear for three days, eventually emerging flushed, dehydrated, and more in lust than ever.
“You put on such a lovely spread, Freyja.”
Like the other rooms, the dining hall hadn’t changed.
The table alone was ridiculous: a bulky thing that could seat twenty, hacked and planed out of ancient trees, polished and pampered until it gleamed.
The chandelier overhead was a dozen lightbulbs tucked into a nest of pronghorn antlers.
The fireplace at the end of the hall could have accommodated half a cow.
And not a smallish cow, like a mini Hereford. A real monster, like a German Angus.
“It is overdue,” her mother agreed. “And as I said, it’s nice to have all of us together, however belated and brief.”
“It’s not ‘all of us’ without me.” This from the woman no one noticed until she spoke.
Amara dropped her fork, which only added to Gray’s surprised alarm: “Gaaaaah, where did you even come from?”
Amara ignored Gray’s yelp, and was out of her seat in a flash and hugging the new arrival, a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a long red braid, wide green eyes, and a gorgeous explosion of freckles from forehead to shoulder blades.
She was wearing cargo pants with what appeared to be a hundred pockets, a short-sleeved black Henley, and black knee-high mukluks.
“Gray, Gray! This is my teacher, Scáthach. The only living creature who can pull off mukluks.”
“Sorry, I didn’t quite—Scat-hock?”
“Call me Skye,” the new arrival replied. “It’s easier.”
“I think I’ve heard of you.”
She laughed at him. “Doubtful. So! This is Amara’s dear friend we’ve heard so much about.”
“That’s a little terrifying, but it’s nice to meet you.” Gray stood and looked up at Skye. “Is it a death-god rule that you all have to be lava-hot and larger than life?”
“Oh, yes,” she replied with a grin. “Our oldest and most sacred rule.”
“Skye was my martial arts teacher. She taught me all sorts of things, actually.” Amara gave the latest arrival another quick hug. “It’s so good to see you!”
“Whoa.” Gray made the time-out motion because he was a referee now, apparently? “I’ve never seen you come this close to gushing. Not even when you figured out how to make mango sticky rice.”
“Mango sticky . . . ? Sounds vile. But I’m sure it’s lovely. Perhaps you can show me the recipe, Amara. Skye, come dish up and then take a seat,” Hilly coaxed. “We’ve saved a place for you and there’s still lots of bircher muesli.”
“Cold oatmeal. That’s what my mother means. Cold oatmeal and mushrooms swimming in hot oatmeal. That’s what you’re looking at, Skye. Be warned by me.”
Hilly sighed. “Yes, hon, you’ve made your feelings clear.”
“It’s her thing,” Gray said.
“Overnight oats are stupid and gross. I regret nothing!”
“See?” Gray grinned. “Also, Skye, I understand how an ordinary mortal wouldn’t hear you coming, but how’d you sneak up on the others?”
“That’s my thing.” Skye had been busy filling her plate, and wasted no time sitting and falling to. “Sorry to keep you all waiting.”
“No worries,” Hank said. “We waited for you as one pig does another.”
“Speak for yourself,” La Croix said coolly, gesturing at his empty plate. For one of the Gede, he sure bitched a lot.
“At least I got here before Chernobog,” Skye chortled through a mouthful of ham.
“That’s a low bar,” Penny giggled. “He only comes at night.”
“We didn’t know, actually,” Gray said. “I mean, not all of us knew. Okay, just me. I’m the only one who didn’t know.”
“Liar; I went over this with you already.” Amara plopped another piece of gravlax on a cracker-thin slice of rye bread, took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Pay attention.”
“Sure, sure. I’ll just jot all your notes in my death-god-shenanigans notebook.”
“I’ve said it before, dear, but it bears repeating,” Hilly said, refilling Gray’s grape juice. “You’re handling this so well.”
“Hanging out with Amara is good practice when it comes to shenanigans.”
“Arawn, what happened to your glorious blue Labs?” Skye speared another chunk of ham and popped it in her mouth. “I liked them very much. The older they got, the more they resembled furry barrels on legs.”
“I’m afraid as they got older and more incontinent, I had to put—”
“Shhhh! Not in front of the houndlets,” Gray begged, jerking his head toward the attentive trio.
“I’ll say this, it’s nice that the new bunch doesn’t produce puddles of drool,” Penny said. Her husband reached for a berry from her plate and she playfully slapped his hand away. “That was their only bad quality. That and the flatulence.”
“That’s endemic in all Labradors, Persephone,” Arawn chuckled. “Especially as they get older.” He tented his fingers and gave Gray a long look. “And congratulations, youngster. I cannot recall the last time I was hushed.”
“I’m sorry. I was just looking out for your houndlets.”
“Understood.” Arawn settled back in his chair. “And so I let the impertinence pass.”
Hilly cleared her throat. “As I was saying before Skye joined us, it’s a delight to see you all, even under these, er, circumstances. Especially Amara and her . . . her friend.”
“Why do people keep doing that?” Gray whispered to Amara, who shook her head.
“Did I not guarantee her presence?” La Croix asked, all expansive mood and relaxed air. His default arrogance never failed to make her want to bite something. “You wished for it, Hilly, and I made it so. And to Amara’s credit, she did not hesitate.”
Amara raised her eyebrows.
“Once she understood the severity,” La Croix remedied. “Your idea to bring the crown was well done.”
Oh, for the love of . . . Of course it had been her mother’s plot idea. She served Death in all things. So did every living thing, to be fair, but her mother tended to go overboard.
“Amara’s too jaded for one so young,” Hilly said. “But the immoderate always made an impression on her.”
Amara dropped her fork and it hit her plate with a clatter.
“Gosh, this is all so swell. Truly. I love being discussed like I’m not even in the fucking room.
Yes, I’m aware I used profanity, Mother,” she snapped.
“Did you ever consider it’s on purpose as opposed to a slip of the tongue?
I’m pushing thirty, for God’s sake. I’m allowed the occasional F-bomb. ”
“And the occasional S-bomb, C-bomb, and X-bomb.”
She snorted (which was Gray’s intention) and got up for more food.
Her mother had laid out a traditional breakfast on the sideboard, a ridiculously long and ungainly piece of furniture someone chopped out of mahogany a couple of centuries ago.
The wood was so dark it was nearly black, with dragonvine carvings and the marks of hard service. Sooo many water rings.
Gray in particular seemed pleased to see the vast buffet: scrambled eggs and salmon, more of the dreaded savory oatmeal, several loaves of various breads, cold cuts (Amara had been eight before she realized most Americans don’t normally have roast beef sandwiches for breakfast), gravlax, miniature loaves of dense rye bread, bowls of yogurt, platters of berries, a ham shank brushed with brown sugar and butter, nine pounds of bacon, and brown cheese.
“Everything’s so good, Hilly,” Gray groaned. “And there was a ton of good food last night, too. That you just had lying around! How are you guys not really, really fat?”
“Hard work and exercise,” her mother replied, then laughed. “Just teasing. Metabolism.”
“Well, it’s working for you. Hey, Amara, after seeing where you grew up,” Gray continued, waving his fork at the dining hall, “I get now why your apartment is a tiny minimalist modern craphole.”
“Is it?” Hilly asked. “Her father and I have never seen it.”
“Whose fault is that, Mom? And I think ‘craphole’ is unnecessary and unkind,” Amara sniffed. “I like small and I like cluttered. So it’s perfect.”
“But why move a state away? We understood your need for your own residence—”
“Did you, Mom? Because you went from your dad’s house to here. You’ve never had your own place.”
“By choice,” Hilly pointed out sharply. “My point stands; there was no need to move so far.”
“I could have picked San Diego. Or Paris. Or Moscow.” She could hear the petulance in her tone and was getting as irritated with herself as with her parents. Home barely twelve hours and we’re singing the same old battle songs. “Count your blessings, Mother.”
“Yes, Hilly,” Penny giggled. “Count all those blessings.”
“Wait, Amara. You could have gone to Paris but you picked Minneapolis?” Gray asked.
“You’re missing the point.”
“Am I, though? Look, all I’m saying is, I get why you wanted a small place after growing up here.”
“And all I am saying . . .” Hilly continued.
“I feel like I shouldn’t have brought up your living arrangements,” Gray confessed.
“Agreed.” It wasn’t the conversation, however annoying.
It was how the others were 100 percent focused on the conversation.
Most of them were even leaning forward, so as not to miss a word.
Ridiculous. You’d think death gods had higher priorities than her living arrangements and her parents’ notes on the same.
“Besides, my mother has a rule, no psychoanalysis during meals.”
“Among other things,” Hilly replied. “Such as the rule about feeding animals while at the table. I see you, young man. You never mind those hounds.”
“What? Hounds?” Gray’s exaggerated innocence reminded Amara why he was a terrible poker player. “Ohhhh, hounds. That’s what you were talking about. Y’know, I forgot they were even there.”
Even Arawn snickered at the bold lie. The hellhoundlets had followed them into the dining hall, then taken their spots beneath the bank of windows, where they remained bright-eyed and attentive, their silky ears cocked, unwavering gazes following the food.
Gray kept sending them longing looks and was discreetly (ahem) pushing a small pile of dachshund-sized bits to the edge of his plate.
“Oh, Hilly, what a pity your husband can’t join us for breakfast,” Penny said.
“Agreed. But. He’s indisposed.”
“Indisposed,” La Croix repeated, as if he was tasting the word.
“So it’s true?” Hank asked. He’d torn up his rye bread and was feeding Penny tiny pieces, but now his gaze went to Hilly. “I mean, I got the impression from you that it was bad, but . . . that bad? Death is dying?”
“No,” Amara replied even as her mother said, “Yes.”
“This is not encouraging,” Arawn observed.
“Failing,” Amara clarified. “Not dying.”
“Yes. Failing. Would anyone like some venison? I could get a roast started.”
“Please don’t cook more food, Mom.” To Hank: “He’ll be fine. We’re just working out some family issues while he recovers. I’m not even going to be here that long.”
No one agreed. And no one demurred. La Croix just sat there with his habitual smirk.
Penny and Hank, after looking at her, her mother, and then back at Amara again, resumed being lost in each other’s eyes.
Arawn simply sat and looked at her over steepled fingers.
And Skye, shoveling bacon in like she was getting paid, kept her head down and ate.
“Of course, we all wish for Death’s swift and thorough recovery,” Arawn finally said smoothly. “And it is a relief to finally discuss the pachyderm in the dining hall. But with the utmost respect, we all know you would downplay his condition regardless of the severity.”
“Truth,” Skye announced, coming up for air and ham. “He could be hemorrhaging out his ass and you’d dismiss it as indigestion. You know it’s true, Amara.”
“And so,” Arawn continued with a pained sigh, “Skye’s revolting example aside, I have to give more weight to your dear mother’s diagnosis.”
“You wait,” Amara replied. And she didn’t sound nervous. Because she wasn’t nervous. Because there wasn’t anything to be nervous about. Death would be fine and this—all of this—was unnecessary. “He’ll get better. You won’t have to pretend to care much longer.”
“How dare you,” Penny huffed. “Your father’s recovery is our top priority. Your insinuation otherwise is nnpphh not now, Hank.” Penny chewed and swallowed the brown cheese Hank had stuffed in her mouth.
“My father’s your top priority—I believe that. But to what end? You can’t want his job. And you’re not pals. So why are you circling like vultures?”
“Your mother invited us. Hardly ‘circling.’”
“Yes. Great. Here you all are.”
“Except the guy who comes at night,” Gray put in, and if she hadn’t been proud of him before, she would have now. He was stressed and surrounded by death gods, and he was paying attention to all of it.
“We were invited,” Hank pointed out. “It would have been rude to ignore your mother’s kind invitation.”
“See? We are concerned.”
“So are vultures, Penny. Now throw down your napkin and storm off while your husband keeps trying to feed you salmon and get to second base while the rest of us try and look anywhere else.”
Penny, who was already on her feet, sat so quickly it looked like she’d been hit over the head. “I’ll do no such thing, Amara.”
“More juice?” Hilly asked with forced cheer. “Or a smoked turkey? I could bring one in from the larder.”
“Aw, man,” Gray said, polishing off the last of the bacon. “Next time, lead with ‘smoked turkey.’ I’ve never been so full in my life.”