Paris had already set the barely used dining room table, laying its glossy surface with a lace tablecloth and lighting the candles in the candelabra so that they caught in the prisms of the crystal glasses she had set out for their use.
As Raiden went to assist Brock with the finishing details of the meal in the kitchen, Lia caught a glimpse of Brock, one of her grandmother’s floral and flouncy aprons wrapped around his waist, at the stove and grinned.
“I like it when men are self-confident enough to wear floral,” she commented to Paris.
“I know, doesn’t he look awesome in lilac,” Paris smirked. “It is a good china day,” she added as she laid out the silverware that habitually lived snuggled in a velvet lined box in the bottom of the china buffet in the dining room. “Good silver, and good crystal, and a bottle of wine.”
“Sounds good,” Lia replied thinking that her grandmother’s ghost would not approve, but she was not currently present in order to protest. “But what is the occasion?”
“Someone else cooked,” Paris suggested, then grinned mischievously. “Looking very sexy in a lilac apron whilst he did so.”
“Good enough reason for me. No Cael?”
Paris had set the table for four, so she was not planning on feeding the blonde man.
“No, he has gone out. I am not sure when he will be back, so we will save some for him in the fridge. Your washing is done by the way,” Paris added. “You had better do something about it before it gets musty.”
“Oh,” Lia remembered it with a start. “I will just put it into the dryer.”
She went into the laundry and transferred her wet laundry from the washing machine and into the ancient dryer. As she stood, she bumped into Cael. For a moment she thought that he was Raiden when his hands caught her hips and held her against him, but then she smelled sandalwood and bergamot and not lavender and citrus.
“Cael, let go,” she protested his grip on her, squirming for freedom as the dryer began its rotation with a metallic groan. “Paris said you were out. Do you want to join us for dinner?”
“You are mine,” Cael murmured in her ear. “I own your life.”
“What do you mean? You keep saying different variations of that, but then you don’t explain. You do not own my life,” she protested the possessiveness of the statement. “We barely know each other, and even if we did, no one owns someone else’s life.”
“You will remember me,” he added with confidence. “Eventually. But do not go mating with that dog until you do. It is one thing to f-k him, quite another to whelp with him, when you belong to me.”
“Cael,” she pulled away from him, backing up until the machines would allow her to go no further and she was blasted with damp warm air as the dryer heated. “You are giving me the creeps. I don’t want to kick you out, but you are making me feel unsafe in my own home. I have told you, hands off. If you are not going to explain yourself, then leave me alone. I don’t belong to you. I am seeing Raiden. If I belong to anyone, it is him.”
“No,” Cael leaned forward, bracing an arm against the dryer behind her head. His beautiful face pulled into a scowl which should have frightened her, were it not for the pain in his eyes. That pain left her speechless and disarmed.
“Cael,” she whispered. “What is going on?”
“You belong to me. Please, Lia. I am not good at this, obviously,” his voice softened, and he stroked her cheek. “And it is complicated, with repercussions you cannot even imagine. But you have been mine since you were six years old. I lost you then, and it has taken this long for me to find you again. The dog is not right for you. You are mine, not his.”
“Cael,” she felt the pull of power, similar to that used by Lucian and by Cael the night he had arrived at the house, and felt her body relax and soften, incline towards him, lift her mouth to his… “No! Finis!” She broke the magic, felt it recoil and saw Cael wince at its backlash. “Don’t do that, Cael, don’t coerce me.”
“How is it that you do that?” He leaned against the wall. “You should not be able to do that.”
She regarded him for a long moment. “We can’t keep doing this,” she said to him sternly. “It is assault, Cael. Touch me again without my permission, and I will kick you out, and report you to the school.”
“Dinner is ready,” Raiden appeared in the laundry doorway and looked from Lia to Cael, frowning as he did so. The sound of the dryer, she realized, had hidden their conversation from her werewolf mate’s sharp ears. “Paris thought you were out, Cael. We have saved some dinner for you.”
“Thank you, but I was just on my way out,” Cael pushed off the wall. “I was just getting Lia to show me how to use the machines in this room.”
“Mhm,” Raiden stepped to the side so Cael could pass and watched him walk down the hall to the front door. Once the door closed behind him, Raiden turned back to Lia. “Something isn’t right about him.”
“That is an understatement,” she sighed heavily and stepped up to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning into him. She felt him inhale and wondered if he could smell Cael on her. “I think I have to kick him out.”
“Do you want me to do it?” He stroked his hands up and down her back. “Is he being inappropriate?” His voice was hard, angry with the other man.
“It is complicated. Let’s go eat, and I will explain it after dinner,” she released his waist and took his hand instead. There was a solid reassurance to his touch that felt good after another confusing conversation with Cael.
“Alright,” he said it reluctantly, his eyes going to the front door as they passed through the hallway, as if he wanted nothing more than to pursue Cael and have it out.
Brock had served and was pouring wine when they entered. “Hey,” he grinned brightly.
“Oh wow,” Lia looked at the huge serving and met Paris’ eyes on a laugh.
“I told them,” Paris replied. “One of these serves would be big enough for both of us. But they wouldn’t listen.”
“You need some fattening up,” Brock replied holding her chair until she sat. Raiden was poised behind Lia, waiting also. Werewolves, she thought with amusement as she sat, had old fashioned manners, but it was so sweet. “I can count every one of your ribs.”
“We have to maintain this weight,” Paris rolled her eyes. “So that the male dancers don’t get injured lifting us.”
“Cost is too high for the ability to dance on your toes,” he offered her the bread and she demurred. “I can’t imagine living life eternally hungry and breadless.”
“We have never lived any other way,” Lia giggled. “Breadless and hungry.”
“Did you know that it hurts?” Raiden asked Brock. “Every single time one of them gets up on their toes, it is hurting them.”
“How is it,” Brock collected spaghetti onto his fork. “That people overlook that for ballet? I mean, if you said to me, Rai, that you were starving yourself on purpose, working out incessantly, and doing something to yourself every day that caused you pain, I would be calling your mother to come take you in hand. But because it is ballet, everyone’s like, oh, but that is just fine.”
“It is because we look so pretty on our toes,” Paris smiled at him. “And it is traditional.”
“You look better on your back,” he replied with a leer. Paris laughed, delighted. Lia was almost certain they were playing footsies under the cover of the table.
“Too much information,” Raiden laughed. “Save it for the full moon.” He realized he had slipped up, using a werewolf saying, and exchanged a look with Brock, but Paris had not noticed, or accepted it as a saying she didn’t know.
“This is delicious,” Paris said with appreciation. “Much better than Lia and I make.”
Raiden grinned, throwing Lia a look. “Told you.”
“Probably because we dump the sauce from a jar onto of the pasta and call it spaghetti,” Paris continued. “Whereas Brock chopped tomatoes from scratch, added herbs, garlic and onion, cooked that, and then added mince, and put that over the pasta,” she told Lia, much impressed with Brock’s culinary skills. “I watched,” she added with a grin. “I was so helpful.”
Brock snickered. “And tasted.”
“Oh yeah, I did that too,” Paris said in such a way that left Lia in no doubt she had not tasted the food, but rather the cook.
After dinner, Lia and Paris cleared the table whilst Raiden and Brock washed up.
“So cute,” Paris whispered. “Didn’t I tell you, the quality of men at the club are so much better.”
“Yeah,” Lia wondered if she should caution Paris about Brock. It felt like a betrayal of the friendship to let her blindly proceed towards being turned to a werewolf at the next full moon. Another thing, she decided, that she would have to discuss with Raiden.
Paris went to help Brock put away the dishes, and Lia put away the candelabra. Raiden wasn’t in the kitchen, so she went to her bedroom, to find it empty. She followed the hallway down to the rear of the house and found him leaving the solarium.
“Ah,” he said, guiltily. “Just giving the fairy some leftover salad. He needs a greens-based diet.”
“You were feeding my fairy,” she smiled, melting at the gesture.
He shrugged a shoulder, his cheeks colouring. “My mother has always fed the garden fairies.”
“Yes, there were so many in her garden I was amazed. My fairy was in the cafeteria at the academy,” she said as they entered her bedroom. “I guess he blew in the door or something and got crushed. I brought him back here, but I don’t really know what I am doing.”
“You saved him,” he smiled, his eyes warm. “He is doing fine. The solarium is a good spot for him.”
“My grandmother’s ghost said to let him heal and then release him, but he seems happy in there.”
“You talk to your grandmother’s ghost?” He went into the bathroom and put toothpaste on his brush. He was neat and efficient with his brushing, and she watched him, enjoying the domesticity of having him brushing his teeth in her bathroom after sharing a meal together.
She shrugged. “Sometimes she is more coherent than others, but, yes, sometimes we talk, usually only a sentence or two.”
He rinsed off his toothbrush, and stepped out to let her in. “So,” he said, leaning against the door frame as she brushed her teeth. “What happened with Cael?”
She spat and rinsed off her toothbrush. “I don’t know,” she sighed. If she told him everything about Cael, he would not let the man back into the house, and the two would probably get into a fight. Whilst she did not doubt that Raiden would win, being a werewolf and stronger, Cael was a warlock, and she didn’t want him throwing out any curses either. “It is complicated. I want to show you something, first.”
“Alright,” Raiden moved out of her way. She took his hand and pulled him into the walk-in-robe. “Been in here before,” he commented, amused. “It’s full of clothes. Not sure how you get around to wearing everything in here, but you are female, so it is pretty standard equipment.”
“Haha,” she giggled. “Yes, but you haven’t been in here,” she released the secret door, and pulled it open revealing the exposed brickwork and wooden stair well leading up to the turret room, the dust holding the imprint of her shoes from previous visits.
“Okay,” he looked up the turret. “Claustrophobic, but I am game. I wondered if the turret was just decorative. The house I am doing at the moment doesn’t have one. It is a nice addition.”
She led him up the stairs, giggling when he had to angle because of the width of his shoulders and height. “A stepladder would have been more user friendly,” he observed. “But not so atmospheric.”
They reached the turret room and he looked around, at the lead light window, the bookshelves that curved around the wall and their arcane objects, and the desk on which the grimoire rested.
“This is… really something,” he said. “It is actually a great sized room. Kids would love it. A secret hidey hole to play in.”
“It is not really a room for children,” she laughed. “There are things in here that are a bit ick.”
“You are telling me.” He took a jar from the shelf. “What is this?”
“Some type of fetus unfortunately. An Other. Hobgoblin maybe. Disgusting, I know, but what can I do with it other than just leave it on the shelf?” She grimaced. “Every time I see it, I wondered just exactly how it came to be in the jar. There is just no happy way a baby, any baby, ends up preserved in a jar.”
“Hmm,” he set it back onto the shelf with care. “Yeah, that is quite sad. This room is odd. These shelves and that table are much older than this house, and have been built in. It is like the turret existed before the house.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if that was true,” she admitted. “The turret houses the grimoire, you see.” She walked over to the table.
“Werewolves,” she said to the book, and heard Raiden exclaim as the cover fell open heavily, and the pages lifted and shifted.
He leaned over her with his hands braced on the table. “I have never seen a grimoire before. I have heard of them, but witches and warlocks don’t tend to be open with werewolves. I can’t read it,” he said. “The language is foreign…”
“Is that right?” She looked up him in surprise. “It looks normal to me.”
“What does it say about werewolves?” He wondered.
“It is a bit bland,” she read it out to him.
“Mostly accurate,” he said thoughtfully. “Though I find the term contaminating humans a bit offensive. We consider it a gift.
“And we are more matriarchal than it implies with all its talk of alpha males. My mother is the leader of the pack, not my father, though they are the primary alpha pair and will be until I…” he trailed off, flicking her a look under his eyelashes. “Anyway, it stems from history, when the pack would hunt, and the matriarch would remain at home guarding the next generation. You don’t risk the pack leader on the hunt.”
“That is interesting,” she considered the family barbecue with that in light. It explained why Diedre had spent more time with her than Wade. It was Diedre who would give approval for the addition to the pack. She had passed, she thought with a warmth in her chest, as Diedre had invited her back.
“So, you have a magic hidden room with a magic book in it. Can I touch it?”
“I don’t know,” she was curious. “I have never shown anyone else this room, and never saw grandmother show anyone it either.”
“Hopefully I don’t get zapped,” he grinned at her, and touched the page. “Nope, no zapping. Can I turn the page?”
“I guess,” she watched him do so. “What do you see?”
“Bunch of writing in a different language. Very old paper, and very old ink.”
She took the book and turned to the front page. “What about this?”
“Angel cutting off another angel’s wings. Seems a bit un-angelic, really, don’t you think?” He observed. “Does cutting off an angel’s wings mean that they become human?”
“The book called them the Wingless. Apparently, not many survive. It is, like, a punishment for the worst type of crimes.”
“Nasty,” he grimaced. “This looks like a family tree,” he touched the other page. “We should probably be wearing cotton gloves or something, actually,” he added, taking his hand off the page. “Like they do in museums, to protect old books. I bet a museum would love to get their hands on this.”
“I wonder what they would make of it,” she said. “I wouldn’t worry about handling it though. I am pretty sure it has some type of protection on it. My grandmother was always trying to get me to read it as a kid and kid’s hands are always grubby. I regret that now,” she sighed. “Not spending more time learning. I might know more. But I just wanted to dance, not read a stodgy old book with scary pictures.”
“Hard reading for a kid,” he said with empathy.
“Talking about protection,” she added. “My grandmother’s ghost said something about a protection spell wearing off. Maybe I should ask Cael about that, see if he knows anything, but he is…”
“He is what exactly?”
She grimaced. “Friday night, he said that I was on heat and tried to coerce me with magic,” she admitted reluctantly, already knowing what his response would be. She heard the growl, low and quiet and saw the Other reflect in his eyes. “He also said that I was his. He has said it several times, actually. That he saved my life, and that I have been his since I was…” She froze.
For a moment, she saw Cael’s face, surrounded by fire.
“Since you were?” Raiden prompted, unhappily.
“Since I was six,” she whispered. “My parents had a car accident when I was six. A hit and run. It killed them, but I was somehow thrown clear of the burning car. I didn’t have more than a couple of scratches. I remember him,” she breathed it. “His face surrounded in flames. But that is not possible. He hasn’t aged.”
“Some sort of spell?” Raiden wondered. “Though, if it were, surely every witch and warlock would be using it…. They live for longer and age slower like werewolves do, I know that from a friend of mine. But not twenty years without ageing. We are not frozen in time like vampires. Was he the hit and run driver?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t him,” he suggested. “Memories are tricky things, Lia. Sometimes we can influence our memories.”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. But it felt right, and she was somehow certain that Cael had been there, the day of the car crash, reaching through the flames to her.