“I’m glad to hear it,Daddy.” Her eyes blaze with mischief, and with a devious grin, she grabs a pile of aprons from the linen drawer and tosses one at each of us. “Because you’re on vegetable peeling duty. Rook, you’ve got avocados to mash. Jude, I want you slicing fruit. Auggie, you just… do whatever it is the head chef does best.”
The three of them glance at each other like they’re all waiting for the punchline.
“This little group gathering took aseriousdetour from where I thought we were heading when I first walked in,” Jude says. “GPS iswayoffline here.”
“Yeah, I feel like we missed a step,” Rook says. “Some crucial part of the ménage à gargoyle instruction manual.”
“If only you’d shown up a few minutes earlier,” I tease. “You could’ve sampled the tasting menu. Alas—”
“Boys!” Westlyn shoos us all off. “Get to work! This family meal isn’t going to make itself, and your girl is fuckingstarving.”
Cracking up, they all don their aprons. I grab one too, tying it tight and reaching for my favorite filet knife.
And then, under the adorably demanding orders of our adorably sexy witch, we get to work.
* * *
Too many cooks in the kitchen may spoil the soup, but right now, they’re damn sure making the moment all the sweeter.
It’s the first time we’ve all cooked a meal together, ever, and my kitchen is stuffed to bursting with wings and tails and elbows and a riot of ingredients spread out on every flat surface.
Knives clack against chopping blocks, whisks scrape the sides of bowls, vegetables sizzle in a pan laden with far too much oil, and other than esteemed head chef Augustine Lamont, it’sdefinitelyamateur hour in here.
But tonight? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
I pour us all another round of drinks, passing them out while the others continue working diligently. Cooking is second nature to me, so easy I could almost do it with my eyes closed, but tonight I force myself to really take in the scene. To memorize every detail, freezing it in my mind like the perfect series of photographs, framed and hung on permanent display in my memory.
Rook, poring over my entire cookbook collection and making notes about substitutions to try, regaling us with random facts about the origins of certain spices and regional cooking techniques.
Jude, wild-eyed and quick with an innuendo, one hand cutting up apples with a meat cleaver—peak Jude Hendrix—while the other can’t help but find its way to Westlyn’s backside every time she passes him.
Draegan, once crippled by guilt and preferring to spend his nights locked away at the office or in his rooms, finally learning to open his heart to love and family, laughing at Jude’s antics and stealing kisses from Westlyn just as often as our crazy brother.
And Westlyn herself. Our witchling. Our fae queen. Powerful and beautiful. Our heart. Our home. Playfully swatting at Jude’s wandering hands. Sharing heated glances with Draegan. Asking Rook a million questions about international dishes and all the travels that brought him the knowledge. Grinning at me as I feed her samples of bubbling sauces and spicy toppings and fresh fruit until everything is sautéed, simmered, and crisped to perfection.
And then, after hours of work, it’s finally time.
“Let’s eat, heathens,” I announce, and the crowd cheers, all of us eager to indulge in the fruits of our shared labor.
We get out the real silver and the good dishes, some fancy bone china from the seventeenth century Draegan had been keeping on display in a cabinet I’m pretty sure no one has ever opened before. Rook fills a set of ornate crystal goblets with water and more wine and home-brewed hard apple cider for everyone.
“To family,” Draegan says as we take our seats, his eyes shining with the utterance of a simple word that encompasses so much, and we all lift a glass and echo the toast. “To family.”
Then, we dig in.
Our meal has no unifying cuisine, no rhyme or reason. Vegan bruschetta. Apple-berry pancakes served with cinnamon maple syrup poured from a terrine Jude crafted out of a man’s skull. A taco buffet with three different kinds of beans, heirloom tomato salsa, and Rook’s hand-smashed guacamole. Stuffed acorn squash. Pumpkin sage soup with wilted spinach. Sautéed mushroom caps and shallots. Apple cake with chocolate-coconut filling.
We eat and drink until our stomachs hurt.
We laugh until our ribs hurt, too.
And there, over our mix-’n-match buffet at the massive oak table in the formal dining room of Blackmoor Manor, we talk.
We talk about our best memories, about all the beautiful things we’ve seen and experienced in this world. About the people we loved and lost along the way.
We talk about our dreams for the future as if we’ve got forever to build it, and hell. Maybe we do. Right now, surrounded by good food and even better company, it certainly feels like it.
It’s the best night we’ve ever had together. The most real thing I’ve ever experienced.
