"The walls are closing in,” I tell her, my boots sliding on the slick plastic as I brace my shoulder against the left wall, attempting to stop the the momentum. "Poppy, which human material offers superior defense?"
“Neither. It’s a landlord-special felony.” Poppy scans the moving walls, running her fingers along the doorframe. “Think, Poppy, think,” she murmurs to herself. “Ken wants us to argue about home decor because he thinks that’s what humans do... Vael, look at that column in the corner. Is that real masonry or a cheap facade?”
I glance through the dust at the central pillar. “It is garbage.”
“I knew it. It’s a house-flipper death trap.” She flashes me a grin. “Ken expects us to choose the brick because it sounds sturdy, but it would be held together by prayer and liquid nails. Select the shiplap. Smash the panel for Option A and pray the Gaines don’t find us next.”
I do not question her logic, nor do I ask who these Gaines monsters are. I release my hold on the wall, pivot my weight, and drive my fist straight through the blue icon for Option A.
The glass shatters. Instantly, the gears in the walls seize, stopping mere inches from my wings. A groan echoes from the floorboards, and the deadbolt on the kitchen door clicks open.
“You did well.” I cup the back of her head, pulling her against my chest.
“I’ve watched three lifetimes worth of HGTV.” A breathless laugh escapes her as she leans into my heat. “I know a corner-cutting contractor when I see one. But don't get too comfortable. The kitchen is next, and that’s usually where the real murder happens.”
CHAPTER 28
POPPY
If the livingroom was a HGTV nightmare, the kitchen is a psychological thriller.
The door slams shut behind us, multi-tiered deadbolt sequence locking so loudly that it feels incredibly personal.
My nose wrinkles as I take in the monstrosity.
The entire space smells like rotting fruit.
Lime-green shag carpet stretches wall to wall, and whoever designed this place needs to go straight to fucking jail. Federal crimes against hygiene and taste.
"Don’t step on the carpet, Vael," I tell him, whacking an arm across his stomach to keep him back. "That’s a biohazard. Whatever’s spilled on that will be there until the end of time.”
My skin starts to itch all over, probably breaking out in hives from the sheer disgust I feel. “My grandmother had a kitchen like this. One day I went to visit and decided to vacuum it… and there were dead voles in the carpet. Just… dead.” I shiver at the memory. “I decided not to eat at my grandma’s after that.”
Vael narrows his eyes, his wing half-curving around my back like a shield. "The floor is the foulest texture imaginable."
The rusted door of the avocado-green oven flies open with a metallic crash. A mechanical blender with spinning metalwhisks leaps out of the darkness, a nonsensical dial-up modem sound playing as it hurls itself at my shins.
“I KNEW THE INTERNET OF THINGS WAS A FUCKING TRAP,” I scream, kicking at it.
I needn’t have bothered, because Vael moves with speed I can hardly believe. Stepping in front of me, he whips his tail forward, catching the appliance mid-air and rocketing it into the drywall. The machine explodes into glitter.
Right. Because that makes sense.
"Are you hurt, Poppy?” he asks.
"Yeah, thanks for the air strike.” I pat his arms. "I didn't have death by Kitchen Aid on my bingo card today."
"It was an unworthy opponent," he rumbles, completely deadpan.
I laugh, but the sounds quickly cut off as a digital neon screen blinks to life on the refrigerator door.
Option A: maintain the galley layout
Option B: demolish the wall for an open-concept
A timer starts ticking down from forty-five seconds while a steel sledgehammer appears in front of the wall.
"Don’t let that sledgehammer hit the wall. It’s load-bearing.” I don’t need to check it, I know in my gut that thing is another trick. “Without support beams, the whole roof drops in on the kitchen."
