Page 14 of Monster’s Consort (Blackthorn Academy for Supernaturals #18)

Bane

“So where was this God-forsaken bar with these barrels we have to have?” I asked.

Norman sighed, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Cheeky’s. Apparently, Violet’s mother—the queen, which still is weird as hell to say—said they age the whiskey in enchanted barrels and they specifically need to be blessed under a full moon, and apparently Cheeky’s blesses their whiskey.”

“Could you not just age your own and moon bless them?” Desmond asked.

I shot him a glare. “I’m fairly certain one needs a plethora of equipment for that. But I suppose you wouldn’t know that, seeing as you’ve probably never made a thing in your life.”

Desmond rolled his eyes. “I have made plenty of things.”

“Name one,” I said as we strolled down the street.

Cheeky’s, if I remembered correctly, was at the opposite end, which meant we’d be lugging our barrels across town, unless I could muster enough energy to transfigure the barrels into something smaller, but transfiguration had never been my best class.

“Magic or non-magic?” Desmond raised an eyebrow.

I scoffed. “Non-magic.”

I knew plenty of men like Desmond O’Neil. They were a dime a dozen at Blackthorn. Men who relied on their magic for everything and thought they were the toughest guys in the room.

“I restore books in my spare time, actually.”

“Books?” Norman asked, raising a brow. “Like spell books?”

Desmond nodded. “Spell books, historical tomes, the occasional well-used romance novel.”

Norman laughed. “Romance novels, huh? Like, with the long haired chestless dudes?”

Desmond squinted his eyes. “No, like the ones with Orcs and long haired maidens.” He wrinkled his nose. “What romance novels are you talking about?”

“Don’t get out much, do you, Dezzy?” I asked.

Desmond shrugged. “I leave the castle plenty of times.”

“With who?” I asked.

“Do not change the conversation, Bane. You have not answered me.”

“What have I not answered?”

“Tell me one thing you’ve made. Non-magically.”

Norman’s tentacles slithered along my shoulders and I cast him an annoyed glance.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s hot.”

“Are you leeching my sweat?” I bit.

“Not intentionally. I could use some water, though,” he said. “I wasn’t planning on frying in the sun, today.”

“I’m sure there is a fountain somewhere,” I murmured as Norman adjusted his sunglasses.

“Have you ever heard of coq au vin ?” I asked.

Desmond shook his head. “No, can’t say I have.”

I grinned. “Well, it’s a delightful piece of French cuisine.”

“It’s not, like, cow testicles is it?” Norman asked, and I could not contain my laugh. “What?”

“Oh hell, Norm! No, it’s not. Why would you think... don’t answer that, it’s a broth. Chicken coq au vin is, like, chicken poached in this fragrant, savory sauce and?—”

“Cooking? That is your non-magical skill?” Desmond raised an eyebrow.

I stood proudly. “It’s an art.”

“So is body painting,” Norman said with a grunt.

“Is that your non magical talent, Norman?” Desmond asked, his tone rather cheerful. “Are you a Picasso of flesh?”

Norman laughed. “Not quite, but I have painted before. When I was six.”

“Then what is your boring talent?”

We came to a fountain and he practically ran to the thing, leaving Desmond and I in his dust without an answer, but I wasn’t about to stop him. He sunk every one of his tentacles into the water, huffing out a sigh of relief and I almost felt bad for the guy.

Almost.

“I think it sounds interesting.” Desmond said softly.

“What does?”

“ Coq au vin ,” he said, turning to catch my gaze. “Perhaps you should make it for me.” His tone was tinged in sarcasm, but beneath that was something else.

Hope.

“Are you asking me to cook you dinner, Desmond? Because in case you haven’t noticed, I am bound.”

“I was thinking more that you could teach me this skill of cooking,” he said, his voice tinged with humor, but also a fraction of disdain.

I knew I shouldn’t take his bait, but I loved a challenge. And I truly loved cooking, so...

“Why would you wish to learn something like that from me when you have a plethora of teachers and servants who cater to your every whim?”

He wrung his hands as he pursed his lips, his expression shifting. “I hear women like it.” He said the words and they nearly knocked me on my ass. The way he said them was like the way Professor Laughlin usually described long-winded rituals.

Methodical. Calculating. Detached.

“You hear?” I asked as a woman screamed. I looked up to see Norman pulling his tentacles back, muttering sorry.

The woman smacked him and he braced for the hit.

“We should get going,” Desmond said, pushing past our moment.

“We should,” I agreed, but I could not shake the words or his uncharacteristic show of vulnerability.

“Enough splash time, Norm, let’s go,” I said as I helped him up.

He pulled his tentacles back, inward to himself.

“Are you all right?” Desmond asked.

“Physically, yes,” Norman answered. “But mentally, there’s no saving me.”

Always cracking jokes, Norman Chee. I swore the man did not have a serious bone or cartilage in his body.

Except as he said the words, I noticed his smile falter.

“Well, perhaps I can buy you a drink when we get to the bar, and that will right your mental state.”

Norman gave him a half-smile. “You know what, I think that sounds like a great idea.”

“The more you two love birds flirt, the more I want a drink,” I nipped and Norman’s tentacle landed on the back of my neck. One little sucker pricked me and I jostled.

“What the hell, Norm? I said?—”

He and Desmond both giggled.

Giggled!

Oh heavens, now they were becoming besties or some shit.

What the hell was wrong with Norman?

Did he not harbor the same caution the rest of us did?

Was he so aloof he could write off the damn Dark Fae Prince as nothing more than a...a...

I couldn’t say the word. Couldn’t even think it. Yes, I had agreed to apologize —which I hadn’t done yet—and yes, we’d had a brief moment where I didn’t want to rip the man’s throat out, but that did not make us friends.

Until that treaty was signed—if there truly was a treaty at all—technically, he was still an enemy.

An enemy who was traipsing with a Kraken down the stone pathways toward Cheeky’s, laughing like they were children.

And as I followed them into Cheeky’s, I steeled my resolve. Perhaps Violet was right. Perhaps people could change. Because as I watched Desmond slide a glass of dark ale toward Norman, his gaze catching mine once more, I wondered if he wasn’t spelling me at this very moment.

When I made it to the bar, I asked the bartender about the queen’s order. When Norm had finished his drink, the three of us followed them back to the cellars, and I immediately tensed at the sight. It was not a few barrels, but a whole shipment.

“There’s no way we’re dragging all these back to the chariot,” I said.

“Just minimize them,” Desmond said with a shrug.

“I can’t minimize thirty barrels,” I said, panic lacing my voice. “One or two is fine, but?—”

Desmond smirked, rolling up his plum shirtsleeves. “What’s the matter, Bane, magic stunted today?”

“No, I?—”

“Bane sucks at transfig,” Norman said and I tensed my jaw.

I turned slowly, glaring at him. His sunglasses sat atop his head like a crown, his cheeks pink from fresh drink, and his grin was as lopsided as his tentacles.

“Is that so?” Desmond said smoothly.

“I do not suck, I just need a bit more practice,” I bit.

Desmond chuckled. “Well, looks like you’re going to get all the practice you need here. Now.”

I scowled at him. I was seriously considering revoking my unsaid apology.

“What about you, Norm? Do you suck at transfig, too?” Desmond asked.

I watched the magic lace through him, pooling at his fingertips.

I expected to see fire. He did say he could wield the element as well as earth, and as such, I expected to see the evidence of that.

But what I saw was not fire, no. What I saw was something else.

Something so familiar, but also startling.

Desmond did not call fire or earth to wield.

Instead, bright purple sparks danced from his fingertips.

“Your magic—” I said, my voice fading. “It’s—” I gulped. “Purple.”

“Purple is the color of the Fae, Bane. You should know. Isn’t Violet’s magic purple too?” Norman pressed.

“It is,” I said.

“Purple indicates pure Fae blood,” Desmond said matter-of-factly.

I watched as he focused one hand, pulling and twisting his purple fractals like spun sugar. I half expected to see vines at any second, blinking furiously and relieved there wasn’t.

And then the color shifted. It faded from purple to a deeper plum. It... darkened.

“Whoa, that’s fucking cool,” Norman said in wonder.

Desmond lifted the barrel and the dark fractals surrounded it. The barrel began to shake, to wiggle and rattle within the confines of the ribbons of magic surrounding it like dark matter.

And then, in the blink of an eye it shrunk into... a small, miniature barrel. It clattered against the floor.

Norm picked it up with his twitchy suckers.

“One down, twenty-nine to go,” Desmond said. “Your turn, Bane.”

I breathed out a heavy sigh as I concentrated on my magic, on pulling my fire to my fingertips.

Norm settled beside me, and I tried my hardest to ignore him.

I focused on the barrel, lifted it even, but as I tried to twist it, to transfiguration, it would not stretch.

It kept unbinding itself and I growled in frustration.

“You think too much,” Desmond said plainly.

Norm’s tentacles slithered along my arm and I jumped.

“Shhh... I’m helping,” he said, his voice tinged with his drink.

“You are trying to feed,” I nipped.

“I’m trying to help conduct,” Norman said. “Water is a conduit, Bane.”

“Very smart, Norman,” Desmond said.

“Just... try again,” Norman said, his voice even.