This is a collection of bonus scenes I've written over the years. Some are part of later books in the series. Some short stories are simply 'What If' scenarios. Some moments are scenes that happen off-the-page if you will.
I thought that I'd share...
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I heaved a mental sigh of irritation, closing my eyelids and rubbing my tired eyes with my thumb and middle finger. I needed to get the hells out of here. All this cookie baking was driving me fucking insane.
Pacing back and forth in the kitchen, with the sickly smell of buttery vanilla and chocolate floating in the hot air, I watched Wychthorn carefully place a batch of cookies in a cardboard box as if she were working at a godsdamned bakery. Closing the lid, she took her time wrapping a white ribbon around the box, frowning in deep concentration, the tip of her tongue poked out a teensy bit as she tied the ends into a bow, primping the satin loops to ensure it sat better.
Happy, she grinned, rocking back on her heels looking pleased with herself.
This morning, even though she knew I was going to be arriving for one of our fucked-up visits she hadn't bothered to answer the door to greet me. She'd done it on purpose to piss me the fuck off. One of the members of the Wychthorn staff had led me to the kitchen and I'd entered to find her wearing a red apron with 'I'm with stupid' printed on its front and she'd spun around on her heels to angle herself so the arrow pointed my way.
I'd spent the entire fucking day stuck in the kitchen watching her bake chocolate chip cookies. Not one batch but ten. The countertops as well as the kitchen island were filled with her baking. Cookies cooling on metal racks. Cookies balanced upon one another in towers. Cookies piled up on one another in disorderly piles.
While she baked I spent a fair bit of time trying to figure out if I was going to be set up for some kind of Wychthorn mischief. The girl was a menace. I eyeballed the water she offered me. I eyeballed the teensy rabbit food she offered for lunch. And I said no fucking way to eating cookie dough straight from the bowl when she offered me a taste, presenting the wooden spoon with a glob of uncooked dough stuck on it.
She gave a shrug, with, "Your loss. It's even better than cooked cookies," before licking the wooden spoon herself and making appreciative humming noises as she closed her eyes, chewing back the dough.
As the hours crawled by, I paced the room or slouched upon a stool at the kitchen island behind a tower of cookies and checked my messages. Or I covertly studied her as she cracked eggs into the mixing bowl as it whizzed half-melted butter and sugar, wondering just what the hells Wychthorn was. I'd felt ghostly touches of curious power slinking around my figure throughout the day.
I couldn't figure it out.
My family was breathing down my neck to find out exactly what she was. One of the reasons why we'd amended the Alverac was so I could visit her monthly and discover the truth to her dark power before her twentieth birthday.
We needed to prepare for her arrival at our estate in advance.
Because someone as fiery as Wychthorn wouldn't go down without a fight.
The girl hummed happily while she worked. The kitchen staff dressed in their chef whites, flowed around her as they continued their tasks for the day, cooking her family lunch, afternoon tea, and an early supper. And as she beat sugary butter and eggs, or pulled open the oven door to retrieve baked cookies, she offered banal conversation to which I either snarked back or gave one-word replies.
