RISING (#2, of Crows and Thorns)

Chapter 58

Why couldn't I just grab what I wanted to eat and leave?!

Because the Chef took one look at me as I strode in, filthy and still wearing my weapons strapped across my chest and down my spine, and he'd ordered me into the corner. Crowther or not, he didn't care. This was his domain and in here I was a nobody. I would have bitten back at being disrespectfully spoken to, but he was the one with all the food and I was starving. I glared at everyone as I rapped my knuckles on the wood countertop in vexation.

Everyone but the Chef was on edge, and it wasn't what had occurred outside. It was because I was in here practically crackling with thunder. And I was in here because Tabitha Catt cleverly avoided me earlier when she passed around mugs of coffee and something to eat. By the time I'd weaved around the cluster of men and women trying to catch Tabitha's eye, she held her chin defiantly high as she blatantly ignored me and marched quickly down the pebbled path and back into the mansion. Astonished, I gazed around at everyone. They all had hot coffee to warm their hands and heat their throats, and comforting food to fill their stomachs against the chilly snap of dawn.

Everyone. But. Me.

I was fucking cold and miserable and starving.

STARVING!

Finally, thank Zrenyth, the cheesy scone slathered with melting butter was tentatively offered toward me on a small white plate. I wasn't sure the Purcell girl was even breathing as she kept her unblinking eyes on mine the entire time like I were some kind of wild beast that was going to bite her hand off.

Tempting.

Suddenly the kitchen door blew open.

It crashed against the wall with an almighty crack.

At the abrupt noise, the girl squealed and jumped in fright. The plate jostled and danced in her hands and then slipped from her loose grip. I sucked in a horrified breath, my stomach clenching in anger and hunger as I watched my delicious, buttery, cheesy scone fall onto the floor, butter-side down, with a splat. Oh my fucking gods!

Whatshisname-Osborne-Oswaine—I'd already completely forgotten it—stumbled inside huffing and puffing as if he'd run a marathon. He braced a hand against the steel counter where the junior chefs were slicing tomatoes and grating potatoes and sagged his hip against it.

The Chef and his brigade twisted around to see who had caused the ruckus.

Splaying his other hand across his heaving chest, Osborne-Oswaine canted forward, trying to catch his breath. His grimy, curly hair bounced stiffly. "Has anyone,"—he huffed out— "seen Varen Crowther? Please...I need to find him."

At this point he was unaware I was standing behind him, glaring down in dismay at my scone while the Purcell girl cautiously slunk away. I tried to get a grip on my simmering anger—and failed.

"WHAT THE HELLS DO YOU WANT?!" I roared, my hands fisted by my sides.

He jolted ramrod straight and slowly turned around. His blotchy cheeks paled and for some reason, he seemed to have lost his voice. All he managed to do was gape, and nothing but a squeak came from his lips.

I was just about to snap at him, to demand he spit out what he'd come to find me for when the edge of my awareness was brushed by something malevolent, ancient, and vicious.

The bright lights above us flickered and fizzed, dimmed and brightened.

Every single person froze. All that could be heard was the spitting and sizzling coming from the food being fried in pans or on the grill.

My skin prickled with goosebumps and all the fine hair on my body rose as the air began to thicken and thrum with oncoming dark magic. It pulsed in time with the footfall that trembled the floor beneath us like a distant rumble of an earthquake shifting through a mountain range.