Her amber eyes swing toward me, huge and pleading. “Mommm.”
“As you wish,” I say, pulling a little cube of chicken out of the open corner of my hand pie.
She gulps it down, then hits me with the big, pitiful eyes again.
“Let Skye eat,” Luke growls. “You already had half her breakfast.”
“But this is chicken!” She jabs a paw toward my lunch.
“Eggs are chicken, too,” he counters.
“They are not!”
“Where do eggs come from?” He lifts an eyebrow.
“Chickens,” my cat mutters.
“And what do eggs turn into?”
“Also chickens.” Her tail flicks. “Stop with the logic. Logic and stomachs havenothingto do with each other.”
I chuckle and take a big bite. He’s right that I’m hungry. Not eating breakfast finally caught up with me. But I alsoknow how to appease my cat. I save another chunk of chicken, hiding it in my hand until I finish my last bite. Then I hold it out for her.
“Yesssss,” she hisses in delight and gobbles it up.
Luke, who’s already eaten four meat pies, offers me the last one.
I wave it away and reach for one of Pepperpot’s cinnamon rolls. “You have it. I’m ready for dessert.” I halt with the pastry halfway to my mouth, transfixed as he devours his food.
He finishes the hand pie in three big bites, his fangs sinking through the pastry with an ease I find panty melting. It speaks of strength and appetite, of a dragon able to lift me overhead when we dance or fly through the air, cradling me in his arms.
Luke picks up his cinnamon roll and takes another of those all-consuming bites, his groan of pleasure lighting up my whole body. Then his eyes snap to me with a frown. “You’re not eating.”
“Just needed some coffee first,” I lie, snapping up my cup and downing half my cinnamon latte in one go. The cinnamon roll melts in my mouth, fluffy and light and with the perfect blend of yeasty bread and sweet spicy goodness.
Luke stalks from the room with our empty containers and returns carrying a damp washcloth, which he uses to wipe my hands. His touch is sure and competent, and every stroke of the damp fabric makes my skin tingle.
“There.” He lets go of me. “You can touch the book now.”
I blink up at him, slightly dazed as his words penetrate. “Right. The book.” I give my head a quick shake and pull Catherine’s journal back to me.
It takes a couple more hours to finish, Luke hovering at my side the entire time, taking constant notes. I take fewer as her entries begin to smear together into the same routine day after day… without her ever sayinghowshe uses her magic.
“Fudging fudgsicles! There’s nothing here! I was so sure!” I turn the last page, frustration welling within me. “How can she write an entire journal on using book magic without saying a single thing about the rituals or words she used?”
“Maybe because shedoesn’tuse them,” he says. “The more I work with human witches, the more convinced I am that your magic is instinctual.”
I make an irritated noise in the back of my throat—one ofhisnoises.
“Do not give up hope.” Luke’s hand covers mine, his claw sliding between the pages to flip back to an earlier entry. “Reread this passage and see if anything stands out to you.”
“What is it?” I ask. “What did you notice?”
“I refuse to influence your perceptions. It leads—”
“—to bad data. Yeah, yeah. Got it.”
His lips quirk a bit on the left, and he taps the page. “Read.”
