Artem struggled to get it down, but he’d be damned if he let it show on his face — evenifhis Chosen was quietly laughing at him.
“S’delicious,” he mumbled.
“I’m gonna bring it to the Moonset potluck,” Emilia exclaimed, chest puffing.
“O-oh,” he choked, trying to ignore the way Paloma had hurriedly turned around to face the sink. Of course, he could still see her shoulders shaking, which really negated the gesture.
Setting the rest of the uneaten slice on his plate, Artem sank onto his knee to pull Emilia in for a hug. He had to clear his throat first, but he managed to rasp out, “I think that’s a great idea. How about we do it together next time?”
“Okay,” she replied, “but Mama gets the first slice!”
“Of course she does,” he agreed, sending his grinning Chosen a look that promised retribution. “My sweet treat gets first dibs on all sweet treats.Especiallythe green ones.”
Tank’s Worst Gift Ever
There werea lot of reasons to spend Burden’s Moon alone. Contrary to popular belief and what the media’s holiday industrial complex liked to push, it wasn’t an inherently magical time of year or a mandatory activity.
For people like Tank, it was best avoided at all costs.
He’d seen enough fires when he fought on the front lines, and all the noise and singing and fireworks were a sensory nightmare for a man like him. Not to mention the pressure that came with gift-giving, as well as the pity invites to feasts from well-meaning folks who knew a little too much about his situation.
So he didn’t have a clan. Big whoop. It was more convenient than anything else. He didn’t have anyone to make excuses to every year.
He could do exactly as he liked, which was usually working in his garage until the sound of fireworks became too much. Then he’d shotgun half a bottle of whiskey, put his ear plugs in, and pass out in his nest until noon the next day.
So far, things were going exactly to plan.
Rock music thumped from the speakers in his garage, drowning out most of the noise of his small town’s celebrations, as he lay on his back beneath his neighbor’s truck. The roller’swheels squeaked as he pushed himself a few inches, trying to get a better angle on a stubborn bolt.
“Fuck me, Tim, when was the last time you changed the oil on this thing?” he muttered.
It was a common misconception that ranchers and farmers took better care of their vehicles than city folk. The truth was that they knew just enough to run the poor mechanical beasts into the ground. Tank hadn’t been out of work for more than a day at a time in Montague since he set up shop.
There was always a tractor on its last legs that needed servicesright just nowor a truck that’d somehow managed to run with its engine block held together by shoelaces and duct tape. Unlike in the city, his services werealwaysin demand.
Tim wasn’t the worst offender in town. In fact, he normally did his damndest to avoid bringing his trucks in for servicing because he thought he was a pretty decent self-trained mechanic. But he’d noticed the truck making the oddest noise that morning and couldn’t seem to diagnose the issue no matter how hard he tried, so the gift of a Burden’s Moon distraction had been delivered to Tank’s garage just in time.
The roller squeaked again as Tank struggled to get the bolt to move. Gritting his teeth, he tried putting some real muscle behind it. Planting his boots firmly on the concrete floor and quickly locking the roller’s wheels, he yanked hard.
The roller squeaked again, louder this time, just when the bolt finally began to give. Except he hadn’t moved. His feet were firmly fixed to the ground and the roller was locked.
Tank froze.
Below the thumping music and the sporadic, hair-raising blasts of fireworks outside, there was nothing.
Then, almost too faint to be heard, there was another squeak.
“Aw, fuck,” he sighed, dropping his wrench. Rubbing his eyes with one grimy hand, he listened to yet another squeak that sounded suspiciously like a meow.
You tell people to check their fuckin’ cars during the winter and they never do,he silently grumbled. He’d lost track of the number of cats, squirrels, birds, and even racoons he’d pulled out of engines and wheel wells. He’d certainly done enough to recognise the sound of a kitten when he heard one.
It took the better part of two hours and a stiff drink later, but eventually he spied the big yellow eyes of a kitten lost amongst the tubes and valves of a greasy engine. “All right,” he growled, shoving his hand down into the toasty little hole the feline had taken refuge in. “You don’t belong there. You want to get burned up or something? You do that andI’llbe the one scraping your toasted fur out.”
Tiny claws and even smaller fangs gave a good fight, but they were no match for his orcish hand. Pinching the scruff of the kitten’s neck, Tank hoisted the stowaway out with as much care as he could under the circumstances.
No bigger than the size of his palm, with a grease-smeared white coat and one brown patch over its right eye, the thing couldn’t have been cuter if it tried. And itdidn’t.
A mighty hiss curled its whole tiny body and showed off pale pink gums as it attempted to assert its dominance over the orc holding it captive.
