“Never mess with a man’s chili, Goat Boy,” Alfie warned, ducking back inside to join me at the bar. The Werewolf’s hand clapped to my back as he got comfy.
“Especially not one with the Marsh at his fingers,” Segrid agreed, his Trollish smile so wide it looked like it might split his face. He was even more insufferable since mating Penelope’s sister Vivienne, but he had his moments.
“You criticize, then add seasonings to your own bowl.” Ben had a rumble to his voice and the red rimming his eye was more pronounced.
Studying him, I raised an eyebrow as he propped himself up along the other end of the L shaped counter, preferring to stand.
“He’s done it to you, too.” I didn’t need to guess. Will was a notoriously picky eater. Satyr’s taste buds were weird. A half Satyr, half human, or Faun, as he was referred to in Mordenne, were even worse.
“To my Penny,” Ben grumbled, his voice rumblingly deep.
“Ah…” I replied, because really, that sort of said it all. No one said a thing about the Cyclops’ woman, not if they liked their eyeballs in their head. As far as Cyclops went, Ben, as surly as he could be, was downright tame in comparison to others I’d known. His weakness was his female.
“Your Penny was looking lovely, Manclops,” Segrid began conversationally. “My Queen makes beautiful wearings.” Vivienne had been working with the weavers in Segrid’s Under to help them sell their wares outside of trading within their small underground hub. She’d recently started creating clothes tailored to specific Others and their needs. The venture was doing quite well from the sounds of it.
“You have like three accents,” Alfie said suddenly, frowning at the Troll King so hard the Troll’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Oh?” Segrid lifted his eyebrows archly.
“Yeah.” The wolf was gnawing at a bone. He had that look about him. “I’ve heard the way you talk with your lady, voice gets all thick and garbled, like your tongue is too wide for your mouth, and then you talk like this,” his hand lifted to wave lazily in his direction, “like now when you’re with us, and then,” he added finally, “there are times you speak perfectly, like a prim and proper fuss. Like you live in a dictionary.”
“Live in a dictionary?” Grabbing enough spoons and bowls, reclaiming the ladle to start dishing out my untainted chili, Will paused and glanced at the wolf.
“There’s bread in the bread box,” I said pointedly, because those two would pick at each other over nothing and I had no desire to clean burn wounds or chili off of the surfaces of my kitchen.
“I talk fine. No one cares. I like bread,” Segrid cut in, as if the Werewolf and Faun weren’t preparing to lambaste each other over, essentially, nothing. It was a weird, natural, Faun-Werewolf, animal rivalry thing. I didn’t understand it but I knew when a snit was coming on.
Argh. I felt so tired lately. If I didn’t figure something out, I worried I’d go like the way of my mother’s wood nymph half was known to do and go to ground andtree itfor a few years.
Dad didn’t understand my odd eccentricities, and gave me much less leeway than he did his mate with it. Add in some nymph related quirks to make things interesting... I grew up with a sense of embarrassment that only grew as I reached adulthood. I’d thought my shame was complete on reaching puberty and learning some rather disturbing things to do with my effervescent mother’s line, but there was nothing to be done of it. I was born this way. This was the way I was.
“You know what I mean, mushroom lover.” Alfie made a noise and tapped his now clawed fingertips along the countertop. I’d never been so thankful I’d opted to tile the kitchen and go for the less expensive countertops. He’d have gouged a wood top by now and Werewolves loved the sound of claws on laminate. Odd beasts, my friends were.
“As I was saying...” William called loudly as he filled a bowl and dutifully brought it over to me, then one for Ben, Segrid, and two more, one of which he set aside next to the stove, collected his spoon, and walked away from.
“Dick,” Alfie muttered, standing, vacating his seat, to collect his bowl.
“Don’t,” I warned them both as the wolf passed behind me and Will exited the kitchen. My tone brooked no argument.
Surprise filled me when everyone froze and turned collectively to watch me.
Shaking my head as the vines started to creep out from the holes in my shirt, it took me several tries to get myself under control. Mum always insisted I needed to let go, while Dad took me aside to lecture me on control. Nymphs were impetuous, emotional beasts—thank you, mother!—while Marshes were serious, all business and control.
They truly didn’t understand the dichotomy between Wood Nymph and Marsh-ian that resided within me. Mum should, but she openly admitted she was more in tune with her Wood Nymph half. It called to her loudest, and she’d accepted that.
“Bread, Gren?” Ben chose to cut through the tension, lifting his hand to wave a thick slab of French bread I’d made earlier this week in front of me. Without waiting for me to answer, he shoved a napkin and hunk of bread at me.
I was so surprised by the sudden and unexpected kindness, I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.
“Y-y-you used my name,” I spluttered finally, my stammer coming to the fore, but only momentarily.
“You’re depressed. It’s no fun to kick a man when he’s down,” he said with a shrug, his gaze dipping, and then dug into his chili with gusto.
“I’m not depressed!” I insisted. The silence that followed made everything really awkward. “I’m not,” I mumbled, glaring down at my chili.
“It’s good,” Ben tapped his spoon lightly on his bowl. “Thanks, green bean.” My lips quirked a little but I turned my head as he smirked.
Awww, now there was the antisocial, socially inept grump of a bastard I’d come to know.
