Parts of the kitchen have been modernized, but the flooring and cupboards are ancient, missing doors and tiles. The shifters are cooking something on a large gas range. Chili? And based on the shape of the loaf pans I can see through the glass front of the oven, maybe corn bread?
A dark-haired, dark-skinned shifter hovering over the massive chili pot with a large spoon in hand flinches when he accidentally meets my gaze. A brown-haired, heavily bearded shifter in the process of digging through the oversized fridge to my right opens his mouth, as if to call out to the reinforcements on the other side of the house.
“I’m leaving,” I say.
“We can’t let you go,” the cook says, still holding the spoon. “He’ll kill us.”
The blond shifter from down below slides slightly closer to a door that appears to lead to a back patio, adding, “He’ll kill our families.”
I tilt my head thoughtfully.
They all take a step back from me, bumping into the counters and the bare kitchen table tucked in the far corner.
“Your choice is doubly clear, then,” I say, ignoring a sliver of concern that runs through me. From their reaction to me, to whatever they can sense of my essence now that the previous Conduit vessel has been released to the universe. “Die now. At this very moment in time. Or die later. But him, you can maybe outrun.”
They glance between each other. The cook carefully sets down the spoon, reaching to turn off the gas burner.
“Leave it,” I say softly.
His entire body seizes as if I’ve shot him, then he steps back from the stove with his hands raised.
“This is fucking ridiculous,” the bearded shifter snarls, abandoning the fridge to step forward and lay a hand on my shoulder.
I don’t even have to reach for his threads. The universe intervenes for me. Apparently, it’s as impatient as I am for me to keep moving.
The shifter’s fingers brush the sleeve of my silk dress. He jerks away as if burned, then drops to one knee before me, clutching his chest.
He has a moment to take another deep breath, to look up at me in horror. Then that horror morphs into a weird kind of reverence right before he keels over onto the floor — all his threads snipped short.
The universe is seriously not fucking around today.
No one in the kitchen breathes for a beat. Me included. Then the three shifters nearest the various doorways bolt. The blond shifter from before helpfully leaves the door to the back patio open.
Shouts sound from farther into the house, likely the fleeing shifters echoing my warning. Unless they think they can rally while in retreat.
The cook remains staring at me. Pure worship is in his gaze, as if he’s just a moment away from falling to his own knees. By choice.
“Please don’t,” I say, loathing the look even as I remember the way I adored my aunt as a child, believed in her throughout my life. Even as she was supposed to be protecting me, I allowed myself to believe that the segregation — being banished from the estate and all that entailed — was part of my training, was necessary. Blind faith that I rationalized even as an adult.
“Goddess divine,” the cook whispers reverently, my disinclination to be worshiped not as clear as I’d hoped. “My life is yours. Please use me as you will.”
“You’ve already had your brain warped by someone with a god complex,” I say sourly. “You don’t need me in the mix. Is there red meat in the chili?”
He blinks, shaking his head to clear it. “Um, yes?”
I huff. “And is the corn bread ready?”
He gulps. “You want to eat? You want me to feed you?”
Right. Some shifters have a fixation about providing food for their … well, their loved ones. The Cataclysm’s weird ‘from one god to another’ mutterings echo through my mind. That was about sharing food, him feeding me, as well.
I shove the remembrance away, trying not to wonder if my time trapped with him will haunt me for years to come. I also don’t try to solidify that exact timeline — how long I’ve been locked away. Not even in my own mind. I’m not ready for that yet. I keep a steady focus on the now.
The cook yanks open the oven, forgetting to use an oven mitt or tea towel before grabbing one of the loaf pans. Ignoring that his fingers have to be seared, he turns the loaf of corn bread out onto the counter. “Just keeping it warm,” he says. “Do you want me to cut and butter it?”
“No,” I say stiffly, crossing toward him.
He shies back, eyes downcast reverently now.
