“How did I not notice any of this yesterday?” I ask Archie, not really expecting an answer.
“It’s easy to miss what you’re not looking for.”
Why does that seem like he’s talking about more than this house…
The moment I step into what I assume is the dining room, I’m assaulted by the scent of coffee, maple syrup, and something that smells suspiciously like decaying roadkill.
“Good morning, Rowan,” Iris calls far too cheerfully from the head of the table, her floral robe somehow even more flamboyant than last night. “We’re having pancakes and plotting doom. Sit anywhere you’d like, but maybe not there—” she points to the chair nearest her right hand “—that one’s cursed.”
I blink at her. “Cursed?”
“Oh yes, the last three people who ate there developed mysterious rashes in awkward places. Best not to tempt fate.”
Right. Totally normal breakfast conversation.
The table itself is long and heavy, polished oak veined with faint, glowing runes that pulse lazily under the plates like they’re breathing. Steam curls up from silver cylinders without lids, and the air around them smells like a hundred different kinds of coffee, each mug seemingly brewing itself to whoever reaches for it. When I step closer, a fresh plate slides into place before me with a quiet clink, as though the table anticipated me.
I’m surprised when I see Cade at the opposite end, considering Iris kicked him out last night. His golden eyes lock on me with the kind of focus that is too early in the day to process.
He doesn’t look away when he states, “You didn’t sleep well.”
“I’m glad someone was keeping tabs on my REM cycles,” I mutter, sliding into a chair two seats away from Iris and as far from Cade as possible without leaving the room entirely. The seat cushions adjust beneath me, molding like memory foam on steroids, enough to make me almost sigh.
“Coffee?” Liz asks, appearing beside me with a mug already in hand. Her hazel eyes glint like she’s in on some private joke.
“Absolutely. Make it a double shot of ‘how did my life get here’ please.”
She smirks but doesn’t comment. As she sets the cup in front of me, it fills itself with a rich, dark brew, steam curling upward in lazy spirals. The scent shifts—dark roast, vanilla, maybe a hint of cinnamon—as though my mood decided the flavor for me. I should ask, but I can’t muster the energy.
Iris claps her hands, the sound sharp in the quiet. A platter of pancakes drifts down the length of the table, landing perfectly between us, syrup already warm and glistening. “Ooh, I like that one! Maybe I’ll brew a pot of ‘existential dread’ next. I bet it would go great with scones.”
Nobody says anything. I merely blink, trying to decide if Iris is actually crazy or just wants us all to think that.
Liz slides into the seat across from me, unfazed by any of it, and a plate of scrambled eggs appears withouther lifting a finger. “The house has excellent intuition,” she murmurs, like that’s normal.
Iris continues, “Now that we’re all present, we need to discuss the next steps. Namely, how we keep you alive long enough to avoid fulfilling your destiny—assuming it’s the unpleasant, world-ending kind.”
I guess there’s no more pretending I’m human and shouldn’t know any of this exists. If I had wanted that, I should have stayed in bed longer.
“How about we put up some ‘No Murdering the Hollowborn’ signs?” Liz winks at me. “You know how supernaturals love their laws.”
Iris waves a dismissive hand, clearly missing the joke. “Oh, that would never work. Murderers have terrible reading comprehension.”
She’s got to be kidding me.
I drink my coffee and close my eyes as I let the hot liquid distract me for the briefest of moments. Yet, the only thought I can settle on is that I’m never going to survive this unless they lock me away somewhere, never to see the light of day again.
“I don’t think we’re comforting Rowan with our humor,” Liz announces, winking at me.
“Comfort is overrated,” Cade rumbles, his gaze still pinned to me. “Preparation is what matters now. They’ll just keep coming for her.”
The room tilts just slightly under the weight of his stare, and my skin prickles. Mostly from irritation, but there’s also something else tangled up in my emotions that I refuse to name.
I take another long drink. “Well, maybe I should just bepreparingto leave then.”
Iris leans forward, resting her chin in her closed fist. “That isn’t an option, darling. At least not until you’ve had training. And possibly a makeover. If we’re going to parade you around as the maybe-doom-bringer, you should look the part.”
I choke, a dribble of coffee rolling down my chin. “I’m sorry—what?”
