Your choice. Make it what you will.
“Argh!” I scowled at the phone and threw it on my bed, annoyed. With my hands on my hips, I stared at the painting, waiting for it to drip, though it remained motionless. “My boss says it’s my choice. And I choose for you tonotbe cursed. Got it?”
Silence. Not even a mocking drip.
“Great. Glad we had this talk.” I stomped to the bathroom, grabbed a towel, and shoved it under the frame. “For the record, my last swim lesson was at age twelve, and while I mastered the doggie paddle, it was only in the shallow end.”
No haunting voices. No mystery drips. Not even a suspicious ripple.
I took this as divine permission to return to my book.
4
At three Isent a text to my mom, the storm still whipping outside, but the snowfall had let up,
You still want me over there?
Yes. Are you not coming?
My mom’s reply made me frown. But I dressed, adding layers, and gathering Xavier’s chocolate cake for the trip.
On my way
I sent as I stepped out into the cold.
Across the Veil, storms were more like spectacles of crackling electrical hurricanes woven from pure magic. Xavier had warned me to stay clear of windows during the worst of it, though I’d never admit how often I’d pressed my face to the glass anyway, mesmerized by the dancing lights.
Here in the mortal world, the blizzard meant business. Empty streets stretched before me; sidewalks buried under feet of snow. I trudged through tire tracks, cake box clutched to my chest like a life preserver. My winter coat, hat, scarf, and mittensmight as well have been tissue paper for all the good they did. Each gust cut straight to my bones.
As another icy wind sliced through me, I fantasized about that stormy beach from my dreams. Warm sand. Salt air. Even nearly drowning seemed preferable to this frozen purgatory.
By the time I reached the front porch, my fingers were numb inside my mittens, my clothes were wet, and my face stung from the cold. I regretted not driving, but only because I thought getting my car stuck might have been a valid excuse not to come.
I knocked, shifting from foot to foot. The door opened and my mother stared at me with a forced, frozen smile on her face, though she stepped aside when she saw me.
“Luca, sweetie, come in.” Her gaze flicked to the glowing orange band on my arm, visible through my sleeve, marking my shifter variance, but she said nothing.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” I said awkwardly, holding up the cake box and stepping past her. “Brought dessert.”
“Oh, look at this,” my mother said as she took the box.
I closed the door behind me as she slid open the lid of the box. The cake was a masterpiece of death by chocolate delight. Three layers of dark chocolate ganache gleamed under the foyer light, with each tier separated by spirals of espresso-infused buttercream forming a subtle swirl design. Sugar balls clung to the sides like pearls, while ripples of frosting decorated the top like dark waves of chocolate foam.
My mom’s breath caught. “This is beautiful.” She turned the box to study it from another angle. “Never heard of this bakery before.”
As if I’d tell her the shop was across the Veil. “My boss’s favorite place,” I said.
“You’re still at the accounting firm?” My dad asked, appearing in the doorway from the living room.
Stepped right in it, hadn’t I?
“Ah, no. I’m a personal assistant for a CEO now.” Thatsoundedimportant, right?
Mom rotated the box again, revealing the chocolate waves crested into delicate sugar seashells. “This looks and smells divine.”
I gave her a strained smile. “Fit for a god.”
“Absolutely,” she said. “Let’s head to the dining room. Dinner is ready anyway.”
