Page 34 of Woods of the Raven

Pulling a brown paper package out of the Birkin bag she was now carrying, she untied it to reveal chicken hearts.

“That’s disgusting. And you’re carrying that around in your purse?”

“Of course I am,” she said to the cat, using the ridiculous voice saved solely for him, beaming at the cat as he, indelicately, ate. “I would do anything for my angel.”

I was going to tell her that he probably wasn’t that hungry, having eaten a vargr and some kind of fae the night before, but those were secrets, after all.

“And I told you before,” she said, glancing at me, “Chief MacBain is not for you.”

I nodded because she was right but asked anyway. “And why not?”

She cleared her throat. “I have observed him for months and can say, unequivocally, that there is not an ounce of imagination in that man. He can’t conceive of anything that isn’t decidedly logical and could never, in a thousand years, appreciate your magical gifts. He’s duller than dirt, Xan, and you need someone with an overdeveloped sense of wonder and whimsy.”

She had a point about him not being able to grasp my magical abilities, but she did have something wrong. “He’s not dull. He may be a lot of things, but he’s definitely not that.”

“If you say so,” she placated me.

I sighed deeply.

“Do I think you need to get laid?”

I nodded again, more vigorously that time.

“Yes, you do,” she answered herself. “And in that vein—”

“No,” I whined, and I wasn’t proud. The night before, in all that time, there had been no whimpering, but today, now, faced with my friend, there was.

“Yes,” she said loudly. “There’s a charming man, new in town, and he’s opening an adorable bakery and sandwich shop over in the Ulster building, the one right next to the bridge overlooking the river. You should see the outdoor seating area he’s got. It’s lovely, just like him,” she stressed.

“It won’t be lovely under four feet of snow,” I said snidely for no good reason other than being in a rancid mood.

She glared at me. “He added a delightful canopy for the winter, along with a fireplace and heaters. We should have lunch there.”

“Why?” I sounded petulant, but I was tired.

“Because it’s nice to have lunch out, you cretin.”

I grunted.

“Tomorrow?”

I lifted up the witch’s ladder in my hand.

“Fine, next week. We’ll—oh!”

“Don’t do that,” I snapped at her. “You always gasp in the middle of a sentence when you have an idea, and it’s terrifying for the rest of us because it sounds like you’re dying.”

“What?”

“Your six-year-old yelled at you when we were picking pumpkins at Reed’s Orchard because you did that.”

“Tobias is a very sensitive child.”

“He is not,” I groused at her. “Or yes, he is, but not how you’re implying he is. He’s empathetic to others, but you drive him nuts, especially when you call him Tobias.”

She hmphed.

“And gasp.”