Page 74 of Veil of Blood and Bone

“Thank you.” The first sip stings my insides.

The stains decorating the inside of the mug are intricate, a psychologist’s ink blot dreams. But who gives a shit? She’s here. It’s her.

Nicholas wraps both hands around the cup like he needs the burn. Like pain helps. He drinks his coffee black and scalding, probably because he deserves it.

“Will Forest be okay?” Her voice shrinks.

Helene grabs one of the quilted throws she keeps in an old basket near the couch, draping it over her shoulders. And when she snags a free seat from the table, when she sags like her knees have stopped working to hold her up, her mouth twists in thought.

It’s a slow bleed from reality into fantasy. From denial to acceptance.

We’re strangers in her life and she can’t make sense of our sudden appearance. There are no tricks or costumes to make this look like the drama we’re introducing her too.

Maybe magic and costumes will speed this along.

“He’ll be fine.” This question is the easiest to answer. “Give or take a few hours. The force of his memories returning isn’t easy. It always happens this way.”

“Never this fast,” Nicholas growls.

Helene’s eyes crawl to mine. She hooks her fingers through the large loops of the crocheted blanket and her expression scratches my own memory. I study her, the familiar lines of her facial features, an impression of the fallen Valkyrie in the image of a modern woman.

“I don’t know what to make of this. A caffeine coma isn’t a great idea but it’s the only thing I can think of right now,” she says skeptically, her voice faint. “Magic. Isn’t it? Why no one came to help with the troll.”

She shifts again, and the light hits the spray of freckles across her cheekbones.

“At least no one was hurt,” she adds.

Nicholas is slower to move. He pries himself away from the wall and gingerly examines the coffee.

“You clearly saw. I didn’t poison it.” Helene takes a long sip to prove her point and disguises her wince when she burns her mouth. “It’s fine.”

It’s swill, but I’m not about to tell her differently.

“He’s an asshole. You’ll get used to it,” I tell her.

Translation: he’s trying very hard not to eat you.

“Chipper prick,” he grumbles, firming up his posture.

“It’s one of my many gifts.”

Helene stares into the depths of her mug, clutching its familiar girth. The coffeemaker gurgles out the rest of its brew but the half inch she’d left at the bottom has already scalded, ruining the batch.

She shakes her head and scrunches her nose. “Can we please move past the insults and on to the hallucinating and landing myself in a fucking psych ward? Did the man in my bedroom turn into a bird?” she asks. “Or did he drug me?”

I want to pull her into my lap and keep her there until the world stops trying to kill her.

So naturally, I nudge her knee instead.

“A raven.” Nicholas answers facing the windows.

We’ve barely begun and he’s already settled into his typical grouchy, I’m-too-afraid-of-hurting-her-to-be-anything-but-an-asshat bullshit.

“So is he a raven or a man?”

“He’s both, Helene. Does it scare you?” I brush my knee against her thigh and pretend it doesn’t invalidate me when she shifts away. “He’d never hurt you. None of us would. We’re here for you.”

Nicholas flinches. Scarcely visible.