Page 25

To my delight, a small cat starts to emerge from the wooden parquet, somehow a cross between a brown tabby and an all-brown calico, and I immediately forget about the niggling headache.

His eyes are intelligent and golden as his paws himself out as if it's as easy as pulling himself out of a hole. That strange buzzsaw snapping noise sounds as he pushes himself all the way free, looks up at me, and chirps, an adorable kitty-cat chirp, as if asking me what's next.

"Oh, this is perfect," I tell the little cat and reach down and rub his head.

It's smooth and warm, like the floor itself, and not at all furry, which is slightly disconcerting, but not the end of the world. Heck, I asked for a little friend, the floor gave me a little friend, and that's enough thinking about what that means for now.

"I'm going to name you Kirk," I tell it.

The cat rubs his head across my leg, and I beam down at him. "Man, I don't even need to get you a litter box. Cole never would have let me have a cat. I asked several times. Have always wanted one. But he told me they were disgusting creatures. Now I have my own disgusting creature, and I couldn't be happier."

Whistling tunelessly, I smile to myself and decide that Lachlan's bad mood is not my problem at all.

"Gotta go to the kitchen," I tell the cat. "I'm starving."

My stomach grumbles as I say it, and the cat prances in front of me with his tail held high, curved like a question mark.

Today, it's as if all the eeriness and strangeness of last night has washed away in the light of a new day. Sun streams from the high windows, and though I walk quickly to avoid being left behind by Kirk, I take my time marveling at the architecture and beauty of the house around me. There are sumptuous carpets in jewel tones in every room. Everything's decorated. There's no sign of the dust cloths that seemed to cover everything when we first arrived. It's as if it's all been magically scrubbed away. In fact, I can't even imagine wanting to touch any of these rooms. They're all done perfectly to my taste—charming and cozy and elegant all at once.

And by the time we make it into the kitchen, Kirk in the lead, chirping away at me, I'm completely besotted with this house.

When we walk into the kitchen, though, my jaw drops. Kirk jumps up onto one of the countertops, chirping at me merrily before settling in and licking one paw. I think about asking him to get down reflexively, then realize he's made of wood and probably beyond any type of admonishment.

The kitchen's somewhere between a gothic fantasy castle and a high-end restaurant. Exposed stone masonry in deep shadow. Gray limestone walls reach up into vaulted barrel ceilings with exposed, hand-carved oak beams. Warm, recessed lighting glows along the ledge where the stone meets timber. An arched stone chimney niche, where it looks like it could fit a whole ox hundreds of years ago to roast on a spit, now houses a massive, custom eight-burner brass and matte black gas range. Heavy copper pots and cast-iron skillets hang inside the alcove on thick, hammered iron racks. A twelve-foot waterfall island made of honed black soapstone absorbs the light. It looks like a polished slab of altar stone, but when I run my hands across it, it's cool to the touch. It's not prepped for a human sacrifice, but instead sacrifices to the baking gods.

Marveling at every detail, I run my hands along the surfaces, not quite believing what my eyes are seeing. Deep brass sinks with high-arched industrial faucets look like antique plumbing, but when I run my hand over them, they're clearly high-tech or magic, somehow set off by motion. I've read about things like this, but I've never been able to afford an apartment that had anything like this in my entire life.

Huge refrigerators are hidden behind heavy, carved dark walnut paneling that matches the rest of the gorgeous cabinetry. I lean up against it, completely stunned, until my stomach growls and I remember why I came here in the first place. I've never been much of a cook, not that I mind doing it. In fact, I like to cook. But my ingredients have been limited to what my budget could afford, which wasn't much, and a need for meals that were extremely quick.

Now, though, I'm faced with no schedule today, considering the university fired me several months ago. My research doesn't need to be done, considering I'm now living in my research.

"Pantry, pantry," I say out loud, looking to see what exactly this wonderland is stocked with.

There's floor-to-ceiling dark walnut display cabinets with fluted glass doors, and as I approach, they light up from within to reveal rows of apothecary jars filled to the brim with what look like top-of-the-line spices, hammered brass utensils, crystal decanters, and an entire array of modern chef's knives. The glass and walnut cabinet doors swing open to reveal another stone archway fitted with a heavy iron door.

Curious, I press the lever as Kirk chirps up at me from beside my ankle, and it opens directly into a walk-in cold cellar somehow carved into the bedrock beneath the house. A chill air wafts up toward me, and my mouth drops in shock at the stocked-to-the-brim shelving. There looks to be farm butter, baskets of fresh berries, crisp apples, honeycomb marked with a local farm's insignia, thick cream in clay pots, and even, hanging from hooks, cured meats the likes of which I've only ever seen in butcher shop windows that I never could have afforded. Everything smells clean and expensive—dried rosemary.

I turn around, looking for the scent of coffee, and sure enough, there are fresh coffee beans in a burlap sack on one of the counters behind me.

"Jackpot," I tell Kirk, and begin gathering ingredients into a wooden basket hanging on the back of the iron door.

My phone's completely dead, so there's no use in trying to look up the recipe I have in mind for today. Honeycomb, though—I can use that. I eye the honeycomb delightedly before figuring out how to use the knife and wax paper next to it to bundle it up and stick it in my basket with the rest of my goods. Butter, flour, cream, coffee beans, a dozen eggs. Considering how massive Lachlan is, I have a feeling we'll be using those.

And by the time I'm done grabbing ingredients, the basket weighs several pounds more than it did at the start, and I carry it out to the kitchen, absolutely over the moon with the strange circumstances I found myself in. Sure, people might be out to kill me, but it's not happening right now. And right now I have a chef's kitchen, a bunch of delicious gourmet ingredients, and I'm gonna whip up a breakfast that's gonna have that grumpy-ass bear eating out of the palm of my hand, whether he likes it or fucking not.

Ten

VIVIENNE

By the time Lachlan finally deigns to get over whatever snit he's in to join me, breakfast is made. The kitchen looks like a bomb went off. Sure, there's flour dusted over every surface, including my cheeks, but it smells like honey-roasted heaven. There's even maple bacon arranged artfully, if I do say so myself, and I do.

The pièce de résistance, of course, are the honey and blueberry muffins with brown butter, glazed in a honey lemon. It didn't take long to find the recipe at all, considering one of the cupboards held dozens upon dozens of cookbooks, and one of them was solely dedicated to honey-flavored treats. Which probably has everything to do with what the Midnight House history book told me last night. Honeyed words and honeyed cakes. And here I have made some myself.

I'm just finishing scrambling the eggs as he walks into the kitchen, stopping in the doorway with a look of consternation on his face.

"You made breakfast?" he asks, scratching the salt-and-pepper beard that looks freshly trimmed. His hair has been pulled back, too, the little silver-clamped braid tucked into a neat ponytail at the base of his neck. It makes him look younger, but no less rugged, and infinitely more handsome. His delicious jawbone's on full display.

My cheeks burn as I remember he saw me completely naked this morning, and I scrape the bottom of the eggy pan to make sure I don't burn those, too.