Page 119 of An Invocation of Monsters

“You convinced me a long time ago,” I said softly. “I just wasn’t ready to admit it yet.”

I let go of the old Elle, the one who kept everyone at arm’s length. The one who had falsely convinced herself that she needed no one.

I did need them. I would never be happy again without them.

I didn’t care what I was, just as long as I had my little horde of monsters with me.

One way or another, I was staying with them.

And then my stomach rumbled audibly, ruining the moment.

Kiraxis looked concerned. “You have grown a little thin, Elle. You must eat. I am neglecting my duties as your mate.”

I managed to stand up with Drazan’s help. My leg muscles were still basically overstretched rubber bands, but by God, I could make it to the kitchen. “How about I eat, and come back?”

Drazan nodded, and Kiraxis and Toth practically dragged me to the cave.

“Return soon, Elle.” One of Kiraxis’s ears twitched. “There is a pressure in the air, a change coming. I do not like it.”

I could feel the pressure as well, but it was faint, barely noticeable. Maybe I was just distracted enough to not feel it. “I will. I love you.”

I smiled impishly and kissed his wide snout, and then kissed Toth.

Mine, mine, mine! Horny Elle howled in triumph.

Fine. She’d won. I wouldn’t begrudge her victory.

They helped me up to the underside of my bed. I quickly pulled on some clothes from my duffel bag, noting that I was hitting a critical point—I had one pair of jeans left. I’d make an online order and have it shipped to the post office in Dunwich, since I was planning to stay for a very, very long time.

Like, forever kind of long.

I pulled up my hair into a bun as I headed to the kitchen on bare feet, smiling to myself.

Everything was great. Glorious, even.

But the kitchen was silent when I pushed the door open. No Eurotrash techno rattled the cabinets.

“Hello? Tater?” I stepped inside, my smile becoming a frown.

There was an antiseptic smell in the air. All of the metal work surfaces were polished and disinfected; not even the lingering scent of food remained.

But there was a paper on the island, next to a casserole dish of cherry cobbler that looked like people had already dug into it with their hands.

I picked it the paper, and managed to decipher the chicken scratch: it was a notice of resignation, effective immediately, signed by Tater.

He was gone.

I let the paper flutter back to the island, looking around. As sad as I was to see a chef like him leave, I could still fend for myself. There were likely groceries left in the fridge; they just wouldn’t be amazing, Michelin-starred dishes.

That was okay. I could live on bologna sandwiches for a while. I’d done worse before.

I turned to the industrial-sized fridge, still lost in thought, and something moved at the corner of my eye.

I didn’t move in time; all I saw was a blur of white and red, a glimpse of iron.

Then the pot came down on my head, and after a nuclear burst of pain and a flash of white, there was nothing at all.

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