Page 174 of Memories Like Fangs
Quinn caught me before I fell to the floor.
“You’re okay, Sweetness. I’ve got you.”
“You always do,” I murmured softly.
Quinn chuckled softly. “Damn right, baby.”
Her arms wrapped around me carefully to not jostle me as she eased us down. As if I could ever be uncomfortable in my girl’s arms. She was so strong. So safe. Her hands were somehow everywhere at once—cradling my face, brushing my locs away, holding tight to me like she could hold me together with her strength, will, and love alone. Quinn was so warm. Her scent that surrounded me smelled just like she felt: a cozy bonfire on a cool day with chocolate melting between marshmallows and graham crackers. I leaned into her, allowing my head to settleonto her chest. Her heartbeat thudded in time with my own, perfectly in sync.
Around us, the starlight of the sapphire fragments flickered along, too. They lingered, suspended, and free from the confines of the ground and decidedly not falling back toward it. Fractured as they were, their jagged edges glinted with new shadows of color, giving the illusion of still being whole, healed, and standing. Their inner lights pulsed brighter, steadier than before. Their humming, once a whisper of our legacy, had swelled into something melodic, alive, and persisting. Their radiating gentle warmth felt like being wrapped up in arms I hadn’t felt in years. They orbited like celestial bodies, weaving constellations inside the ribs of the earth. Every shard of sapphire beat with something beyond me, greater than me. They held my ancestors’ bones, blood, breath, and lives in their luminous hearts. Voices, memories, souls, and stories speaking of those who came before me and imagining who was still to come.
When a star dies, its soul escapes to find a home in the body of another being. This cave and her stones were now that home, but so was I. Their stardust lived in me. Their strength. Their joy. Their love. Their fire. Now, maybe I could finally live in something else that wasn’t mourning or survival mode. Maybe now I could burn beautifully and freely in this afterlife of a star.
Rage Room
QUINN
There was a streak of something on my cheek.
I was sure of it, just like I was confident there was powdered sugar dusting my eyelashes and eyebrows, a pistachio in my curls, and a fleck of butter on my chin. Now, whether that smear was chocolate, cake batter, whipped cream, fruit puree, or something else entirely was truly anyone’s guess.
It wasn’t like I had time to go check. Not when the clementine slices for the clementine cake had to be taken out of the boiling sugary mixture before they burned. Or, when the brown sugar matcha poundcake was starting to look a little too dense in one oven and the chocoflan was almost done with its second bake in another. The opera cake needed to go in the fridge to chill for the chocolate glaze to set fully over all of the layers. It was time to brûlée the tops of the lemon crème brûlée cookies. All of this after I finished brushing the baklava with the syrup for it to soak within the enchanted pan that turned over eight hours into just one, so it could be ready faster.
The scents of browned butter, citrus juice, caramelized sugar, espresso, and sweet cake clung to the air in the kitchen like a second skin, thick and heady. My ponytail had long given up any pretense of being a messy bun with curls coming loose fromthere to frame my face and graze my neck. Every part of me was dusted and smeared from my rolled-up shirt-sleeves, apron, and shorts, to my bare arms and legs. My hands remained the cleanest parts of me as I washed them of flour or dough every chance I could, along with the dishes I used. Nothing stayed in the sink for long, so I could use it for whatever the next dessert was when I needed it. I had stations for everything spanning the seemingly infinite countertop space: dirty dishes and tools in the sink, drying clean ones in the rack, ingredients waiting to be mixed, desserts ready for the oven, and finished goods garnished and pristine on display stands. It was an efficient, organized chaos. With all of my experience in front of an oven, my knowledge was more like honed instinct at this point. I never followed recipes, especially when I was baking. I knew exactly what to do based on the dessert name alone. So, I jumped between each dessert, my mind chasing the rhythm, flow, and grounding of action.
Ineededto do something and think of the next thing I had to do.
Because if I didn’t, my mind would stray tobefore…
I plucked the candied clementines from the pan to set them on a magic-wire rack to cool and solidify before I could put them on the clementine cake. Next, the brown sugar matcha poundcake would need to be taken out of the oven before it got dry.
I would never forget the way her body slumped against mine after the battle with Lilah. Fighting Lilah had torn her apart in every way possible. Her broken wings. Her ripped tail. Her cut-up scales and skin. The blood trickling from her ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. Despite how strong she had been in her victory, now she had never seemed so fragile.
I pulled the poundcake out of the pan by the parchment paper underneath it and set it on a wooden cutting board.Swirling with dark green and warm brown, the top had cracked just the right amount.Fuck yes. I turned to check on the chocoflan, toothpick in hand to see if it was ready to come out and cool before I put it in the magicked fridge to turn an overnight chill into an hour-long one. I would need to remember to grab the opera cake on my way.
I sliced my dagger hard into my wrist. Byrd had lost too much blood. Blood deepened and darkened the red remains of her dress, soaked my arm where I held her, and pooled beneath us. I felt her agony raking through my body, but I gritted my teeth through it. Seeing her like this was already like someone had cut me open and let everything flow out. I didn’t even let my blood pool in the cut before I pressed it to her lips. Her body shuddered. In her unconscious haze, her dragon instincts took over, and her fangs bit my wrist to summon more to drink. It didn’t hurt. I was too happy to see that my girl still had some fight left, that she was too stubborn to die. Her heartbeat grew louder and more stable. Her wounds started to heal. Her breathing steadied. Only when the blood stopped flowing did I allow myself to cry in relief.
Opening the fridge, I noticed the rumchata cheesecake I had made and placed there this morning. It still needed to be topped with whipped cream that I also needed to make. Taking it out and placing the chocoflan and opera cake inside, I was thinking of what flavor would best complement it.
Gods, I should have done more. Ishouldhave. Even if there was nothing that I could have done to break down that fucking barrier, I still wished I had found the impossible. I hated feeling so helpless. All I could do was watch Byrd fight Lilah alone. I knew she could take her on. I never doubted that, not once during the battle. Byrd was the most brilliant, terrifying, beautiful force I had ever seen in motion, and that was before her magic had lit up the cave like an exploding star. I just hatedseeing her hurt. She had won and given Lilah what she had deserved. I couldn’t be prouder of her.
But the sight of her afterward haunted me.
I inhaled sharply through my nose and exhaled heavily through my mouth. It did nothing to steady my shaky breath. Grabbing the torch, I went to the lemon crème brûlée cookies. How would I decorate the clementine cake?
There was the question of what to do with Lilah’s body. Everett, being a government agent at the Department of Supernatural Operations, reached out to a contact at the Witchcraft Division for legal insight. They said that she was in the hunters’ jurisdiction, confirming what I suspected to be the case but hoped wouldn’t be. Cursing the stupidity of bureaucracy, I called Mama. She confirmed that since she carried hunter blood, I would have to bring her home to be turned into the Council. She said it as a fact that hurt her to speak aloud. There was also a weariness I could hear in her voice. She sounded quiet and tired in a way that made my chest ache. She couldn’t keep going like this anymore. Fifteen years of holding the damn title that wasn’t meant for her had taken a heavy toll on everyone, and I didn’t want this any longer. Not for her. Not for the family. Not for me. As I looked at Byrd sleeping in my arms, her magic so depleted from her fight that I could barely make it out in her bones, I couldn’t help but feel that none of this was how things were supposed to be.
My turn was long overdue.
But, how could I take over withhimlooming in the shadows?—?
A sharp shock lanced up my spine like I’d been brushed by an exposed live wire. My throat tightened, my breath stealing from my lungs. The sensation made me squeeze the piping bag of salmon-pink raspberry and peach buttercream I was preparing so hard that it spilled over the opening.
Oh, how I adored the ancient hunter laws built into my blood and bones.
Rolling my eyes, I moved to fix the piping bag and continue filling the rest of it. Once the bag was done, I would need to flip half of the pale orange macaron shells, pipe those halves, and assemble the macarons. I ignored how much my hands trembled, focusing hard on getting this done to move on to the next dish.
Byrd slept for a week straight. She didn’t shift back to her full human form. She barely stirred. Her brown skin and scales had been so pale under the warm, dim glow of her string lights and crystals. Most nights, I stayed awake to watch her chest rise and fall. When she shivered, I pulled her in closer to me and added another blanket, even though I was already sweating under the heat of all of them and the room itself. When I felt the tremors of a nightmare through our bond, I whispered softly and massaged her sweetly until she calmed. When she turned over after a few days, I tucked the blankets around her again. Every day that passed, Byrd grew stronger, her color returning and her wounds healing like nothing had happened. Even if it was just minor improvements, it was something to help ease my impatience and worry. When she woke up three days ago, she was groggy but smiling. I remembered what joy felt like.
