Page 90 of Lunar Desires
Pfft. I was hardly in a light state of mind. More like restless, totally lost, and ready to scream the roof off this mansion.
After a hot shower, and light-years away from sleep, I came downstairs to make my one and only specialty—chocolate chip cookies.
The last time I’d seen Drake, he’d told me the witchcops had killed the other Uncle Jonathon, acquiring another stone—meaning we now had the red, yellow, green, orange, purple, and blue. Only the pink remained with the leverage part of my uncle, stuck in Faerie.
How did you get those stones, arsehole?
Aaron had identified more details about them. Destroying themdidtake a great force, resulting in a destructive explosion. Also, there was an interesting detail about them slipping away from the non-fae as a result of failure. Which explained Uncle Jonathon’s baffled reaction over us having them.
Nasty little things.
After me almost burning to death, Drake scooped me off the ground and carried me to a car the witchcops provided and drove us back in silence, me sobbing in the back seat. In a ball, not coping. Then he’d put me in my bedroom, kissing my cheek.
“I’m so sorry,” he’d said. “I’m here if you need me.”
He’d come back with the updates, but I hadn’t seen him in two hours.
Okay, fine. I’d surmised he was giving me space, not avoiding me. So, I could stop being a sulky little biatch. Ugh. And I wasn’t mad at him for shooting me. What choice did he have? He’d been smart to stop me.
Check me out, not being mad. Something to throw in the face of the darkness.
As I prepped a third batch of cookies, I winced as the memory of my arrogance flashed behind my eyes.
I’d been so convinced breaking the blue stone would kill him. So sure of myself, so consumed with rage it blinded me to everything other than getting one up on him.
“No more,” I told myself. “No more.”
Being emotionally battered and bruised left me exhausted. Whatever power hummed in me from the moon, I didn’t care. I just wanted peace and cookies and to hide away for at least a week.
With blobs of cookie dough all lined up, I slid them into the oven.
This house would be kept in sugary treats for a good while. I had a lot to bake before the night was through. And since I didn’t want to wake anyone with karaoke, I chose baking as my coping mechanism instead.
The memory flashed again, my stomach in knots.
If the stone had broken…
No. This was all about cookies, not death.
So much had already been about death and blood and all the bad stuff.
“Just let me have this,” I said, preparing another batch of sugary goodness.
Erin found me later,just after midnight, surrounded by tub after tub of cookies.
I sat on a stool at the kitchen island, mulling over the possibility of going for thirteen batches of cookies. You know, to make a baker’s dozen worth.
“This scent is enchanting,” she declared, a notebook in her hands. “A midnight snack may be in order here.”
She was a big fan of my cookies.
“Help yourself.” I gestured to the sweet treats.
Rather than indulge, she pulled out a stool, laying the book on it. “I’ve been looking for this for months.” She gestured to the black-and-gold tome, an embossed, golden Mickey Mouse on the cover.
“What is it?”
“Your mother’s diary.”
