Page 34 of The White Stag
Finnan and Cyrus were sprawled out on the bed, snoring. Theonlyreason Cyrus slept that deeply and not with one eye open was that he was drunk and next to Reagan all night. I tiptoed over to Finnan’s side of the bed and got right next to him. I blew that tuba right at him as loudly as I could.
“Who farted?” Finnan cried, falling out of bed.
Cyrus bolted to a sitting position. He saw me with the tuba, Reagan giggling in the corner, and Finnan crumpled on the floor with blankets and pillows on top of him.
“That’s karma, bitch!” Cyrus yelled.
Finnan threw a pillow at Cyrus.
“That’s just cruel and unusual, bitch. I never used the tuba when you were hungover.”
“You hid outside the bathroom and tried to scare me with it when I was taking a shit.”
Reagan took a running start and practically tackled Cyrus on the bed. He just grunted and caught her, but I knew he was enjoying this.
“I missed all of you so much.”
“Why did you assault me with my favorite tuba, you knob?”
“Reagan wants to talk to her ma but needs a pep talk. Hangover potion is made and in the fridge. And you had that coming. You didn’t like what I had to say when we were zeroing in on Alastair, so you said you had to piss and snuck off to grab your tuba. After that, you blew it every time I tried to talk.”
“That’s because it was a shite plan. And I’m not having that tuba in the house if you’re going to use it against me. So let’s get out of bed and get our pep talk on.”
Ha! The spite tuba was officially gone. Maybe we could have a moment of silence while Cyrus melted it like the last three tubas. I’d have to burn sage to cleanse the house of any malingering spirits of four spite tubas.
I just crossed something major off my to-do list. Getting Reagan home and taking care of Alastair was next. We just needed to give our girl a little pep talk.
Reagan
This shouldn’t be this terrifying. I had so many ideas about who my parents might be and what I would say to them if I could talk to them. Fae queen and king were not even remotely something I’d considered. The man I was terrified of feared my mother. I was about to ask her something she probably wouldn’t like, and I needed everyone close to her to tell me it wouldn’t be as bad as I thought it would be.
As soon as we left the bedroom, Tucker came stumbling out of the hallway. He had these adorable purple pajama bottoms on with cartoon centaurs, and his hair was messy and everywhere.
“What in actual fuck was that horrid noise?” Tucker yawned.
“Finnan’s spite tuba,” Oisin said.
“The tuba should be respected,” Finnan muttered.
“You deserved way worse than just one blast out that fucking thing,” Cyrus said.
“I’m not even going to ask, except why the spite tuba needed to be blown when we are all hungover,” Tucker said.
“Reagan needs a pep talk to speak with her mother,” Cyrus said.
“You could have just said that without the horrendous noise. Let’s do this.”
I was the least hungover person here for reasons I still didn’t know. I wasn’t hopelessly undomestic. Alastair might have controlled everything I ate for years, but I still technically knew my way around the kitchen.
“I can’t make fancy food like Finnan, but I can still cook while all of you drink that vile hangover potion.”
Finnan gave a shocked gasp.
“Under no circumstances will you cook for us. Oisin, do something, so I don’t have to kill you.”
“Sit and shut up. And if you bring up that fucking tuba again, I’ll stuff your fucking head in it.”
We all sat, and Oisin handed out tumblers with that potion in them. It had lids, so I didn’t have to see it, but I could smell it. Maybe it was weird that I wasn’t hungover and didn’t need to drink it, but I was mostly glad. It smelled vile.
