Brave the Tempest (Cassie Palme) - Karen Chance Page 0,171

yes, she will.”

The expression on Hilde’s face was . . . kind of frightening.

I was suddenly glad that Rhea had escaped.

“I needed to talk to you anyway,” I told her. “I agreed to do an errand tomorrow and—”

The next thing I knew, I was standing in my darkened room with my mouth open but nobody to talk to. I was about to turn around, march out, and find Hilde. And explain that you didn’t just go around shifting your Pythia!

But then I saw my bed.

And, somehow, I ended up facedown among all the velvet, just miles and miles of it, still in my clothes but who cared because BED.

I’ll deal with it tomorrow, I told myself wearily. I’ll deal with everything tomorrow. Tomorrow simply has to be better than today.

Right?

Chapter Thirty-nine

Tomorrow was not better, although it started out that way. Tami woke me up with the breakfast of the gods, and I don’t mean just perfectly cooked bacon, fruit in a leaded crystal cup, and coffee that tasted—and probably was—freshly ground. But also—

“What are those?” I asked, blinking sleep out of my eyes.

“Pancakes.”

I blinked at them some more, and then poked them with a fork. But I poked carefully. Because the cake on top, the only one I could see out of a fat stack, was not the usual golden brown. Or, rather, it was in places, but in other spots it was . . .

“Rafe,” I said, looking up at her.

Tami nodded. “He arrived this morning. Said something about being useless until they fix the mess, whatever that means, and—” She caught my arm. “Where are you going?”

“To see him!” We’d hardly had any time to talk before.

“Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” I looked around, but didn’t see anything out of place. Just the door to the bedroom standing slightly open, and through the gap . . .

“Who is that?” I asked, because there were raised voices filtering down the hall.

“Uninvited guests,” Tami warned me. “Get dressed and shift to the butler’s pantry. I’ll make sure it’s clear.”

I sighed. But I did as instructed, dragging on a tee and some jeans, running a comb through my bedhead. Before grabbing my too-pretty-to-eat breakfast and shifting out.

The butler’s pantry was deserted, as promised, although there was more almost-shouting filtering in through the louvered doors. I peered out of the ones leading to the main part of the apartment, but couldn’t see much. Except for a bunch of leather coats, swaying in a nonexistent breeze, and crowding the small salon with the half-moon couches.

Well, crap.

I backed away and exited through the other door, into the kitchen. Where, sure enough, Rafe was holding court dressed in a huge apron and a chef’s hat, and wielding several squeeze bottles of various-colored pancake batter. More bottles, of every possible shade, were scattered across the countertop beside the stove, where he was frying up masterpiece after masterpiece, none of which were long for this world.

“Bird!” a little towheaded tot ordered, and arguably the world’s greatest artist paused to set down the bottles and jiggle the pan.

“Are you certain?” he asked somberly. “You would not wish a flower like your friend? Or a little cat? Or perhaps—”

“No! Bird!” she insisted, jumping up and trying to see into the pan. But she was nowhere near tall enough, and Rafe didn’t pick her up, for fear, I guessed, that the grease would splatter. But he did expertly flip the pancake a moment later and slide it onto a plate.

Which he then presented to the child with a grin.

“Bird!” she said happily, clapping her hands at the exquisite bluebird that resided in the middle of the nicely browned cake, its wings outstretched as if about to take flight.

Marco had gotten pretty good at making smiley faces, Pikachu, and Mickey Mouse. Along with various bug-eyed monsters that resulted when one of the aforementioned designs went wrong and he quickly added some horns or fangs to pretend that that was what he’d been going for all along. But they weren’t in the same ballpark as Rafe’s. Hell, they weren’t in the same universe.

“Marco’s gonna have to up his game,” I said, staring at the kitchen island. Where a bunch of kids were perched on stools, chowing down on priceless art.

“Marco’s busy with your guests,” Tami said, pulling up another stool for me and putting a place mat down.

“Do I want to know?” I asked her.

“War mages,” Raphael informed me, glancing over his shoulder with a frown. He had the same fondness for the Circle