Fathom (Mermaids of Montana #3) - Elsa Jade Page 0,55
from regular cabinets. Boxes and bags and other strangely shaped packages… Thomas turned to another waist-height cabinet and pushed a button and flames shot up!
Sting’s eye coverings flickered uneasily. “Can’t we just…eat what is right there?”
“We could. Milk, sugar, cocoa”—he pointed to each item as he spoke and put them in a container over the flame—“you could eat all those right now. And all would be tasty. You could even eat the raw eggs.” He indicated the convoluted box that cradled hard white shells. “But baking is about change, about alchemy, bringing different elements together in new ways.” He cracked the shell and separated the interior textures then added two white powders to the rich yellows. “Cornstarch thickens, and salt makes the tongue come alive.” He paused as he added a rich brown liquid, dark as Lana’s gaze and as sweetly scented as her skin.
Sting leaned forward attentively. “What is that?”
“Vanilla, a flavoring spice.”
“Salt and vanilla. These things remind me of her.”
Thomas smiled at him. “It’s true I’ve only ever known Miss Lana to be salty with you.”
Coming forward onto his toes, Sting stared at the other male. “I am pleased.”
“Ah… Yes. Anyway, with baking, heat and time and attention all matter.” He added the hot mixture to the cool, mixing gently, before putting it all back over the flame.
“It’s bubbling,” Sting noted.
Thomas nodded. “Smell.”
Sting leaned beside him, inhaling the dense and intricate fragrance. “Eat it now?”
“Not yet,” the guardsman chided. “Patience is part of baking too.”
“I can lie quiet and shift my breath without bubbles for a very long time and still have the power to swim through the night to kill my enemies.”
Thomas winced—perhaps he had burned himself on the fire. “Chocolate pudding doesn’t take quite that long.”
Under Sting’s watchful eye, the pudding thickened and the scent deepened, the same delicious way that blood had fed him before he’d been released from his cage. Thomas poured the concoction into disappointingly tiny containers of etched glass—so tiny that even his frail, non-webbed hand nearly swallowed them. He topped each with a tidy swirl of pure white fluff that he whipped up from another white liquid.
Sting let out a disgruntled grunt. “So little?”
Thomas gave him a look. “Even small things can be very pleasing when savored properly, wouldn’t you say?”
After a moment’s consideration, Sting returned the Earther’s bland stare. “I say you are teaching me more than chocolate pudding.”
With a laugh, Thomas arranged three of the glasses on a tray along with even more ridiculously tiny spoons. “And they said you were just a mindless killing machine.” He shook his head. “I know Tritona was at war for a very long time, and that you particularly waged more than your fair share of it. But I hope you can appreciate that not every mission needs to be pursued with the same…brute force.” He neatly folded three squares of fabric, pleating and knotting. “The cocoa mixture must be melted and smooth, taking care not to burn. The egg mixture must be stirred until silky, not beaten and broken.” He handed Sting the tray. “The fire transforms it, true, but only after you’ve taken the utmost care with the finest ingredients. And the whipped cream provides contrast between bittersweet complexity and simple indulgence.” He patted Sting’s shoulder. “Now, take that tray upstairs to the music room. I told the ladies I’d be bringing them dessert later, so they’ll be expecting this.”
Sting looked down at the tray. Though Thomas had somehow managed to bend the white squares of cloth into the fanciful shapes of seahorses, which was mesmerizing, the small glasses of pudding still seemed an insufficient offering. “I don’t know that Lana will want to see me,” he confessed. “We parted on crossing tides.”
Thomas patted his shoulder again, harder this time as if to propel him into motion. “That is why I’m giving you chocolate.”
As much as he trusted the other male, the glasses were so very, very tiny. With a nod, he spun on his heel, flaring the trench coat again.
“Ah, one moment, sir,” Thomas called. “One more quick lesson, if you don’t mind…”
Chapter 12
Lana sat on the plush pile carpet, eyes closed, her back against her mother’s knees while strong fingers worked through her hair, shaping her thick curls. Old-school tunes from Roxette crooned through the very nice jukebox—almost as high-tech as the Diatom—which had been her mother’s compromise between the classical music selections and the same lady death metal that had been on the SUV sound system.