Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,53

Everybody was tired, scared, and wanting to get some control back over their lives. But it was comforting. They had something concrete to do, something real. Making food had such an organic, personal warmth anyway—but it wasn’t until they were halfway through their second batch of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies, Lachlan following the recipe in front of him like a scientist follows the formula for high-energy explosives, that he realized there was more to it.

Bartholomew came up behind him, putting an absent hand in the center of his back. He had a clean Popsicle stick—Lachlan had seen a sugar jar full of them—and he scraped a little bit of dough off the side of the bowl with it and popped it in his mouth. Lachlan got a profile of that slow, lip-biting smile that had charmed him so very much for so long, before he said, mostly to himself, “A little salt, a lot sweet, true comfort and joy for all to eat.”

He gave Lachlan a quick grin and moved to where Jordan was manning another mixer full of chocolate muffin mix. He murmured something there too—something about dark and good—and then, in a sort of practical unconscious dance, he headed for his oven, which was beeping, to take a tray of snickerdoodles out using a specially insulated, very colorful oven mitt that apparently Cully had designed and sewn.

Lachlan turned off his mixer and caught Jordan’s eyes. “That thing he just did—the blessing of the cookies….”

Jordan frowned. “What?”

“He cast a little mini spell for the cookies to be okay,” Lachlan said. “Didn’t you hear him?”

Jordan’s lips quirked, and he laughed suddenly. Bartholomew scooped each individual snickerdoodle onto its cooling rack with the delicate care of a master porcelain worker with a figurine. “What?” he asked, seemingly still in his baking daze.

“Finish up this batch, and let Josh and Kate wrap them,” Jordan said. “I’ll tell you all when we break.”

In another half hour, Alex was washing the last of the dishes, Josh and Kate were seated at the table, wrapping baked goods, and everyone was having a well-deserved beer.

“You going to tell us what was so funny?” Alex asked from his post, stacking baking trays with precision.

“Not funny—just something none of us noticed before.” Jordan took a swig of beer and closed his eyes for a moment. “So, everyone, who’s the most powerful practitioner in the coven?” he asked.

“You are.” The opinion was unanimous, and everybody clinked glasses, but Jordan laughed softly.

“Maybe. I used to think I was first and Dante was second, but I don’t think that’s true anymore. If it ever was.”

“Well, who else is up with you guys?” Kate asked, puzzled. “Not me—that’s for sure. Josh, did you suddenly get better?”

Josh’s brown eyes grew big, and he looked around in surprise. “No, my beloved, I’m still the one everybody lets tag along ’cause I’m pretty.”

“I thought that was me,” Alex said dryly.

“You’re all stronger than you think,” Jordan said, with the frustrated irritation of a first-rate teacher. “But it turns out, one of us was super strong all along; he just channeled his ability into something else entirely.”

“Oh!” Lachlan said excitedly. “Oh my God, seriously?”

“What?” Bartholomew asked, looking dazed and tired and, oddly enough, content. The baking—it was as much a part of him as his name. “Who else is as strong as Jordan and Dante?”

Lachlan rubbed a little circle between Bartholomew’s shoulder blades, gratified when he relaxed into Lachlan’s palm. “You are, baby,” he said softly. “He’s trying to say that the thing you did last night, where you cast a spell over all your baked goods—that wasn’t an anomaly. It’s just last night you were sad about me, so your baking got wonky. Most of the time, you want to make people happy, so your food makes people happy. That’s where you were putting all your power.”

Bartholomew rolled his eyes and leaned his head against Lachlan’s shoulder. “Who cares?” He yawned dismissively. “Are we any closer to figuring out Dante and Cully?”

Lachlan and Jordan met amused eyes over his head. Bartholomew wouldn’t care, would he. It wasn’t about power for him. It never had been.

“Well,” Jordan said slowly, “first we need sleep, and we need to see the ending of your story. Then a meeting where we figure out what everyone else should probably do to fix their own magic twist. And then we need to all, with full power, converge on their house and try to put one of your amulets over each