Hail to the Queen (Witch For Hire 2)

“Of course.”

I toe off my shoes, and we move to my bedroom where we strip down and pull on oversized sweatpants and worn T-shirts. With the A.C. cranked up, the heat of the day remains outside where it belongs. Dressed down, we relocate to the kitchen. The rust orange pumpkins that stand out on the black curtain and wall bor

der make me smile. This is my happy space. I poured a lot of myself into this home.

“On a scale of buzzed to blitz what kind of Hurricanes are we making?” Fel asks as I gathered up the rum, passion fruit syrup, and lemon juice.

“Somewhere in the middle. I need to be able to tell my story, but I don’t want to be feeling any pain.”

I measure out the syrup and lemon juice and admire the healthy amount of rum going into the glass pitcher. It’s going to be an interesting evening. We break out the traditional Hurricane glasses and fill them to the brim. The sweet concoction burns its way down my throat and settles in my belly.

I lift the glass. “Much better.” Every queen needs a confidant. Who better than my own cousin, best friend, and a future council member to be mine? She’s going through similar changes with her own training, and preparation for a change in station. She can understand my position in a way few in my life can. “How’s your training going? I feel like one of us is always running off and fulfilling impossibly long to-do lists.”

“That’s because we are. It’s no secret we’ve been shellacking on the concealer to prevent ourselves from looking like the living dead. Things are coming up fast. I can only hope I’ll be ready. It’s a lot to take in, and I know,” Fel holds up a hand, “I’m preaching to the choir. How are things coming on your end?”

“A mixture of frustrating, overwhelming, and exhausting?” I shrug. “What are your adjectives of choice?”

“Slow, boring, and all-consuming. I’m spending more time with the elders than I ever wanted to.” Fel rolls her eyes.

“What do you talk about?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Rules. Ethics. Who’s who? Family histories, and how it affects their politics and relations to others on the council. Yadda yadda yadda. It’s a mixture of tradition, gossip, and people management.”

I grimace. “I can relate. I don’t envy you the one-on-one.”

“Yes, because you at least have pretty scenery to observe,” Fel whines.

“Trust me. It doesn’t matter what they look like when they’re running my human ass into the ground. There’s no such thing as taking it easy on me.”

Her brow furrows. “What do they have you doing?”

“Defensive training, sword training, because apparently, they cleave to the old ways even more than we imagined. With them, politics is a slippery slope as well. It depends on their age, rank in society, and in some cases their location. It’s a confusing maze of what to do and what not to do.” I shake my head.

“Holy crap, cuz. I think I’ll stick with the witches. And damn, no wonder your body is looking bangin’ these days.”

I giggle. “Small perk. What complicated creatures we both are.”

“What’s it like spending so much time with them?”

I pause as I think about how to answer her. “Desensitizing? It’s starting to become my normal. Things that unsettled me about them before are now simply a part of who they are. How do Muffuletta dip, Creole sausage balls, and spicy pretzels sound?” I push away from the counter. If we don’t get some food in our bellies, we’ll be leaving buzzed in the rearview mirror on the way to wasted.

“Perfect. Let’s get the dip going first.”

We continue to play catch up while we gather the ingredients, place the olives, and the pickled cauliflower, carrots, celery, and hot peppers we’ve picked form the drained Giardiniera into a food processor. We add the combination into a glass mixing bowl with cream cheese and chopped salami, then mix well.

“This smells heavenly.” I moan as Fel sprays the cooking dish.

“Wait till we add the mozzarella cheese and bake it.”

“I’ve been craving spicy junk food for days. I love the court, but their taste is over the top. I often wonder if their taste buds are duller post life.”

“It’s possible. You could probably write a book about them with all you’re learning.”

“Yeah, they wouldn’t take kindly to that. They’re so bloody secretive.” I roll my eyes.

“I can’t blame them, really. Our kind has been hunted and killed for being different for a long time. They remember it with a crystal-clear clarity we can’t begin to come close to.”

“It’s true.” We pop the dish into the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and move onto the Creole sausage balls. Thirty minutes later, we’re gathered around the table in the living room with Pretty in Pink playing in the background, our Hurricanes resting on coasters, and a mini feast spread out before us.