Look Before You Bake (12 page)

So I do what I always do when I'm confronted with a big problem I need to solve: I bake. Baking sets me at ease, helps me relax, acts almost as a form of meditation. There's something about measuring out the flour, sifting it, getting tablespoons of brown sugar, about gently melting butter that acts like a balm on my soul. Knowing that I'm taking raw ingredients and mixing them and making something delicious. It's a tangible sign that I have control over the world, that I can make something greater than its parts. Tonight I don't want to make anything fancy. I just want a rich Victoria sponge cake. I'll make it double-layered, with that amazing blackberry jam as filling, and baker's sugar sprinkled on top.

I put on my little radio and get to work. Humming and singing, mixing and measuring, I feel the weight slowly lighten from my shoulders. I'll bake a cake, have a slice with a mug of tea, and I'm sure I'll draw the solution to me.

Instead, I draw Iminyë in through my kitchen window. She flits in like a little golden star, her wings blurring, her eyes wide with greed and hunger, and alights on the top of my blender.

My mouth drops open. I've got the bowl under my arm, a wooden spoon in the other hand, and my mixing slows, slows, and then stops altogether. We just stare at each other.

"What are you making?" Her voice is casual, but I can hear the burning curiosity beneath it.

"Iminyë?" I can't believe my eyes. She glows softly, like a candle flame. "What are you doing here?"

"Me?" She places a little hand against her chest in mock surprise. I can almost imagine her asking,
Moi?
"Oh, nothing. I was in the area."

"In the area?" I want to pinch myself.

"In the area. That is how you say it, no?" She sounds faintly annoyed, and scowls at me. "Didn't I say it right?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely. In the area. That's perfectly right." She nods, placated. "But – I thought you lived in the little glade up in the mountains? Do you – do you come down here often?"

"No. Never." She begins peering around my kitchen. "Hmm. This room looks tasty. It has delicious memories. Oh!" She picks up my favorite spatula. "I can smell a thousand cakes on this." She holds it to her nose and inhales deeply, as if it's a bouquet of flowers.

"I – thank you." I don't know what to say.

"What are you making?" Her eyes snap open as she lowers my spatula and stares sharply at me.

"Victoria sponge cake!" Her tone is so imperious that I blurt the answer out immediately.

"And that is?" She peers into my bowl.

"It's going to be a double-layered cake with blackberry filling. It has – well – a soft, spongy consistency, slightly vanilla, and if it's made right it's moist and fresh and goes well with tea." And I had thought Mrs. Strongmeyer from the Bake Off was intimidating. She's nothing compared to Iminyë's demanding glare.

"Then make it! Hurry!" She rises up into the air. "I'm hungry!"

"I – yes!" I finish stirring the batter, then pour it into two glass dishes I've already buttered. Before I can slide them into the oven, Iminyë flits over and sprinkles something on them from her open hand. I blink and look closely, but whatever she's sprinkled sinks right into the cake and disappears. I look up at her curiously. "What was that?"

"Magical yummy goodness." She says this firmly. "It makes everything better."

"Oh," I say. "Right. Well, into the oven they go." I slide them both in, close the door, and set the timer. Then straighten, not knowing quite what to say. "Does Soren know you're here?"

She looks a little guilty, and flies into my little living room. Lands on the arm of my couch, and picks up one of my romance novels. "
In the Arms of My Alpha
?" She looks over at me inquisitively.

I blush bright red and hurry over, but I don't have the temerity to pull it out of her little hands. "It's very good! It's – well."

Iminyë isn't listening. She sets it aside and pulls out a DVD case. "
Sleepless in Seattle
?"

"A movie?'" She blinks up at me, not understanding at all. "To watch? On TV?"

Iminyë blinks again.

"Here," I say, pulling the DVD out. "Watch." I turn on the TV, insert the DVD, and press play.

Iminyë leaps into the air as the movie starts, completely bewildered, circles the room twice, and then lands again on the couch arm. Her eyes are huge. "Little people are inside that box!" She looks to me and points at the TV.

How to explain? Luckily, Iminyë doesn't seem to want an explanation. She stares fixedly at the screen, blinking, mouth open. I sit next to her, and together we learn about Tom Hanks' problems. I watch Iminyë as much as I do the TV. She's fascinated.

When the timer dings, I pull out the cakes and set them on wire racks to cool, then return to the movie. Iminyë has crafted herself a little nest out of cushions and a throw blanket, and is absolutely absorbed. I get up twenty minutes later to spread the blackberry jam, set the second cake on top of the first, and sprinkle the sugar. Than I fix myself a mug of tea, cut two slices, and come back to the couch. I set Iminyë's plate before her and sit down on the other end. Take a bite of the cake, and almost double up with ecstasy.

Oh.

My.

Freaking.

God.

The cake is amazing. Whatever that magical yummy goodness was, it turned my Victoria sponge cake into something sinful, delectable, insanely rich and moist and devilishly good. I moan, staring at the slice in my hand like I don't know what it is. I see colors, I feel dizzy. It's all I can do to keep chewing, and when I finally swallow, I feel like I've just finished an amazing session of lovemaking with Soren.

"What." It's all I can manage.

Iminyë's cheeks are pouched out hugely again, chipmunk style. She glances over at me and puts her finger over her lips, then turns back to the movie.

"What," I say again to myself. I'm breathing quickly. I set the plate down as if it's dangerous. It
is
dangerous. I'm going to eat the whole cake tonight. I have no choice. It's that good.

I hear a knock on the door. Both Iminyë and I frown up at it. Who the hell? I set my plate and mug aside and rise to my feet. Iminyë burrows down deeper into her nest of cushions, but doesn't think of pausing the movie. I wipe at my mouth. Rachel, maybe? It's a small town. A safe town. Which is why I don't put the safety chain on. Which is why I just open the door wide, and see Gerry and an older man standing in my doorway, both of them smiling nastily.

"Hello, Anita," Gerry says, and shoves me back.

Chapter 12

"Get out!" I almost trip and fall. "Get the hell out of my apartment!"

Gerry steps inside, smirking, and the older man follows. He looks like some kind of nasty druid, with a dirty beard down to his chest and purple lips, a hook of a nose and ratty gray hair. He's wearing jeans and a jean jacket, and he smells of sour sweat and wet earth.

"Thought we'd forget about you, hey?" Gerry picks up one of my romance books, then sniggers and tosses it aside. Looks around my place derisively, then turns back to me. "Thought we'd just let you go?"

"I said, get out." I try to make my voice as hard and firm as possible.

Gerry glances at his dad, who shakes his head. "We ain't going anywhere without our fifty thousand. You got it?"

Oh, crap.
"Not yet. But almost. Tomorrow."

Harold – it has to be Harold – stares shrewdly at me. Examines me with a piercing eye, and then shakes his head. "You're lying."

"Lying?" My voice comes out a little too high. "I'm not. I just had dinner with Mr. Whitman. We're finalizing our financial arrangement."

Harold shakes his head. "I can tell. You're lying. You don't have the money, and you're not going to get it."

"Well, ain't that too bad." Gerry steps over to me and curls my hair around his finger. "Looks like we're going to get to know each other real well after all."

"Gerry." Harold's voice snaps out. "Show Anita some respect. She's gonna be your wife, not your whore."

Gerry goes pale and steps back. "Sorry, Dad."

"Don't apologize to me, you idiot. Apologize to her."

Gerry stares murderously at me. "I'm sorry, Anita."

I don't know what to say. Harold's seeing right through my lies. This is it. The moment of truth. The moment I've been dreading. I don't have the money. I'd rather marry Gerry than hand Iminyë over to Mr. Whitman. Some things are too sacred to ruin. I take a deep breath. But before I can answer, I hear footsteps on the stairs coming up to my apartment.

Heavy footsteps.

My throat tightens. I know that tread. I know that stride. I know who's coming up the stairs.

Harold and Gerry turn to face my door. Gerry sneers at me. "Late night callers, eh?"

"Shut up, Gerry," snaps his dad. "This could be trouble."

"Trouble?" Gerry goes pale all over again and steps back. "What do you mean, trouble?"

I clench my hands together and watch as Soren rises into view, climbing the last few steps to turn and face my open door. He's so massive that he fills the entire hallway. Blocks out the light, almost. My knees go weak with relief. Soren. Here.
Oh, thank you. Whoever is watching out for me, thank you thank you thank you.

"Anita?" His familiar rumble brings tears to my eyes. He stops in the doorway and frowns at the two men. "Is everything all right?"

"It's him!" Gerry's voice goes up an octave. "The guy who threatened me in the street!"

"Shut it, Gerry." His dad's voice is a hiss. Harold rolls up one sleeve and tongues his teeth. "This ain't got nothing to do with you, stranger. Just turn around now, and nobody gets hurt."

"Anita?" Soren ignores them both.

I want to cry. I want to run into his arms. I want to close the door and hide my dirty past from him. "Soren." It's all I can manage.

And it's all I need to say. He frowns, ducks his head, and enters my apartment. Harold steps back and raises both hands. I can see flickers of black electricity dance over his fingers. My mouth suddenly feels sour, as if I've licked a battery.

Soren stops, eyes narrowing. "A warlock."

"Harold Black, at your service. Now. For the last time. I suggest you leave, before you get yourself hurt."

Soren doesn't seem afraid. His eyes are smoldering with fury. I know him well enough now that I can see just how on edge he is. How close he is to releasing his bear, to attacking Harold and Gerry right here and now. "What do you want with Anita?"

"Money," blurts Gerry, almost hiding behind his dad. "She owes us money!"

Soren pauses. This he hadn't expected. He processes this, and then raises one eyebrow. "How much?"

Harold narrows his eyes. "One hundred and ten thousand. Ten up front, and the balance to be paid monthly in three-thousand-dollar increments."

Soren doesn't hesitate. "Done. I'll pay that now."

Gerry's eyes go nearly as wide as my own, but Harold only smiles. "That's more than acceptable. I don't accept checks, however."

Soren stares at him with contempt. "Tomorrow I'll draw it in cash from the bank. I'll see you outside Honeycomb Falls Cooperative Bank at nine."

The black lightning fades from Harold's fingers, and he smiles. "Done." He grabs Gerry by the arm. "In which case, we'll be leaving. Good night." Soren steps aside as Harold drags Gerry out the door, and we both watch as they descend the steps and are gone.

I can't breathe. I can't believe what just happened. I turn to Soren. "You –"

"Nita." He steps up and envelops me in his arms. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Tears come hot to my eyes. "I was ashamed." Saying it causes me to cry harder. "I didn't want to ruin our time together."

He strokes my hair, holding me tight. I feel so secure in his arms, pressed against his broad chest. "Shh," he says. "It's OK. It's over now."

"But..." I pull back. "That money. I'll pay you back. I promise I will."

He smiles as if I've said something foolish. "And what do I need money for?"

I blink. "But it's so much. You can't –"

"I can." His smile is rich with amusement. "I have plenty of money. These are the only moments I've found that it's good for."

"Oh." I literally don't know what to say. I stare up into his eyes, overwhelmed.

"And – there you are." His voice changes, going accusatory and exasperated. He's staring at the couch – at Iminyë, I realize, who has shrunk as deep into her nest of cushions as she can. "Stop hiding. I see you."

"Who, me?" Iminyë pokes her head out. "I'm not hiding." She sounds affronted. "I was getting cozy."

"Oh, really. And just what are you doing here eating cake, and watching..." He peers at the TV. "
Sleepless in Seattle
?"

"I can do what I wish! I am Iminyë, queen of the Elysian honey, matriarch of the peerless fields, the –"

Soren sighs. "Yes, yes. I know. But you can't just disappear without telling me. I sensed you flying into town. You know it isn't safe without me around to protect you."

Iminyë's eyes go wide with outrage, but before she can complain I hear Harold coming back up the steps. Now what?

Except it isn't Harold that comes up the steps. It's Mr. Whitman. Dressed all in black, and holding a nasty-looking gun in one hand and a little stick in the other. My eyes widen. No, not a stick. A wand.

Chapter 13

Soren immediately steps protectively before me. A low, dangerous growl fills the apartment. "Leave Anita alone. I've agreed to pay her debts."

"Debts?" Mr. Whitman blinks in confusion. "I'm afraid you have the wrong person. Though I believe you're just the one I'm looking for." He steps into my apartment. I don't know which to fear more – the gun, or the glowing wand.

Soren's growl deepens. Becomes truly menacing. "Get out of here," he warns. "This is your last chance."

"I don't take kindly to threats," says Mr. Whitman. "And – ah. By all that's delicious. Is that an Elysian fairy?" He's staring right at Iminyë, who's glaring defiantly back at him. "At last." Mr. Whitman almost crows with delight. "Oh, finally. At long, long last. An Elysian fairy of my own."