Chapter 113 Feed the Mothers or We Riot
Leela and Elder Thorpe stepped back into the warmth of the manor, the heavy oak door thudding shut behind them and cutting off the rising wind. The transition from the training grounds to the hallway was jarring—a sudden shift from the sounds of life, sweat, and rhythmic breathing to the quiet, ticking hum of strategy.
Damon and Elder Horne were waiting in the foyer, pacing the checkered marble floor and checking their watches with synchronized anxiety.
"Veda touches down in forty minutes," Damon announced the moment they appeared, grabbing his car keys from the side table. "Horne and I are going to meet her on the tarmac. Thorpe, you're with us. If she’s in a mood—and she usually is—we’ll need a united front just to get her into the car without her hexing the tires."
Thorpe nodded, buttoning his coat back up to his chin. "Agreed. She never did travel well. She prefers astral projection to rush hour traffic."
The three men left, a phalanx of grim determination, leaving the heavy door to click shut once more. As the lock engaged, the house seemed to exhale. The tension of the war room dissipated, replaced by the familiar, settling sounds of a home in the evening.
Leela leaned against the doorframe for a second, exhaling a long, shuddering breath she felt like she’d been holding since she first opened that accursed book in the study. She pushed off the wall and carried the jars of Iron Root and Jasmine into the kitchen, setting them carefully on the granite counter. They looked strange there—ancient, magical components sitting next to a toaster and a fruit bowl—but somehow, it fit.
The smell hit her instantly—roast chicken, earthy rosemary, caramelized onions, and the rich, savory scent of gravy bubbling on the back burner.
Her stomach let out a growl so loud and prolonged it might as well have been a wolf howl at a full moon.
She realized with a sudden, dizzying jolt that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. Between the horror of the study, the panic attack on the swing, the emotional purging, and the walk to the training grounds, lunch had been completely forgotten. Her body, however, was done being polite about it.
"Mom," Leela said, her voice sounding a little desperate as she washed her hands at the sink. "I think I might actually faint if I don't eat something right now. The baby is staging a coup."
Elana chuckled, not looking up from where she was vigorously stirring a large pot of mashed potatoes. Steam curled around her head like a halo. "I thought I heard a bear in here. Grab a plate, honey, it’s almost done. I just need to whip the butter in."
Leela didn't wait for a plate. The primal need for calories overrode all table manners. She walked over to the cutting board where Elana had sliced up some carrots and celery for the stuffing. She snatched a raw carrot stick, crunching it loudly. Then a cube of sharp cheddar cheese. Then, eyeing the fresh loaf of bread cooling on the rack, she tore off a massive chunk of the crust.
Smack.
Elana tapped Leela’s hand lightly with a wooden spoon, her eyes twinkling with mock sternness as she caught the Luna red-handed.
"Out of the pot, Luna," Elana scolded, though she was smiling. "Let me finish seasoning it before you eat the profits. You’re worse than Damon."
"I can't help it!" Leela protested, popping the bread into her mouth and rubbing her round, hard belly with her other hand. "The baby is starving, Elana. He’s demanding carbs. It’s a hostage situation. If I don't send down bread, he starts kicking the bladder."
"Well, tell the hostage taker to give me five minutes," Elana laughed, turning back to the stove to add a pinch of salt.
Just then, a rhythmic thump, thump, thump came from the hallway stairs. It didn't sound like footsteps; it sounded like a very uncoordinated herd of baby elephants descending a mountain.
Leela and Elana looked up toward the doorway just as Ginny appeared.
It was a sight that would have made a Renaissance painting titled The Reality of Motherhood.
Ginny looked like she had been dragged through a hedge backward. Her usually neat hair was standing up in a static-charged halo on the left side of her head. Her shirt was rumpled and had a suspicious wet spot on the shoulder that was definitely drool.
And she was currently serving as a human jungle gym.
She was carrying Caspian on her left hip and Briar on her right. Both toddlers had impressive, gravity-defying bedhead—Caspian’s hair was a vertical spike, and Briar’s looked like a bird’s nest made of spun gold. They looked sleepy, grumpy, and incredibly heavy.
But poor Ginny. Between the two toddlers—who were dead weight in their groggy state—and her own five-month baby bump protruding significantly in the middle, she looked like she was carrying half the pack’s future population all by herself. She was waddling slightly, her face flushed with exertion, her arms trembling.
"Help," Ginny croaked, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe for support. "I am outnumbered. And I think I’m stuck."
"Oh, my goodness!" Leela laughed, abandoning her scavenging to rush over, wiping bread crumbs from her mouth. "You brave, brave soul. Look at you!"
"They woke up," Ginny explained breathlessly as Leela reached out to relieve her of Caspian. "We got halfway down the stairs and they went boneless, Leela. Completely boneless. And then the baby started kicking my ribs, and honestly, I think gravity is personally attacking me today."
"I've got you," Leela soothed, hoisting her sleepy, heavy son onto her hip and smoothing down his spiked hair. He immediately laid his head on her shoulder, thumb finding his mouth. "Come on, sit down. I'll get you some of the bread I stole. It’s still warm."
"Is there food?" Ginny asked, her eyes lighting up with a feral intensity as she waddled toward the table with Briar still clinging to her like a koala. "Because if I don't eat a potato in the next thirty seconds, I’m going to bite the furniture."
"See?" Leela said to Elana, grinning as she pulled out a chair for her sister-in-law. "It’s a contagion. Feed the mothers, Elana, or we riot."