170- The Taste of Flight
POV Elowen Grimwald:
“A portion of Mici, perhaps?” Lucius suggested, naming my former favorite Romanian dish. Small cylinders of grilled meat, similar to little skinless sausages, made from a mixture of beef, pork, and lamb, with garlic, black pepper, and other spices. I had eaten so much of it that I grew sick of it.
“That’s a good idea. What do you think, Elowen?” Kehin addressed me.
“We have the best Mici in Romania.”
“Then that settles it, a generous portion of Mici,” he decided, slapping his palm on the table and making the mugs wobble.
“Of course. Excuse me.”
I turned to head for the kitchen and was stopped by a large hand gripping my wrist. I hoped it wasn’t one of them, unlikely as that might have been.
I turned my face to find Kehin staring at me with narrowed eyes, as if suspicious of something.
“Yes?” I whispered, feeling my mouth go dry.
He slid his palm just enough to rub it against mine and lift it toward his own nose. He wrinkled it, inhaling deeply, eyes closed. I couldn’t help my grimace of disapproval at his behavior when he released me, and I pulled my hand back.
“I’m impressed…” he murmured.
My eyes were locked on his, and his irises changed in a disturbing way, becoming incandescent and two shades lighter, radiating a hunter’s glow.
Fear coiled in my stomach like a serpent.
Distress was a euphemism for the hurricane sweeping through me.
“Excuse me.” I didn’t wait for his reply; I simply hurried away, stumbling.
I entered the kitchen so disoriented that I sat down on one of the thermal boxes and pressed a hand to my chest, massaging it, where it felt like two hearts were beating together.
“Elowen!” Cipriana, the cook, ran to me and grabbed the sides of my arms. “What happened?”
I blinked several times, fanning my face with my hands, trying to recover my sanity, which threatened to collapse. The kitchen’s back door shone at the center of my thoughts.
Was it my guardian angel telling me to run there now, without looking back?
The mere question I posed to my brain made my chest rumble loudly.
Caged wolf! No!
Suddenly, Cipriana was using her athletic arms, hardened from hauling pots, to slap my back.
“What did you choke on, you crazy girl?”
My last meal had been in the morning—this noise was my brazen creature!
“No need, it’s… thank you.” I gently pushed her away, and she crossed her arms in front of me.
“Open your mouth already. I need to get back to work!”
“Leave the kid alone!” shouted the other one, the lower-paid cook, who loved to emphasize that I was the youngest there.
“I had a sudden spell, got a little dizzy… Table eight, a large portion of Mici.”
Inside me, a voice thundered: Go! Run! Escape!
Cipriana left impatiently, stomping on the ceramic tiles toward her stove. It would be the last time I saw them, and I didn’t want to leave a bad memory behind, but I also couldn’t leave without getting back at those three.
I went to the cook and touched her back.
“What is it, crazy girl?” As always, a sweetheart.
“I forgot something important, Cipri.”
“Then say it already.”
“So, they asked for a lot of pepper, a lot, a lot of pepper. That dark red one with a little tail, you know? They’re hunters and love hyper-spicy food.”
“Okay! Okay!” she replied, waving her hand in the air to shoo me away, and I did just that.
Those bastards were about to fry their tongues with Carolina Reaper, one of the hottest peppers in the world and toxic to wolves.
A tiny punishment for them, who were forcing me to flee even farther from where I had been with Lunara, but at that moment, it was all I could do for myself.
My restless creature seemed desperate for me to get out of there, but I had to act carefully. If it wasn’t me serving the table, suspicion about my evasion would arise.
But if they bit into the burning food as soon as the tray was set down, the inflamed agony in their throats would cause an uproar, and I wouldn’t have time to run without looking suspicious.
And like a magic trick before my eyes, I glimpsed a plan.
It had to work.
It was that, or my neck being separated from my body a few hours later.
With the flimsy excuse that the smell of my favorite dish was making me nauseous, I swapped orders with Isaac’s and served his table, close to the bar. As I suspected, when the wolves saw him instead of me, they turned their heads in search of me.
I asked Isaac to make up any excuse and tell them I’d come back to check on them later. Inside, fear was choking me, but on the outside, I smiled at the customers at the table I was serving, so as not to raise any suspicion.
I swallowed my fear, marching toward the kitchen with calculated steps, even stretching my arms in a theatrical gesture as if yawning, before disappearing behind the walls.
The instant I was out of their sight, I gave my final performance. I shouted to the cooks, “One minute, I need to throw up!” and ran toward the back.
And yes, maybe I would throw up. The agonizing life-or-death sensation rose up my throat like acidic, bitter bile.
I unlocked the iron door and yanked the key free. As I stepped outside, I locked it from the outside and hurled the key into the brush that surrounded the back of the bar, to prevent any of them from deciding to come out to help me and fucking up the plan.