Page 41 of Mortdale

“And she has a talking rat,” Piper piped up, hugging my leg.

My forced smile dropped. “He doesn’t really talk.”

“And she has a talking rat,” her great-grandfather chuckled, winking at me as he picked her up and threw her up in the air a few times until she nearly threw up on him.

“He doesn’t truly talk. Honestly,” I whispered to Logan as he put a hand on my lower back and slowly steered me after the others, down the colourfully wallpapered halls that led into a grand dining hall.

A massive table lit by crystal chandeliers was laid out for us. Crystals and polished porcelains glistening under the warm lamplight. There were flowers and all sorts of decorative baubles in the middle of it. And it was so different from Logan’s home; you could feel the touch of a woman in every single detail, from the wilton jacquard carpets matching the flower patterns on the wallpaper to the twirling pink candles perched on the golden candelabra.

He bent towards my ear as he pushed in my chair. “If you have another talking animal in your pocket, I think it’s about time I know about it.”

“This dress doesn’t have pockets. Which is a shame, actually. Can I slip my singing lizard in yours mayhaps? Or will you gag again if I touch you?”

Whatever hint of amusement had briefly lingered in his eyes vanished. “I didn’t gag.”

My cheeks burned. “You were about to.”

He leaned in even closer, lips pressed against my ear. “Your heart beats a mile a minute. Any other vampire would have taken that as an invitation to sink their fangs into you. Fear makes the blood taste like a delicacy. Lucky for you that you’re my wife and no one can touch you.”

I ran my cold and sweaty palms up and down my thighs, trying not to breathe in too fast. “I told you, I’m not scared of you.”

Shivers travelled down my spine when he hummed, and then peeled away to take a seat next to me.

Dinner was laid for all five of us, but only Piper, Morgana, and I were eating. Did vampires invite each other over for a pint of blood typically when non-food-eating people were involved?

Despite all the travelling conversation, I’d not heard a single thing they’d talked and laughed about. I was too focused on not screwing up at eating this damn bird on my plate properly. Five hundred types of cutlery had been laid around me for no reason at all. How many forks did someone need to eat a bird? Why was there a bird on my plate? Birds should be flying around.

I was going to be sick.

“Willow, I hear you were in the medical sciences,” Philip said, and the entire room went silent as the knife slid off my plate to the ground. Except, my husband caught it mid-air and grabbed my hand, putting it between my fingers again. Except, he didn't pull away, instead wrapping his other arm around my shoulders to hold my fork hand as she slowly helped me cut through the tiny duckling.

His face was inches from mine. “Stop looking at it like it’s a pigeon.”

“They fly the same. Who’s to say it is not? And what do you even know about pigeons? Did they say something to you?” Christof, that evil man. I’d confessed my weakness to him in total confidence.

Logan still didn't let go as he guided the fork to poke the duck meat and slowly raised it to his mouth. “There. Tastes like a dead fucking duck,” he said, chewing on it as he reached to stab another fat piece for me and brought it to my mouth.

“Good?” he asked, watching me chew.

“Not a pigeon, that much I can tell you.”

He hummed, taking a sip of his bourbon first before tipping it against my lips, letting me have a taste.

The dining room had grown impeccably quiet. You could even hear the electricity coursing through the lamps.

“Occult pathology,” I said after noticing both of his grandparents were looking between the two of us.

“What an odd profession for a young woman,” Morgana said, taking a sip of her drink.

“Someone has to do it.”

“Your Holy Mother forces you into these positions?”

“Oh, no. I picked it myself.” I lifted my cutlery up. “Despite what you’re seeing, I’m quite good at cutting things up.”

Philip laughed, resting an elbow back on his chair. “How did Agnes let go of such an accomplished witch? Typically—”

“Philip,” his wife interrupted, her tone scolding.