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Authors: J. E. Alexander
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to say good-bye to him as they did so.
“Right, then,” Keiran began before Emmett could ask anything else. “On to food.”
Sure, we can just pretend I processed all of that.
They passed through a seeming labyrinth of hallways and passed at least a dozen or so people of various ages—usually in pairs, the woman always with glittering eyes—before reaching the rustic kitchen, its extensive deep cherry woodwork and granite facing an uncovered window looking out across a wide valley.
“Right. Have a seat, then,” Keiran offered to Emmett, moving to the refrigerator. “The trick is always to find something that refreshes without being too objectionable.”
Keiran withdrew a knife from a drawer and set to slicing various pieces of fruit. Emmett’s eyes glanced sideways at the door, and in a moment he had decided that if he chose to run, short of throwing the knife at him, Keiran probably wouldn’t be able to catch him.
Fine, genius, you run … and go where, exactly?
Keiran offered a kiwi wedge from his knife to Emmett. Emmett made no attempt to hide his leeriness as he regarded the extended knife or possibly drugged fruit. Keiran seemed comfortable with Emmett taking time to consider him as if he expected it.
Emmett finally accepted the offering with a loud rumbling of his stomach. He felt the first bodily objection as he hesitantly chewed, and tasting nothing immediately foul, swallowed it to quell his rising hunger.
“Mind that you don’t drip juice on the floor, please,” Keiran said, handing Emmett a napkin.
He took the napkin, prickling with irritation. Nancy’s husband, Gerry, had done something similar once, too. By outward appearances, Keiran was not entirely unlike Gerry: tall, well built, and genetically blessed with the rugged good looks women bypassed lanky, boy-faced Emmett for. If that weren’t enough reason to not like him, Keiran was a better dresser, too.
Hating the guy who rescued you isn’t helpful, genius .
Unlike Gerry, though, Keiran exuded a relaxed manner. Emmett couldn’t tell if it was because he was British or not, but when he spoke, Keiran seemed entirely comfortable in his own skin. To anyone else, that would engender an equally relaxed manner. To Emmett, though, it only served to remind him how uncomfortable he felt in his own skin—now even more with the Rot on his neck.
Emmett touched his jaw to test if it was still there, hissing at the pain.
“It’ll hurt less if you don’t poke at it,” Keiran said.
No kidding.
A silver kettle whistled, and turning the stove off, Keiran poured steaming water into two ceramic mugs. He scooped heaping teaspoons of fresh leaves from a jar into a pair of silver strainers, releasing a heady, almost overwhelmingly sharp aroma. Keiran dropped a strainer into each mug, offering one to Emmett.
“Cream and sugar?”
Of course he drinks tea.
“No thanks.”
“To rare joys,” Keiran said, raising his mug. “Cherish life’s simple pleasures wherever one might find them,” he saluted.
Of course he’s an optimist .
“I suppose you have lots of questions,” Keiran said after setting his tea down.
“Nah, I enjoy being clueless,” Emmett said. That would have worked far better as inner monologue, Emmett. Go you.
“Fair play,” Keiran grinned. “I was cheeky the first time I arrived here, too.”
“When was that?” Emmett asked, hoping to get information before he lost any pretense of patience.
“Seven years ago. I was seventeen and had come searching for answers. Like you, my life had been touched—or marred, rather—by the Underdwellers.”
“Guess I have to ask, don’t I?” Emmett snarked.
Keiran’s expression was genuine confusion. In a way, Emmett regretted his sarcasm and was thankful Keiran didn’t recognize it. “Sorry. What’s an Underdweller?”
“Abominations that hide in the earth. Long-lived creatures that are wicked strong who exist only for the pleasure of devouring flesh.”
The
“Right, then,” Keiran began before Emmett could ask anything else. “On to food.”
Sure, we can just pretend I processed all of that.
They passed through a seeming labyrinth of hallways and passed at least a dozen or so people of various ages—usually in pairs, the woman always with glittering eyes—before reaching the rustic kitchen, its extensive deep cherry woodwork and granite facing an uncovered window looking out across a wide valley.
“Right. Have a seat, then,” Keiran offered to Emmett, moving to the refrigerator. “The trick is always to find something that refreshes without being too objectionable.”
Keiran withdrew a knife from a drawer and set to slicing various pieces of fruit. Emmett’s eyes glanced sideways at the door, and in a moment he had decided that if he chose to run, short of throwing the knife at him, Keiran probably wouldn’t be able to catch him.
Fine, genius, you run … and go where, exactly?
Keiran offered a kiwi wedge from his knife to Emmett. Emmett made no attempt to hide his leeriness as he regarded the extended knife or possibly drugged fruit. Keiran seemed comfortable with Emmett taking time to consider him as if he expected it.
Emmett finally accepted the offering with a loud rumbling of his stomach. He felt the first bodily objection as he hesitantly chewed, and tasting nothing immediately foul, swallowed it to quell his rising hunger.
“Mind that you don’t drip juice on the floor, please,” Keiran said, handing Emmett a napkin.
He took the napkin, prickling with irritation. Nancy’s husband, Gerry, had done something similar once, too. By outward appearances, Keiran was not entirely unlike Gerry: tall, well built, and genetically blessed with the rugged good looks women bypassed lanky, boy-faced Emmett for. If that weren’t enough reason to not like him, Keiran was a better dresser, too.
Hating the guy who rescued you isn’t helpful, genius .
Unlike Gerry, though, Keiran exuded a relaxed manner. Emmett couldn’t tell if it was because he was British or not, but when he spoke, Keiran seemed entirely comfortable in his own skin. To anyone else, that would engender an equally relaxed manner. To Emmett, though, it only served to remind him how uncomfortable he felt in his own skin—now even more with the Rot on his neck.
Emmett touched his jaw to test if it was still there, hissing at the pain.
“It’ll hurt less if you don’t poke at it,” Keiran said.
No kidding.
A silver kettle whistled, and turning the stove off, Keiran poured steaming water into two ceramic mugs. He scooped heaping teaspoons of fresh leaves from a jar into a pair of silver strainers, releasing a heady, almost overwhelmingly sharp aroma. Keiran dropped a strainer into each mug, offering one to Emmett.
“Cream and sugar?”
Of course he drinks tea.
“No thanks.”
“To rare joys,” Keiran said, raising his mug. “Cherish life’s simple pleasures wherever one might find them,” he saluted.
Of course he’s an optimist .
“I suppose you have lots of questions,” Keiran said after setting his tea down.
“Nah, I enjoy being clueless,” Emmett said. That would have worked far better as inner monologue, Emmett. Go you.
“Fair play,” Keiran grinned. “I was cheeky the first time I arrived here, too.”
“When was that?” Emmett asked, hoping to get information before he lost any pretense of patience.
“Seven years ago. I was seventeen and had come searching for answers. Like you, my life had been touched—or marred, rather—by the Underdwellers.”
“Guess I have to ask, don’t I?” Emmett snarked.
Keiran’s expression was genuine confusion. In a way, Emmett regretted his sarcasm and was thankful Keiran didn’t recognize it. “Sorry. What’s an Underdweller?”
“Abominations that hide in the earth. Long-lived creatures that are wicked strong who exist only for the pleasure of devouring flesh.”
The
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