The Luna's Bodyguard [a mature werewolf romance]

Ch 22: Open Season

AURORA'S POV

The kitchens were a magical place.

Not to mistake the word with pleasant or wondrous, as it so often was, but quite literally soaked with magic. Hazardous magic. Ruthlessly efficient magic. Errant utensils and knives that swung of their own accord, stopping for no-one. Flames hissed and spat like rabid cats. It was like the Weasley's self-cleaning cottage, only mixed with the nightmare fuel of Gordon Ramsay's kitchen. I almost wished somebody would press my head between two slices of bread and call me an idiot sandwich, just to relieve myself of the sensory overload of violent chopping and the harsh, guttural roar that seemed to overlay everything.

Men and woman in chefs garb stood against the walls, sweat pouring down their faces. I realised from the sharp, deliberate motions of their eyes that they were spelling everything to keep moving.

The cook was the only one who refrained from using magic; her apron was stained, as if she got into that terrifying fray and actually did things herself.

"Gerald!" she barked. "I said crispy potatoes, not burnt to a fucking crisp. And Bethany, for the love of god, put any more oil in that pan and the US government is going to invade. This isn't a drill, people. We're feeding the god damn aristocracy, and they will have our heads if one pea is out of place on those plates."

I swallowed hard. That much was true, from what I'd heard.

"And you," Cook said, turning her shrewd blue eyes on me. For all her muscle, packed safely in lard, she had a surprisingly angular face, like a ferret. "We're in dire need of a dish pig. Put that stupid book away and get to scrubbing those pans."

I felt the blood drain from my cheeks and stepped towards the sink, where an intimidating pile of dishes awaited.

An arm blocked my path. "What do ye think yer doing, lass? With magic."

Blood was evacuating my face so fast I thought I might faint. "I, uh, can't do magic."

"Yer holding a bloody grimoire," she growled.

"I know, but I can't remember anything that's in it," I said, pleading with my eyes for understanding. It always used to work with Ophelia.

Cook frowned down at the book, and I lifted it up for inspection. The bound leather and three concentric circles, overlapping like some kind of Celtic venom-diagram.

She paled and swore under her breath. "Give it here. And don't go flashing it around. That'll get you in a lot of trouble, here."

"But I don't even know what it is," I complained as she ushered me out of the room.

"I'll explain everything later. Until then, keep it to yourself." A pause. "Who else saw it?"

"Just the guards," I said with a frown. "The two at the door."

Cook glanced over her shoulder at a young chef, standing at attention like a soldier. "You know what to do."

He nodded grimly, turning on his heel. I felt a ripple of foreboding, but Cook was marching me through the halls before I could respond.

"If you can't perform magic, you'll have to serve food," she said gruffly. "There's a special luncheon on today, designed to mark the opening of the year's season. The entire royal family will be in attendance, and they'll eat while the new debutantes make their introductions to court. You'll be in charge of the prince's wine pitcher."