“Please do. Although I may not be very good company.”
She grinned. “As long as you aren’t going to spatter me with steaming egg whites, you’re good. I could use some peace and quiet.”
We took a seat at the nearest table, drank our blood contemplatively. The effect was nearly instantaneous, as if I’d been drinking pure energy.
“The House seems nervous,” she said after a few minutes, picking at the label on her bottle.
I nodded. “Reed puts everyone on edge.”
“Asshole,” she said, and took another drink. “There’s always one, ruining it for everyone. Ego validation, projection, whatever. I was a therapist in a past life,” she explained with a downcast smile. “Realized offering therapy just made me need more of it, and needed my own outlet.”
“Cooking?”
Margot smiled. “And baking, especially. Instincts are helpful, but it’s really all about chemistry. Precision. It’s hard to half-ass. You have to pay attention. Concentrate. It tends to”—she paused, seeming to grasp for the right words—“blank out the rest of the mind. The worries. The anxiety. Those thoughts that roll around, over and over.” She glanced at me. “Probably not unlike fighting and training.”
“They can definitely have a focusing quality,” I agreed. “You have to watch your opponent, dodge the move he’s making, try to figure out what he’ll do next. It’s very engaging that way. And the consequences for not focusing, for not paying attention, are pretty severe.”
I’d learned that lesson early on. Catcher had been the first person to train me, and he’d used flaming fireballs to keep me on my toes. I’d managed to avoid getting hit straight-on, but I’d been nicked by plenty of errant sparks. Lesson learned.
She smiled. “I don’t know how you do it. Just”—she waved a hand—“get out there and fight.” She leaned forward over the hands she’d linked on the table. “Don’t you get scared? I just can’t imagine the stuff you and Ethan and the rest of the guards have to face all the time.”
“We’re trained not to run,” I said. “So when you feel that flight-or-fight instinct kicking in, you stay and you fight. And it’s definitely easier now than it was in the beginning. More confidence, I guess. The more battles you fight, the easier it is to fight the next one. Like baking, you can develop the instincts for it.”
“And I guess the perks are pretty good. Our Master is no slouch.”
“No, he definitely is not. A pain in the ass sometimes, but definitely no slouch.” I glanced at her. “Are you seeing anyone?”
“Not at the moment.” She tucked a lock of dark hair behind her ear. “I think I’m nearly over my ‘I want to be alone’ phase. It’s been great, but times like this, I really wish I had the comfort.”
I nodded. “I totally get that.” My phone rang, and I checked the screen. It was a message from Luc, telling me Paige was waiting.
I rose, pushed in my chair. “I have to get back to work. I don’t suppose you’ve got any fresh coffee in the kitchen?”
She cocked her head at me. “Got some studying to do?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I actually do.” And I smiled, because research was something I could very definitely do.
• • •
Or not.
I had a master’s degree and nearly a Ph.D., since my study had been interrupted by my transition to vampire. I’d done my time in libraries and coffeehouses, with notebooks, pens, sticky notes, cups of coffee, and bottles of water.
And I felt completely stymied by alchemy.
Ethan found me in the library as sunrise neared. I sat at a table across from Paige in jeans and a long-sleeved Bears T-shirt (“Monsters of the Midway,” one of my personal favorites). There was a spread of alchemy books on the tabletop and a notebook to my right, along with a fountain pen and the travel mug I’d borrowed from Margot and had to bribe the Librarian to let me bring in.
“You’ll spill it,” he’d said, barring the door.
“I won’t spill it.”
“They always say that. And then they spill it.”
“It’s got a lid,” I insisted, holding it out to show him.
“And they spill it anyway,” he said testily. Information, the Librarian was good with. Customer relations, not so much.
That had gone on for nearly ten minutes, and didn’t stop until I’d promised to lend him a book on medieval lyric poetry still in my collection. The book was out of print, and he’d been searching for a copy, hoped I might have one. I hadn’t opened it in a year, so it was an easy trade, although I did make him promise to put a “Donated by Merit” sticker in the front.